Unsettled, Wing arrested her in his embrace. The strength in him was enough to press the air completely from her lungs and that was exactly what Carly wanted as waves of painful chills of some inexplicable loss coursed through her.
As she slowly began to settle and her shaking lessened, Wing eased his hold, cooing softly into her hair, humming tenderly again in his throat.
Freeing an arm, Carly swiped at her face, rubbing her nose against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“No need,” he said. He adjusted his head in the straw and placed his hands on her face, making her look at him. “Are you sad?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know what’s wrong,” she blubbered and, closing her eyes, rested her head back to his chest, the last image of the dream taking up a residence in the compelling mist of her brain: Wing standing in the middle of some dreamlike landscape, surrounded by countless ghostly beings.
She shuddered, whether from the vision or the tiny, chilling wind winding its way through the drafty loft doors she wasn’t sure.
Wing, however, thought it to be the cold eke of wind, and he cradled her back into his arms, drawing the blanket and his heavy coat up and over them again.
As the shelter of blanket and coat with their combined heat eased the chill, Carly let herself languish, body to body with Wing, wishing she would never have to leave this place, this moment with him.
Touching her nose to the tender warmth of his neck, she breathed deeply, indulging in his scent.
Part of her felt a slight touch of guilt over the dream: If dreams were a kind of wish-fulfillment then why would she have dreamed of Wing as a warrior? She’d never pressured him to be so and she’d never held a moment’s resentment that he’d not joined the Cant. He was meant for the land, she was meant for the sword. She’d never questioned that or wished it were different.
But in the dream, she had been the one dressed plainly, and he…
Carly swallowed.
Most of the time her dreams just felt like dreams. But this one felt different, like a vision or an omen, and she did not like it. She liked things simple, obvious, uncomplicated, and explainable.
She sighed, letting the dream go, contenting herself with the warmth of Wing’s body and the sounds of the animals moving about in their stalls below.
She must have dozed again for she awoke with a start in a pool of her own saliva on Wing’s shirtfront. She sucked in her breath, wiped her mouth and raised her head.
“Sorry,” she said, patting at the wet spot on Wing’s shirt.
He grinned.
Hugging him tightly once more, Carly reluctantly hoisted herself up.
“I’d really better get going,” she said.
Wing rubbed his face. “E’te.”
Side by side, they managed to find all the parts of their clothing, shook the straw out of them and, shivering, quickly redressed.
“I’ll skip the festival and we can spend it together,” Carly said.
Wing shook his head. “You need to be with your family — you see them even less than you do me.”
Carly tugged back on her Cant shoulder mantle, made a brief lazy tie of the leather lace at the front and stepped up to him, placing a hand upon his side, feeling the muscle and rib bone there beneath his shirt.
“I’ll see you anyway.”
He kissed her mouth lightly and they climbed back down the ladder and went out to where Carly had left her horse. She readjusted the girth strap and swung into the saddle.
Wing looked up at her, meeting her eyes.
“Thank you,” Carly said. She’d wanted to say so much more. She hoped he knew what had just happened to her in the loft, what he’d given to her, what she’d given to him.
But there was only a look, and a hope that he understood. Taking up the reins, Carly turned her mount around and galloped off across the fields.
After Carly’s surprise visit, Wing had had a difficult time returning to his work. At that time, they’d only been a couple turns out from Ime Festival, a time they’d decided to spend alone, together, here at the house while Wing’s family and everyone from the Village were at the festival. But after Carly had come, out of the blue, distraught and overwhelmed with what had happened on the Cant field they had not revisited that tentative plan and now, on the morning of the start of the festival, Wing had not been able to get in touch with her and so assumed she’d changed her mind and decided to show her support of the Cant, Nien, and the Commander by going and going armed.
In the Cawutt kitchen, preparations for the festival were all but completed, Reean scurrying about, literally tying up loose ends of duffels, coats, and food bags. Wing was helping Jake gather together a small clothing bag for Fey when Jake said, “I wish you were coming.”
