The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Staring into the king’s eyes, Gwyn witnessed the depths of the man’s madness. No mere hunger for power turned to maddened fervor, but a genuine sickness, dark and swirling against the pale light of his ancient eyes.

  So much like Kive’s madness. So much like the fallen Ilidreth who had held Gwyn captive in the True Wood.

  Could it be possible? This man, this creature, didn’t wish to preserve Simaerin, but to enslave it. To reign supreme. To conquer all who stood in his way.

  “You’re Ilidreth,” Gwyn whispered.

  The Crow King smiled. “Clever boy.” His fingers trailed to Gwyn’s throat and he snatched it. Gwyn gasped, wincing as the grip tightened. The king pressed his other hand to Gwyn’s lips. “Silence be thine and mine. You are sworn to the king of Simaerin by blood and bond. None but the king shall unbind thee.”

  Gwyn reached up and caught the king’s wrist, pulling his hand from his throat. He wheezed for air and narrowed his eyes. “But you aren’t the king of Simaerin,” he whispered. “You’re an impostor. You’re a fallen fae.”

  “No. I have conquered your kingdom. You shall obey me and pay homage. I am the Crow King in Crow Castle. Jevye croe-kyné yith croewéath.” The king’s eyes flicked to the men behind Gwyn. “See that the ren Terare brothers are kept apart from others for a few days. They will be allowed time to consider whether they shall serve me willingly or in shackles. I am content either way.”

  Gwyn turned on Cadogan and Traycen. “You knew of the Crow King’s origins? You willingly serve an impostor?”

  Cadogan smiled faintly. “The Crow King’s reign will never end by my hand. He is my sire. Simaerin thrives by virtue of his divine will.”

  Gwyn’s hands fisted, nails digging into his palms as he sought Lord ren Lotelon’s eyes.

  Traycen’s expression burned like frost. “Be honored to know the truth, child, and serve His Majesty by your own choice.”

  Gwyn turned last to his brother, whose expression reflected his own confusion and mounting horror. Of course Lawen didn’t know. He is no traitor.

  “Go, General. Lead them to the tower to ponder the strength of their loyalty.” The Crow King tapped Gwyn’s arm to seize his attention. “Nothing has changed except you, Gwynter ren Terare. I am exactly as I was, as are these men. All you need decide is how you will respond to truth.”

  “How can I serve a man like that?”

  Gwyn looked up from the strand of straw in his hands, to find Lawen standing at the sliver of a window in the tower, his back to the room.

  “It isn’t a man we should serve,” Gwyn said, “but an ideal. Afallon’s ideal.”

  “Quoting scripture hardly helps us in this matter. The church has declared the Crow King divinely appointed. How can we argue with that?” Lawen turned to Gwyn, eyes bright in the fiery glow of the setting sun. “Gwynny, I’m lost. I’ve always been proud of my king and my country, as my faith has dictated. But everything now feels like a lie. What can I believe?”

  Gwyn lowered his gaze to the bit of straw and twirled it between his fingers. “What do you want to believe, Lawen?”

  His brother barked a laugh. “Apparently what cannot be. A king worth serving, a god worth worshiping, a country worth saving.”

  “Then you have two of the three still in your favor.” Gwyn dropped the straw and looked up. “Afallon hasn’t forsaken us, Lawen. And while the church sanctions the reign of the Crow King, how can we know that they aren’t deceived? Even clergy are mortal. Even they can succumb to magic. And Simaerin is still full of Simaeri. Good men and women, humble, hard-working, and faithful. That has never been otherwise.” He scooped up a handful of straw from the pile he sat upon. The tower was a small, circular room, with a trapdoor in the center, by which Gwyn and Lawen had entered their prison a few hours before. But for the pile of damp straw and the tiny window, the room stood unadorned, stinking of mold and dust.

  Gwyn studied the handful of straw. “We’re forced to make a difficult choice. We’re forced to serve the Crow King in one of two ways. They’re hardly different. But one might give us a little more freedom than the other. I, for one, want to move about and become indispensable. Once that is so, the Crow King can’t rid himself so easily of us. Already something holds him back. I want to understand what.”

  “You propose that we agree to serve an Ilidreth impostor?” Lawen shook his head. “Gwyn, I can’t. After all he’s done, all he’s made me do, and now this…I just can’t.”

  “Lawen,” Gwyn squeezed the straw. “If we don’t stay alive, what is the use of learning what we’ve discovered? Alive, we can make a difference. Perhaps we can stop the Crow King, once we understand what he’s trying to accomplish. How he came to sit upon the throne. How long this deception has been going on. I will serve him, in order to understand my enemy. In order to topple him.”

