by Meg Cowley
"Her name was Nyla." He said it with such softness, so uncharacteristic for the grizzled warrior, Harper was taken aback. "She was the most beautiful Eyrie I had ever seen. I did not care that she was lower than I. It did not matter. Yet my family thought differently. They were appalled by my behaviour and disowned me.” His voice hardened. “It was not suitable for an Aerian of my station – of Skyrie – to fraternise with an Eyrie." His voice hardened.
"I was determined to prove them all wrong, that Eyries were worth as much as Skyries. That my Nyla was worth as much as any Skyrie female. I tried to give the Eyries a voice so I could live happily with my Nyla, free from judgment, from unfairness. We revolted. It failed. Nyla was killed. I was imprisoned, though I escaped. I can never return now."
"I'm sorry," Harper murmured, aching with sadness for him.
"It's not yours to be sorry for, but I thank you. I learned how unfair life was, regardless of what was just or right. I was determined to never be weak again, to never be the underdog. It took me many years to understand what strength was. Not just strength in body, but mental strength, strength of character.
"I know what it is to be the underdog now, whether by privilege or lack of skill. You ought to persevere, not lose heart. Sword fighting, or other forms of combat, may not be your forte, but you have other skills. Take Erika's frustrations with a pinch of salt. She hates that some can't protect themselves.
"You're good at bringing people together. Look how you helped Ragnar with his hands. Look how you protected us today. Look at me, opening up to you." He chuckled. "I haven't told anyone this story in years. That's a different kind of skill, but you can always find new ways to be strong. Keep practicing your fighting – I'll help you – and whatever else you can learn. You never know how you might grow."
"What happened to Erika?"
"That's her story to tell. It would not be right of me to share it."
Harper nodded. "Thank you."
He gave a sharp nod, returning to his gruff, taciturn self, but Harper was honoured by his confidence. Despite the pain she was in, a warm glow filled her middle.
Brand was right. She was good at other things. Whether she agreed with him on the value of combat, she was not entirely sure. It surely would have helped her that morning, but she was glad he had said it was okay not to be a fighter. She knew that was not a path she wanted to follow.
BY THE END OF THAT day, they had covered an even greater distance than the days before, spurred on by the knowledge of their hunters. Brand watched Aedon like a hawk as he laid extra protective enchantments around their camp. For the first time, Harper thought Aedon looked slightly tired, as if the effort of covering their tracks had taken a great deal from him.
It was a quiet evening, none wanting to break the silence, each straining to hear any trace of pursuit, as futile as they all knew it would be. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea were fleet of foot and as silent as the night. Of Dimitrius... He was an elf of his own and worse than any other denizens of the night. Even Ragnar was subdued and did not suggest any chatura.
It was to be their last evening before they reached the village. Gentle undulations in the earth had once more sprung up into hills, and Harper saw hazy blue mountains in the distance that slowly disappeared into the darkness as the sun sank.
Their camp backed into an impregnable crag soaring above them, scant shelter provided by tall trees of great girth that somehow clung onto the stony terrain. It was hard to reach and not so hospitable. Precisely why they had chosen it.
Harper kept her thoughts to herself, but she wished they had more shelter. The cooling winds already drove into them. They were all restless that night and woke tired with frayed nerves. Even the ever friendly Ragnar was silent as he and Harper prepared breakfast.
The smell of woodsmoke and livestock lingered on the stray breeze as they descended to the forested valley with one more small pass to climb. It smelled foreign after days of nothing but pine forests and nature. Harper quickened her step, as did her companions, and checked again that the small vial was still within the pocket of her cloak.
"I'll take that now," Aedon said quietly, gesturing to it. She slipped it to him. "I hope this will be enough.”
"How many people are affected?" she asked.
"A dozen or so, but they ought to only need a drop each. The antidote is powerful."
Harper eyed the small vessel. It didn't look potent. In fact, it looked like nothing more than water, glistening in the strangely ornate, tear-shaped glass vial, which was stoppered with a matching glass stopper.
"That'll really be enough?" She wrinkled her nose.
"The elves of Tir-na-Alathea are some of the best potion masters in all of Pelenor, perhaps even Altarea. Nothing else has worked, and this sickness needs to be cured before it spreads...if it has the capability to do so. Which reminds me. You need to protect yourself." He opened the vial and dipped his finger in so a single drop adorned his fingertip. Slowly, he dripped it onto Harper’s waiting tongue, then licked his finger clean.
Harper flushed. The liquid was almost tasteless, only having the slightest hint of sweetness. "What about everyone else?"
“Already protected,” Brand replied gruffly.
“Come on now. Hurry. We're almost there, and they're relying on us. We've been away long enough,” said Erika.
"That we have," murmured Ragnar.
SOMETHING PRICKED AT Aedon’s intuition long before they came upon the village. Their good cheer had dissipated with the growing altitude, then the freezing fog that met them as they journeyed over the pass. It marked the end of the long reach of the elves of Tir-na-Alathea’s territory, though Aedon was not entirely convinced they were safe yet. The feeling amongst the rest of the group was mutual.