Wing stuffed a small fuzzy sweater into a bag and glanced at his little brother. “The rest of the family is going,” he said, suddenly feeling like a boring older brother stating the obvious. “Besides, you’ll be so busy with your friends you won’t even notice I’m not there.”
“I’ll notice,” Jake said, his voice sullen. “I always notice.”
“There’s a lot of putting up to be finished,” Wing said. “At least two more rows of winter challak.”
“I know. There always is.”
Wing had not been to a festival in more than a revolution, that Jake was now having such a reaction caused Wing to wonder what emotions played in the heart of his little brother. Without offending Jake’s manhood, Wing offered as comforting a gesture as he could by cuffing the back of Jake’s neck and thumping their foreheads together. This lightened Jake’s mood —
But not by much, Wing noted.
“Joash, will you please get Fey’s bag, we need to be off,” Reean said, walking out of the house.
Wing stood up. “You’ll have a good time,” he said to Jake.
Jake shuffled toward the door just as Nien stepped in through it, saying, “I think we’re all ready to go. I’ve got the horses saddled.” He looked to Wing. “We left the white filly for you.” He winked.
“Don’t you need her for the gear?”
“No, we got it. Besides, you’re still the only one she’ll really behave for.”
Wing nodded. “All right. Thanks.”
Nien paused. “What is it?”
Of course, Nien could tell something was going on with him. “It’s Jake. Talk with him on the way, will you?”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. He’s upset.”
“About what?”
“About my not going.”
“He’s always sad when you don’t go.”
“I know, but it’s worse this time — for some reason.”
“All right. I’ll talk to him. He’ll be fine.” Nien met his brother’s eyes. “We’ll see you in few days.”
“Right.”
Reean came quickly back through the family door, knocking the snow off her feet and making one last recon of the house to assure nothing needed for the festival was left behind. Pleased that everything seemed to be appointed, she turned to Wing.
“Goodbye layia. We’ll see you soon.” Her long cold fingers took Wing’s face between them and she kissed him.
Wing nodded, forced a smile, and swinging Fey up into his arms, followed Reean and Nien outside to the horses, waiting like a small mule train.
Joash helped Reean mount and Wing placed Fey in the saddle in front of her looking, for all intents and purposes, like any of the bundled-up packages were not for a pair of two large, blinking eyes.
“Don’t overdo yourself in there,” Joash said, flicking his head toward the barn where Wing had been building shelves to keep the grain sacks and seed up off the ground. “Or out there.” And he nodded to the fields.
“I won’t, don’t worry,” Wing replied as he steadied a stirrup for him. Joash plumbed his foot and swung into the saddle. Nien swung up onto their mounts behind Joash and the family was underway.
Wing stood silently, watching them go. Each time he remained behind he felt both relieved and sad. Only a turn before he’d stood in the same spot, watching as Carly had ridden away, the sun catching bright reflection’s in her auburn hair, causing it to shine like sparks from burning embers — fire racing across ice and snow. This time, the sight of his family slowly moving away from him was like a slow, shimmering wave, cascading from softened images of horses and duffels and heavy coats into a coursing band of silver beneath the low sun.
As this silver band disappeared altogether, Wing looked ahead to the house, and then back at the barn.
Turning, he headed into the barn, feeling a greater sense of loneliness than he normally felt after the family left for one of the festivals.
He shrugged it off. Probably just the cold and the bleak sky, he told himself. They’d be back soon enough and he had a lot he hoped to accomplish during their absence.
Chapter 43
Night Carries a Knife
Q uiet had begun to spread across the valley as joyful voices, filled with wine, began to lessen and drift off to sleep within the stately main hall of Castle Viyer. Fires burned in the grand fireplaces, their light dancing up against the heady grey-stone walls, filling the room with a red-gold glow.
