Her smile dropped as she clutched the book to her chest. Temlin would have no grave – no marker, no headstone. He had been cut from the den’Ildrian line, cast out from history. All the tomes in the palace rewritten, all official records changed to erase his memory. Nothing would remain to show the world such a blazing, righteous man had lived.
Nothing but those who stood here.
Eleshen glanced at Brother Sebasos with his stern frown and black brows, motioning up others to toss their memorial items into the blaze. As she watched, a tear slid down the rugged man’s cheek. Sebasos did not wipe his grief away, one hand resting upon the hilt of his longknife, his other palm to his heart over bared black Inkings, his Kingsman sword strapped across his back.
Eleshen’s eyes strayed to Ihbram den’Sennia with his fiery mane of Elsthemi braids. Dry-eyed, he watched the ceremony with an expression of emptiness upon his roguish features. As if he’d seen ages pass, one more coming to a close with nothing left to show for it but ashes. Ihbram had only a touch of grey in his braids, but his climb-weathered face seemed more lined today. A man who had lived too many lives with too much sorrow, his eyes were haunted as he stared at the pyre.
Her gaze came to Khouren, standing quiet beside her in the charcoal greys of the Ghost. She’d not noticed when he’d come to her side, or if he’d always been there. As if sensing her, he glanced over, his head uncovered. Blue-black, his braids were hilighted by the roiling flame, his grey eyes like fire opals in the turbulent light. There was no comfort there, yet Eleshen found that she knew that gaze. It was a gaze one warrior gives another when their General falls in battle. Eleshen responded to it, hardening, understanding that now was the time.
To fight – to show their mettle or be damned to all of Halsos’ hells.
Eleshen squared her shoulders. Standing tall, she narrowed her violet eyes. Sebasos’ gesture arrived at her, and with a deep breath she stepped towards the pyre. Holding the leather-bound volume to her chest, her hands did not tremble. Her feet did not stumble as she moved over broken blue flagstones and trampled stalks of golden grass. Hard rain slicked down her hair, making their sable strands shine and running down her cheeks, sluicing away tears.
The pyre roared, the items within already blackened to char. With a deep breath near the roaring flames, just out of the blistering heat, Eleshen eased the tome from her chest. Gazing down at the worn leather cover, she gave a smile. It contained a madwoman’s ravings, but neither her journal nor Mollia den’Lhorissian herself had been mad. The paramour of a King, banished to live in secret atop the Kingsmount, and Temlin, her true beloved, keeping her last journal close for so many years – his most precious possession.
Somehow it felt right to Eleshen, to sacrifice this for Temlin. Looking down, she saw rain spattered the old tome like lover’s tears. She raised it and with a perfect throw, tossed it into the pyre. It lodged among snapping branches, sending up a flurry of sparks into the driving rain. Eleshen stood, rain running down her cheeks as she watched the last remembrance of Temlin and Mollia’s love burn.
An emptiness of time spread out around Eleshen. Rain slicked the amphitheater, drove down into puddles that drowned the broken grass. Hours passed like moments. Torches couldn’t keep up with the downpour, sizzling out to sodden stumps. Without oilcloaks to keep dry, the vigilant gradually gave up, turning and moving slowly toward the fortress like drifting ghosts. In the autumnal mountain gloom the underbelly of the sky burned, reflecting Eleshen’s vigil. She shivered as darkness settled, chilled to her bones despite how close she stood to the sizzling flames of the pyre. Alone now in the empty night, she was still unable to come in from the rain.
Gentle hands settled to her shoulders. Eleshen jumped, startled, but she knew the feel of Khouren’s cavern-deep energy behind her. His body was warm as he wrapped his arms around her and moved close, in a way Eleshen found she didn’t mind.
“Will you remain out here all night?” Khouren breathed.
“I don’t know.”
Eleshen honestly didn’t know. Something called her to remain, and yet, it was anathema to life and health to stand vigil through the dark hours out in the rain. Temlin would have scoffed at her for being idiotic. The thought brought a small smile, though it choked her.
“Feasting has begun. Inside the fortress.” Khouren did not console nor push, simply stated certain facts with a hollow calm.
“I don’t know if I can eat.” Rain washed through the grey evening, a driving counterpoint to the pyre’s endless roar. Khouren was silent a long moment, but then wound his arms closer about her. With a soft breath he set his lips to her temple. Something in Eleshen released and she shuddered, sagging into Khouren’s arms as he cradled her.