  “Gwynter, are you hearing yourself? You assume we can make that much of a difference. We’re just two people.”

  “I’m also a mage,” Gwyn murmured.

  “A mage bound to serve the king of Simaerin.”

  Gwyn nodded. “I know. But that’s just it, brother. The Crow King isn’t the king of Simaerin. He can’t be. He’s Ilidreth. That means the line of kings since Crowwell rose isn’t the true line. Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps the line of Wintervale destroyed by the first Crow King didn’t displease Afallon at all but was wiped out in order to steal the throne.”

  “If that’s the case,” Lawen said, “then there is no true line left. It ended at Keep Lirial and upon the shores of Londolin three hundred years ago.”

  “It may be so. Either way, I swore an oath to the true king of Simaerin, and if none such exists, I am bound to no man. I am free.”

  “No, you’re locked in a tower within Crow Castle, Gwyn. We’re prisoners, caught between two evils: serve willingly, or serve, nevertheless. Some piece of me would rather die.”

  “What of Mount Vinwen?” asked Gwyn. “What of our lady mother and our little sisters? Our servants and slaves? Do you think that if we choose to gallantly burn at the stake, rather than serve a tyrant, they will be spared?”

  Lawen’s brow furrowed and he lowered his eyes to the floor with a heavy sigh. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought this through.” A smile brushed his lips. “Dear little Gwynny, you’re a far-thinking young man. Let us hope that your arm can be as far-reaching. Very well. For Vinwen and our family, I will serve the Crow King.” He crossed the room and sat in the straw pile beside Gwyn. “There is one other matter I should—”

  Gwyn raised his hand to silence his brother. “Not here. We’re in the crow’s domain. What we’ve said already is no surprise to him, but anything more, anything he doesn’t know, should be discussed only far from Crowwell.”

  “Very well, I’ll say nothing at present. Just know, Gwynter, you’re not alone in this. I will stand by your side no matter what the Crow King tries.”

  “Thank you, Lawen. Please know that I feel the same.”

  Part III

  The Secrets of Ilid

  Chapter 36

  “Happy birthday, Sir Gwynter.”

  Gwyn turned and found a goblet lifted in the Crow King’s slender fingers. Gwyn raised his own goblet to acknowledge the gesture and watched his king take a sip. Obligation took Gwyn’s feet through the crowd gathered at the Crow King’s side near the head of the great hall.

  “Thank you, sire,” Gwyn said, bowing his head.

  The Crow King’s eyes caught his as he straightened. “You’ve had an excellent campaign in the north, by all reports. Indeed, your men praise you highly. Lord ren Lotelon has even hinted that he would like you returned to his service to assist in our sea battles. What say you to that?”

  Gwyn inclined his head. “I am flattered, but of course it is your will that matters, Your Majesty.”

  “Just so.” The king smiled.

  Music started up as a dance line formed in the hall’s center. Gwyn’s gaze drifted toward it, mesmerized b
y an ocean of colors as men and women began bobbing down the line, handkerchiefs stretched between them to keep from touching one another’s hands.

  “Do you dance, Sir Gwynter?” asked the king as he came to stand closer to Gwyn, having extricated himself from his many sycophants.

  “Not lately, sire, though I do enjoy it.”

  “You’re sixteen years old today, aren’t you? One year out from your coming of age, yet you spend so little time socializing. Am I to blame for this oversight?”

  “Perhaps partially, sire.”

  “Always so diplomatic.” The Crow King stepped before Gwyn, blocking his view of the dance. “You’ve become one of my most successful officers. You’ve managed to squelch most of the unrest in the north, despite the ineptitude of your late superior.”

  Gwyn stifled a grimace. Ten months ago, he’d reported to General Kydess of Keep Arch on the northern border of Simaerin and Ilid. The general had been grossly self-indulgent, his soldiers, sloppy and unkempt; most were drunk more often than sober. General Kydess had blamed the state of things on the dangers of being stationed so near the Ilidreth and Fraeli and often cursed the inhabitants of Crowwell for their ignorance and security. While Gwyn agreed that the royal capital knew little of what lay beyond their own walls, the laxness of the general and his officers had set Gwyn’s teeth on edge. He’d gone there alone; apparently the Crow King wanted to keep him far from Lawen’s side.