Settling in with his family, Nien glanced across the hall to where Lant sat, leaning against a wall.
The Commander was awake — alert, Nien noticed.
Nien had taken very little to drink and he’d not seen Lant take any.
Greeted warily and by only a few villagers, Nien had, for the first time, felt like a stranger in Rieeve. Not one Council member had acknowledged him as he’d come in with his family to the festival. The click and clang of armour and swords worn by the majority of the Cant hadn’t helped ease the tension felt by those in agreement with the Council that no members or families of the Cant should be in attendance, including Commander Lant and, especially, Nien. What was helping ease the tension, however, was fine Rieevan wine. Though some of the Cant members had refused to come armed, many more than that had not refrained from drinking. The combination of cold outside, warm fire within, and conversation lent perfectly to filled mugs and laughter, which lent to more laughter and more filling of mugs.
Still watching Commander Lant, Nien wondered briefly how he was going to deal with those Cant members who had refused to abide by either order once the festival was over.
After a bit, the Commander sensed someone looking at him. Raising his eyes, he saw Nien and tipped a smile. Nien smiled back, but it was a gesture he didn’t really feel and as Lant redirected his gaze out over the sleeping occupants of the hall, Nien closed his eyes uneasily and wondered if he’d be able to sleep.
As the sound of settling-in began to dissipate in the room, a new one filled the sensitive landscape of Nien’s mind. Unnoticed and unheard, or so it seemed, by anyone else in the Great Hall, it tickled the hair on the back of Nien’s neck, spiking every intuitive faculty he possessed.
Sitting up straight, he stilled his breathing. What he heard was more a dread sense than actual sound — a thin rustling of pant legs and heavy cloaks, a soft swishing that was louder to Nien than the rolling of thunder, as if darkness itself were rubbing up against the living stones of the castle walls.
Ice water poured through his veins and a roiling torrent filled his belly. As the feeling fountained its way up into his chest, he glanced across the room at Lant.
Lant was already looking back at him. So, one other in the Great Hall had heard it, too.
With a coarse breath, Nien drew all his attention back toward the sound, needing to assure himself he was not delusional.
The dark rustling wave grew inside his mind.
He was not imagining it —
Soon, very soon, it would show itself as flesh. And then Commander Lant was standing in front of him.
“Get up, Nien.”
Nien scrambled to his feet, reaching for the sword at his side.
“Get the men up,” Lant said.
Heart racing, Nien started with the Cant members nearby, grabbing and shaking them. From the center of the hall behind him, Lant gave a mighty shout. Nien’s head jerked briefly in Lant’s direction. But the people, as well as most of the Cant members, were groggy, heavy-headed with the finest Rieevan wine — most of them had not even found their feet by the time the massive doors to the Great Hall swung open.
Into the blueish half-light of the Great Hall poured a terrifying flood of dark-clothed beings.
Ka’ull.
The light was so strange, so dream-like that for an instant Nien believed the sight that filled his eyes was only a foul, dark-induced vision. A terrible, breathing, beating nightmare, but a nightmare, nevertheless. The Ka’ull were out there somewhere — in Jayak, Lou, and Tou. They were not here. Not in Rieeve. Not in the middle of the night in the Great Hall of Castle Viyer.
Lant shouted again. His cry slapped Nien to his senses and managed to rouse a few more Cant members, but the Ka’ull moved in near silence, the only sound being the ominous brush of their robes as they floated like ghosts over the banded mounds of sleeping families.
Befuddled, disoriented, Cant members fumbled for their weapons in the darkness.
Nien shook Joash and Reean awake. “Get up,” he said. “Follow me.” He knew there was still a disjuncture happening in his mind as he glanced up again at the host of dark figures moving in and out of the shadowed flames of dwindling firelight, unable to believe that they were real.
Knowing of a small escape-way, one he had used a time or two while exploring the depths of the castle, Nien began to press his family toward it. Joash followed Nien’s lead with Jake, the three of them forming a moving circle around Reean and Fey.