“Come in.” He murmured by her cheek. “The cold will deepen as the night drowns out.”
“We should drown the night, one ale after another. Like Temlin would have.”
“Perhaps we should.” Eleshen felt the smallest smile at Khouren’s lips. “The Jenners have already begun. Lushes, one and all.”
“They’ll drink it all before we even get to the fort,” Eleshen snorted. “Holy men.”
Khouren gave a soft laugh. Something about it made Eleshen shiver, but not from cold. “Come inside with me. Please.”
Eleshen turned in Khouren’s arms. The Ghost’s grey eyes shone with a twist of gold in the fire’s light. Honor was in those eyes, ancientness – and need. A need that rose in Eleshen also. A need for life, for love, for companionship. Lowering his chin, Khouren offered her his need, and lifting up, Eleshen offered hers back.
Their kiss was a silent thing in the night rain. Eleshen’s mind left her. All she could feel was Khouren holding her, firm and close. His hands at her back. His lips, pressing and slow. His tongue finding hers and his breath in her mouth, sweet with spices and that strange scent of death. A slow eternity passed before he pulled back. As Eleshen gazed up into his eyes, she found them shining with something so fierce that her breath caught.
But just as Khouren was about to meet her lips again, his eyes shifted. He went utterly still. Then whisked Eleshen around behind him, his longknives out faster than thought. He bristled in the driving darkness, the fire’s roar highlighting his sudden tense ferocity.
“Show yourself!” Khouren demanded, brandishing one longknife toward the darkness at the edge of the amphitheater.
There was nothing for a long moment. As if Khouren had called out to ghosts that only he could see at the amphitheater’s rim. Then, an enormous white keshar-cat slid out from the darkness. Eleshen startled, whipping out her own longknives, but then she saw the wildcat had a bridle over its blocky head and ears, and a high-cantled saddle upon its back. A woman rode atop it in the darkness, dressed in a wildness of buckled brown leathers and thick furs that shed the rain. Her red-blonde hair was braided back and slick with wet, and as she stepped her mount slowly down the tiers of the amphitheater, Eleshen could see ice-blue eyes over fierce high cheekbones. She held a polearm in the night, the keen blade dazzling in the fire’s flare as her cat stepped down the tiers with somber presence.
Khouren stiffened and Eleshen did the same, but he made no move to attack, watching the regal woman approach. Eleshen followed his lead, sensing no threat, just a calculating curiosity.
As the rider approached, the rim of the amphitheater suddenly teemed with eyes in the rain. Glowing eyes that slid forward into the light’s distant ebb. Keshar-cats; tawny and black, speckled and roan, with blocky heads and enormous fangs. They moved into the light, and Eleshen saw each was ridden by a fierce warrior, all of them carrying polearms for battle. Dressed in gear of the Highlands, they were tattooed and pierced, hair braided back and set with fetishes of bone and feather, some with sides shaven. A motley crew of rough and ready riders, warriors in furs and leather filled the night, over two hundred strong. They sat astride their enormous mounts, watching, as the woman who was clearly their leader padded steadily down to Eleshen and Khouren.
The woman’s gaze flicked back behind Eleshen’s shoulder. Ihbram walked down the tiers from the fortress, his gaze without humor as he came, one hand lingering upon his undrawn sword. Though classically aloof, Ihbram’s gaze roved the well-built woman’s muscles and Elsthemi battle-braids appreciatively as he stepped to Khouren’s side. The woman cocked her head, taking in Ihbram also, and gave a smile that didn’t touch her ice-blue eyes.
“You’ve been watching us.” Khouren had lowered his chin, his eyes lost to shadows, dangerous.
“Watching, aye,” the woman’s lips smiled but her eyes did not. “Cats smelled yer smoke five leagues off. Who are ye? An’ why are ye giving Elsthemi royal rites to yer dead?”
Ihbram gave a winning grin that likewise did not touch his eyes. “Not Elsthemi rites, Menderian. Ancient, but well, fire seems as good a way as any to relieve our dead of their burdens.”
“Our death-rites are none of your business,” Khouren added coldly.
Eleshen glanced at Khouren. He’d not put his weapons away, still in a protective stance before her. He glowered at the lead warrior, and the cat-rider gave him a level gaze back.
“There was a time I’d cut out a tongue fer sassin’ me like that,” the warrior-woman gave Khouren a dangerous glance. “I’ll no ask again. Who are ye, and what is yer will here?”