Brand scouted before them, leading the way, as he eased his short sword out of the scabbard at his waist. Erika skulked behind, her twin blades guarding their rear. They were silent shadows, watching, every ounce of attention sent out into the forest, seeking. Even Ragnar was more watchful. Hardly the fighter his fabled people expected, his hand was upon the handle of his knife, ready to draw it should he need to.
“I don’t like this.” Brand’s voice was low. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s the only pass,” was Aedon’s only reply. We have little choice.
“The elves will not be here, will they?” Ragnar’s voice held an edge of trepidation.
“No,” said Aedon, though there was every possibility. El’hari and Ta’hiir were fast, ruthless. It would not be hard to set up an ambush. “The way has been clear. They did not pursue us beyond the bounds of the forest. We are safe.” He said it with more confidence than he felt. Still, Ragnar’s hand fussed on the pommel of his knife.
The valley narrowed ahead, and high, grey stone soared into the mist and out of sight above them. Beyond the cleft, the village lay in the shelter of the far side of the pass where the valley widened once more.
Between the pines, stone walls seemed to sprout from the earth, the earthen roofs fitting seamlessly into the environment. At such an altitude, there was neither material for thatching nor the weather for it.
It was deadly silent.
A warning stroked down Aedon’s spine. Erika and Brand wordlessly drew closer.
Harper's neck tingled with premonition and wariness. "Where is everyone?" she whispered, unwilling to speak through the heavy silence. Not even birds sang. Even the rustle of the trees had stilled, as if the air knew something was amiss too.
"Weapons out,” Brand’s command was barely more than a growl. He drew his sword and lowered into a fighting stance, casting his gaze warily around them as he surveyed their surroundings.
Erika moved to the other side of the group to flank them. Aedon drew his long, slim blade with a whisper. Ssshhhh. Ragnar’s hand moved from his knife to the haft of his axe. He hefted it from his belt to hold it, two-handed, in front of his torso, ready, waiting. Harper fingered Brand's knife and pulled
it from her belt, holding it before her, though she felt more like a liability than an asset.
Thirty-Two
Aedon sent his awareness out into the forest. Nothing. The trees were a light of life against the black of the rocks surrounding them. And yet...
There.
A pulse.
The faintest glow of life dotted around them. In the huts. Aedon’s heart beat quicker and his hand tightened on his weapon, ready to meet the threat, before his grip slackened again.
“There are people here, but they are...” Ill? Dying? He did not know. “They need help, I think.” Aedon sheathed his weapon and rushed toward the dwellings.
“Wait.” Brand’s command rang through the cold air. He pointed toward the doors. They had been marked with a giant “X” across the weathered, greying wood. It had already darkened and dried. As Brand leaned closer and touched it carefully, little black flecks flaked off. “Plague.”
Every door had been painted thusly. Aedon drew close, touching the markings. When it came off on his fingers, he thoughtfully rubbed it between his finger and thumb, holding it close to his nose and sniffing. "Ash and mud."
"It’s the same here, Aedon. What does it mean?" Brand looked on edge as he circled, his back toward the group, casting all his attention outward for some sign of life.
"It means it is contagious...and that we might be too late." His shoulders slumped for a moment, but only a moment. "We need to search the village from top to bottom. This sickness may not kill. The people must be here somewhere."
"They're hiding," said Erika in a low voice. She pointed at a window. A shutter swayed, as though it had been disturbed.
Brand strode over and threw open the door, his weapon ready. He had to stoop in order for his huge frame to enter the small dwelling, then he backed out, such little room was there. “One female. Alive, but weak. And most definitely ill. Aedon, you need to see this."
Aedon rushed over, the rest following. Harper could see a dank hovel, a bare earth floor, and a bed made of furs and rough, woven cloth. It was lumpy. She realised with a start that not one, but three lay within the folds of the blankets.
It was dark, the only light entering through the doorway. Cold ash lay in the small fireplace. A woman’s small frame was barely noticeable under the pile of blankets covering her, and her children less so, curled into her sides.
Her gaunt, pale face loomed in the shadows as Aedon approached. Her eyelids fluttered weakly. Without touching her, he knew she burned up with fever. He felt it raging through his blood, his entire body wanting to recoil.
The children’s almost lifeless faces loomed in the dark as they stirred a little. Ragnar followed Aedon in. Taking his pack from his shoulders, he rummaged through it for medicinal supplies.
"They don't need those," Aedon said softly. "Open your mouths. I have the antidote."
They offered themselves to him like chicks in a nest, waiting to be fed, and he carefully fed each of them just one drop of the precious liquid. "Rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow," he said before turning away. "Ragnar and Harper, fetch water. Erika, Brand, if it is as I fear, then the rest of the village is also like this, and those unaffected have fled."
Harper and Ragnar collected water from the village well as everyone else rushed from house to house until every abode had been checked. Then they ran back to the well, the centre of the village. Harper had never seen Aedon so anxious. He twisted his hands together and could not seem to stand still.