Across the hall from them, Nien glimpsed Carly. She was on her feet, her short, double-edged dagger in her hand as she directed her own family to a set of doors opposite from those through which the enemy was entering — these doors, however, had not been used for a very long time. Rusted and caked with dirt, grown over with root and vine, Nien knew with sickening surety that they would never be able to open them.
Steadily ushering his own family through the tangle of their people — some rising, others still asleep — Nien paused in utter mortification.
Twenty or more of the floating ghosts drew in together and formed a line. Drawing their swords in unison, they raised their hilts high behind their right ears. Slightly longer and thinner than the blades used by the Ka’ull fighters he’d seen in Jayak, these swords were curved at the tip.
Those are blades meant for…
Nien never finished his thought.
As one, the line of Ka’ull brought their blades down in a great sweeping arc.
Slashed from clavicles to waists, Nien witnessed every being on the floor beneath that line, die. A scream burst in his belly, but to cry out would draw attention to him and his family.
Methodically, the line of Ka’ull stepped out two steps, back two steps, and raised their swords again.
This time, they drove in their strikes —
Not one of the inebriated sleepers even stiffened upon the blades that slew them.
Horribly aware that he was buying the life of his family with the lives of his people, Nien heard gasps from other members of the Cant as more lines of Ka’ull formed up, performing the exact same act in the exact same manner but, like Nien, neither did they leave their own untrained and unarmed families in order to defend the vulnerable sleepers.
Bile burned the back of Nien’s throat. His terror struck up against his rage like sharp flint, turning his blood to fire.
Across the room, he heard someone scream. In the shroud of demonic silence, the cry felt as if it had come from another reality. His eyes shot in that direction —
Carly stood over her little brother. He saw her face twist, saw her sword fall, saw a shadow swallow her.
All those that had not already been slain had now woken to the horror
at the end of their world. Now, rather than the eerie silence of dying sleepers, there came the short, startled cries of those aware of one quick moment of confusion and pain before being driven back into silence and death.
In almost as orderly a fashion as they’d slain the sleeping, the line of Ka’ull dispatched pods of fleeing families up against walls, in huddles, fighting with bare fists. They struck children into the great fireplaces and without bravado or emotion pressed their swords completely through men who were using their bodies as shields to protect wives, girlfriends, or daughters.
The time purchased in the slain blood of the inebriated and assailable had almost been enough for Nien to get his family to freedom…
Almost.
With everyone else dead or dying, the Ka’ull had turned their attention to the last standing — Cant members and their families. Though the Cant proved more of a problem than expected, the strokes of the Ka’ull soldiers were impossibly systematic. Shorn through rib, arm, and leg, Cant members fell in furrowed heaps one after another, their efforts only momentary delays.
Finally, there remained only the Cant leaders that had seen battle in Jayak.
Nien caught sight of Mien’k and Shiela, fighting back to back. The sight of them gave him heart.
A Ka’ull warrior advanced on Nien and his family. The warrior was soon joined by two more.
Brandishing his sword, Nien shoved Joash and Jake behind him as the first Ka’ull stepped up and struck. Nien parried the strike, but as one of the flanking Ka’ull came at him, Nien was briefly disadvantaged, his range of motion hampered by the proximity of his family. As he tried to maneuver into a better position, Joash stepped up on his left and met the second Ka’ull with a bone-crunching punch to the face. Reeling away, the Ka’ull’s sword missed Nien and glanced Joash across the shoulder. As the Ka’ull fell, Nien saw a great swell of blood blossom out through his father’s heavy over-shirt. The sight quickened Nien toward madness and he charged the two Ka’ull still coming in on them. Driving one through at the belly, he cracked the sword of the other with a lucky strike. As that one staggered back, flourishing the broken half of his sword, Nien bolted forward and pushing his sword into the man’s hip, forced him to the floor where he dispatched him.
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