“Forgive me, lady of cats.” Ihbram scuffed one boot on the sodden flagstones, his gaze hard. “But I could very well ask what you, a pard of General Merra Alramir’s most elite keshari riders, are doing south of the Elsee?”
The warrior narrowed her gaze upon Ihbram and her white cat gave a growl. “Insult us, an’ live no long enough ta see mornin’, Brigadier. My cat’s hungry, an’ she likes ta bite the heads off insulting curs. Ye know our marks?”
“I see the Elsthemi High General’s White Claw and Split Fangs emblems tooled into your saddles and weapons sheaths,” Ihbram spoke, deadly. “But I don’t see anyone in General Alramir’s white armor.”
“If ye know our marks, then ye would know Merra rides a snowy cat into battle,” the woman spoke back coldly. “An’ I’m losing my patience in all this rain.”
Around the amphitheater, the cat-riders leveled polearms. A number of cats snarled as if sensing their cue to charge. Ihbram put hands on his hips and gave a chuckle, his green eyes holding a pleased awe. “Well, well. High General Merra Alramir of Elsthemen, in the fur.”
“So. A defected Brigadier, an’ Kingsmen, an’ whatever else ye are, hidin’ in the Highmountains.” General Merra set the butt of her polearm to the stones with deceptive casualness, stroking snarls out of her wet beast’s fur. “Cagey. Lying. Why should I not kill ye if ye will no tell me whom ye serve?”
“Because our aims are aligned.” Eleshen cut in. Stepping in front of Khouren, she palmed strands of dripping hair from her face. “And the King-Protectorate for Elyasin den’Ildrian Alramir, the man we served, is dead.” Ihbram was digging them into a conflict with all his defiant flirtation, and Khouren’s standoffishness was no better. A conflict against two hundred warriors with battle-cats was not what they needed right now.
The woman’s gaze sharpened on Eleshen. “Do say more if ye’d like ta keep yer hides.”
“Lhaurent den’Alrahel is no friend to this fortress,” Eleshen spoke, loud enough for all to hear. “And if you are who you say you are, then he’s no friend to you! He’s invaded your nation, sacked Lhen Fhekran, enslaved your people. If my guess is right, you’re hiding out with whomever managed to escape, planning to attack him.”
The woman’s eyelids flickered, but she stared Eleshen down. “He’ll no live a fortnight.”
“He’ll break you if you ride to Lintesh.” Khouren interrupted as he stepped to Eleshen’s side. “I’m guessing you faced Kreth-Hakir in Lhen Fhekran. He has more.”
“Ye speak a dangerous game.” The Elsthemi General’s icy gaze pierced Khouren before she glanced back to Eleshen. “Who are ye, then? Speak plain.”
“We’re a faction of Alrashemni Kingsmen, Jenner monks, and Roushenn Palace Guard who have recently escaped Lhaurent’s atrocities in Lintesh.” Eleshen spoke up through the hiss of the rain. “And if you are no friend to Lhaurent, then we are allies.”
“Alrashemni? Kingsmen?” The General’s fingertips stroked her snowy cat’s bedraggled fur.
“Some of us.” Eleshen held her gaze. “Hidden in the Jenner Abbey for ten years, but Lhaurent destroyed the First Abbey. We had to flee.”
Eleshen didn’t trust the Elsthemi High General yet, and wasn’t about to tell her everything, but the woman was listening – her face had lost its sneer, opening in surprise. “Do ye know the ronin General Theroun den’Vekir, then? Are ye allied with him?”
“I know the General,” Khouren broke in, “and though he does not know me, our aims are aligned.”
“Ye have a dark-devil way about ye.” General Merra narrowed her eyes upon Khouren again.
“Trust us or do not,” Ihbram spoke up, “but we’ve told you no lies tonight.”
The woman tapped a finger on her weapons-belt, then palmed wet braids back from her forehead. Frowning, she finally spoke. “Lhen Fhekran has been emptied. All my people taken through an Alranstone. My riders have been watching from afar. A spy in the ruckus a few days past heard the Port of Ligenia mentioned. That everyone was ta be taken there, ta fight in a drive Lhaurent den’Karthus amasses upon the Aphellian Way against Valenghia. My riders head south, ta liberate our people.”
“You’ll die.” Ihbram spoke up, his green eyes sharp. “Without anyone to bend the minds of the Kreth-Hakir, you’ll be enslaved into Lhaurent’s forces, just like all your kin.”