Harper, Ragnar, and Aedon worked all day and all night, whilst Brand and Erika stood guard, watching either end of the village in the fog and eerie silence. Ragnar’s skills were utterly tested as he worked until his eyes reddened with tiredness, and Aedon used every fibre of magic he had until fatigued. Still, they could not turn the tide of the fever raging through the victims who were left.
The five huddled around a fire that was too small to truly warm them. All were stiff and numb with cold.
“There’s only one cure I know,” Aedon said to the others. He pulled the stoppered vial from his breast.
“There’s not enough,” Ragnar said dully.
“I know,” Aedon replied. He rubbed his creased brow with a hand. "It's spread so quickly. We don't have enough to cure everyone, and there’s nothing else we can do to help them. Damn. I should have stayed. I should have tried to get more."
The anguish in his voice was clear, and Harper’s attitude softened toward him. She did not see a thief, a petty criminal anymore. Now she saw someone who just wanted to help, punishing himself for failing.
"Don't blame yourself," Brand said. "That you managed to procure any aleilah at all is a miracle. Anyone who receives it will be grateful."
"But we don't have enough," whispered Aedon. "How do we choose who receives it and..." He trailed off, but he did not need to finish the sentence. They all knew what he was thinking.
"Women and children first," Ragnar said. "As always. If there is any left, the men may partake."
"There is not even enough for that." Aedon looked into the small vial. Somehow, it seemed even smaller and far emptier than before, as though it carried the last dregs and nothing more.
"Then the young ones first," said Ragnar, hanging his head in sadness.
Erika stirred. "We can still make them comfortable."
“We need to tend to everyone.” Aedon seemed determined to help – or deny the reality of the situation. “No doubt they are all in a state of severe weakness and will not eat or drink properly. Brand, help me distribute the water. Harper, can you and Ragnar look around, see if there is any food to be had in the houses? Erika, see what bounty the forest may hold. Then we can decide who is most in need of the cure."
Ragnar clapped Aedon on the back. "Don't be hard on yourself, brother. It's not your fault."
They had little time to dally. Whilst Aedon and Brand tended to people as best they could, Harper, Ragnar, and Erika set about collecting firewood and any food they could find, distributing it amongst those who were ill.
The young woman Aedon had tended first woke before the others. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “It burns through my blood. I feel it even now, but by whatever grace you have given me, I sense it slipping away.” Her face slackened with relief and her eyes slipped shut for a long moment.
“What happened?” Aedon dared to ask. He held a beaker filled with cold, fresh mountain water close to her lips so she could take a sip.
“Ah,” she sighed with relief. “We do not know. We were all fine and healthy one day. The next, the sickness spread. Old, young, fit, and healthy. It did not seem to discriminate. You found us, so we had some hope for a cure, but it continued to spread. Most fled to protect themselves. The rest of us...” She shrugged slightly. “When no cure could be found, we asked them to leave us behind.” Her voice cracked.
“Where did they go?”
“Down the pass, into the next village.”
“We will send them back to you.”
Her eyes lit up with burning fear. “There’s no risk to them?”
Aedon hesitated, uncertain. “No. You have no sickness in you any longer. Burn everything you can to purify the area. If there are any of magical blood here, set new wards against sickness upon your households. It should suffice to halt the spread for now.” He hoped long enough for them to find a way to use the Dragonheart to make enough elixir to cure them all.
Brand immediately flew to the village where the others had fled, soon coming back with word they would return with the coming dawn. Aedon bid her farewell.
“I owe you a life-debt, Aedon Lindhir Riel of House Felrian,” she said formally, using his full title.
“I hope to never call upon it. Be well.”
HARPER STUCK CLOSE to Ragnar, not wanting to intrude into people's private spaces, especially when they were sick, but the afflicted were glad to see them, greeting them with tired smiles and hollow eyes.
"We're glad you came back," one said hoarsely from his s
ickbed where he lay in the darkness, alone.
"We promised it, and so we did," Ragnar said, his voice strong and filled with reassurance.
"And you brought a friend." The man tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain.
"My name's Harper," she said shyly. With a stroke of inspiration, she picked up a rag, drenched it in cool water, and placed it across the man's brow.
He sighed in relief and reached up to grasp her hand. His skin was hot to the touch and felt as thin as paper. His grip shook. She held his hand, taking care to be gentle.
"Thank you, Harper. It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Ralkan." It was as though every word cost him energy he did not have.
A moment later, he dropped his hand and his face fell, aghast. "I can feel your magic. You must leave at once! If you stay, you’ll also catch this...if it's not already too late. Curses if I've passed it to you! Skies forbid your magic should waste as mine has."
She held up her hands to calm him down, explaining that she had taken the cure. Even so, tears of fear leaked from the man's eyes.
"Is a life without magic so bad?" she asked softly.
Ragnar touched her shoulder, having already raided the man's paltry food stores, and left in silence.
Ralkan shook his head. "It is most terrible to be mortal." It was as if the word were a curse.
"I’m... I was mortal. As yet, I have no magic and manage just fine. Surely you’ll be fine, too, if it comes to it.”
"You don't understand," Ralkan moaned. "Magic is tied to our innate strength. Without it, we are weak and helpless. You see how we all lay abed when we ought to be outside, going about our lives."