“An’ I suppose ye have an accomplished mind-bender among ye?” General Merra scoffed.
“We do.” Eleshen spoke up again, feeling a need to convince the Elsthemi General. “Ihbram here held off four Kreth-Hakir during our attempt to assassinate Lhaurent den’Alrahel just a day ago.”
“And if you’d like to hunt Kreth-Hakir, General,” Khouren cut in, nodding to Ihbram, “there’s only one man who can hold them long enough for your blade to find herringbone throats.”
“Ronins with surprises,” Merra’s blue eyes were knife-keen, staring them each down in turn through the pummeling rain, before settling upon Eleshen.
“Indeed.” Eleshen spoke again, raising her chin. “Before he died, King-Protectorate Temlin den’Ildrian charged our faction to aid a siege that Lhaurent wages upon the last of the Alrashemni Kingsmen, near Vennet. There will be opportunity to kill Kreth-Hakir there. And reinforcements for you, if we win, to travel further south and free your kin.”
Merra’s blue eyes twinkled at last through the sluicing rain. A fierce smile rose to her lips as she shouted back over her shoulder, “Hear that, riders? Ye want sommat ta sink our fangs into? Fer Elsthemen?” A wicked roar went up through the rain behind her, and her smile was vicious as she turned back to face Eleshen’s group. “We’ll kill fer ye. And then ye’ll kill fer us. Deal?”
“Deal.” Eleshen’s smile was just as keen. “But it’s not a deal you can make just with me. You need to parlay with all the Kingsmen, allow them to vote, as is their way. The rest are up in the fort.”
“Then lead on, and the keshari riders will follow. Miri!” Merra Alramir gestured with her polearm. A brawny woman with long cinnamon-red braids rode down on a grey-dappled cat. “Fall back to the main force. Tell them I’ve gone ta parlay with Kingsmen fer the night. If I’m not back by mid-morning, return here. Slaughter anyone ye find if they play me false.”
“Yes, General.” The rider snapped a quick salute and turned her cat. They flashed up the amphitheater, lost to darkne
ss. General Merra called two more of her riders by name, Rhone and Rhennon, and two burly twins with wild wet braids padded down the amphitheater upon brawny tabby cats to flank their High General. Ready, General Merra gave a nod to Eleshen.
“Lead on, commander. Wolf’s Child, was it?”
“Den’Fenrir, yes. Eleshen den’Fenrir, daughter to the Dhepan of Quelsis. Follow me.” Straightening tall, Eleshen turned, walking swiftly up the slick tiers toward the fortress.
CHAPTER 19 – ELYASIN
They’d lingered in the cavern of the Giannyk for four days. The wight hadn’t returned after Elyasin, Therel, and Ghrenna’s display of wyrria, but after four days of trying Ghrenna’s magic on every arch that ringed the space, they could still find no way out – every arch leading right back to the tunnel they had come in by.
Elyasin wandered the obsidian tombs, brushing them with her fingertips and making their sigils glow. They had opened three more in the past days, only to discover more preserved Giannyk warriors. Her step was soft upon the luminous mosses that coated the glassy obsidian floes, her boots stirring the creeping mist. Creatures scurried through the underground – insects and silverfish, translucent lizards, long white centipedes that would ripple from beneath the moss to her footfall. Elyasin took a deep breath of the misty air, but the chill didn’t bother her, despite walking in her jerkin with her shirtsleeves rolled up.
Staring down at her hands, Elyasin watched a ripple of fire move through the awakened red and white markings upon her skin, but it went deeper than that: the bindings were written through her flesh to her deepest core. Exhilaration filled Elyasin, feeling Hahled Ferrian’s awakened wyrria flowing through her veins. Reflecting upon how she and Therel and Ghrenna had banished the wight by the power of the Brother Kings and Morvein, she found herself still boiling with a power so great that it made the newly awakened inkings ripple upon her skin.
Hahled’s wyrria was in her now, come what may.
Humming to brighten her singing-stone, Elyasin examined the glossy black tombs as she walked. All were carved with the flowing white Giannyk runes. Moving to a group she hadn’t explored, she stepped to an obsidian obelisk central to the cluster, thrust up from the bedrock. Cleverly fashioned, the obelisks in each grouping of tombs were puzzles, segmented into layers that spun and moved. Marked with golden sigils rather than pale ore like the tombs, they were untarnished by time, the gilded runes vibrant against all that black.
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