  Things were different at Keep Arch these days. At first, Gwyn had no choice but to work around the general, and he’d found those men who still cared about Simaerin, who still had a shred of decency, and cultivated them. As positions of power opened up following bloody skirmishes against the Ilidreth, Gwyn had systematically brought their skillfulness into the general’s sights and each was promoted in their turn. Now they answered to Gwyn. At first General Kydess recognized none of Gwyn’s machinations, but once he’d finally worked out what the boy officer had been orchestrating, he rampaged. In response, Gwyn soothed and coddled him. The general went back to nursing his bottles, the keep’s defenses improved, and by his fifth month Gwyn had won several engagements beyond the keep, forcing back the Fraeli-Ilidreth invaders so often, morale within Keep Arch improved drastically. Gwyn cracked down on excessive drink, gambling, and vulgar activities. He encouraged the keep’s soldiers to attend church services and pray often to Afallon for safety.

  “Fear Afallon and his servant Gwynter more than invaders, and we shall never be invaded,” became the keep’s mantra. His fellow officers called him invincible. No arrow ever hit its mark, though Gwynter rode more than once into a maelstrom with no more than a short sword and his unicorn.

  Word of Keep Arch’s recent string of victories had ostensibly reached Crowwell and the Crow King’s ear. An invitation arrived at the keep last month; now here Gwyn stood, on his sixteenth birthday, honored by king and country for his efforts. General Kydess had come with Gwyn, expecting to receive the credit for all that had transpired, but when he bowed pompously before the Crow King, he’d been seized by two guards and sentenced to death for treason and the practice of magic. General Kydess was burned at the stake this morning.

  Gwyn tried not to feel guilty, but in his mind, he couldn’t help blaming himself for the general’s death. Certainly, the man was a pathetic soldier, dimwitted and petty, but a traitor? Never that. Gwyn knew better than to believe Kydess had a shred of magic in his blood. The man had been superstitious and terrified of magery. Gwyn didn’t doubt that the accusation of magic usery was the king’s favored excuse for disposing of those he found unsightly or inconvenient.

  The Crow King spoke now, breaking into Gwyn’s thoughts. “I want you to maintain Keep Arch, General Gwynter ren Terare.”

  Gwyn blinked. General? He was already a lieutenant, a prestigious rank for someone so young and inexperienced. “But sire—”

  “I insist. The documents are already drawn up.” The Crow King presented a scroll sealed with his signet ring, though where he had stowed it until now, Gwyn couldn’t say. “Take it.”

  He accepted the scroll. “Thank you, sire. I’m honored by the position, though I feel utterly inadequate.”

  The Crow King rested a hand on his arm. “Your humility does you credit, Gwynter. As do your merits at so tender an age. I am very pleased to call you mine.”

  Gwyn stared into the usurper’s eyes, glimpsing the triumph hidden behind his praise. But there was more than that. The Crow King didn’t trust Gwyn any more than Gwyn trusted him. Their game of camaraderie would continue, it seemed; the king always a portrait of civility and Gwyn the model of a respectful subject. Neither fooled the other, but the world at large carried on in ignorance, convinced Gwynter ren Terare was the king’s man.

  “I have a gift for you, Gwynter,” said the Crow King, smile widening.

  “My new rank is gift enough, sire. You’re too generous.”

  “Nonsense. This is your birthday. Besides, your coming of age last year was spent at the Battle of Forger’s Bay. Allow your liege lord to spoil his faithful subject before all of Simaerin.” He motioned at the hall. “Music, dance, drink, a new title and — tell me I am not the cleverest gift-giver — your dearest friend in the world.” His eyes flicked past Gwyn as Gwyn’s heart somersaulted.

  He spun. Standing before the servants’ entrance, dressed in army red, stood Lawen. The master of Mount Vinwen raised his arms, eyes bright, a warm smile on his lips. He looked a little gaunt, perhaps; his dark hair hung longer and loose against his shoulders, and his skin glowed with the sun’s frequent kisses. Gwyn ran to him, heedless of decorum or the esteemed crowd looking on.

  Lawen caught him and pulled him into a bear hug so tight neither man could breathe.

  Gwyn choked back tears as he and Lawen embraced for a wonderful, ageless moment. Lawen pulled back. “Let me see you.” He laughed. “You’re huge! You’ve turned into a giant, Gwyn. Afallon is cruel to elder brothers to allow this injustice. Why must you be both tall and handsome? How many fair ladies’ hearts have you broken this past year?”

  Gwyn only laughed. The Crow King approached, drawing the brothers’ attention.

  “Good evening, Captain Lawen.” The king’s smile sparkled like icicles under a cold sunrise. “I’m very pleased you could make it tonight. Tell me, have you had any success in your mission?”

  Lawen’s eyes dimmed. “Not yet, sire.”

  “A pity. I had hoped for yet another gift this night. Ah well. Redouble your efforts when you return.”

  Lawen bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Gwyn looked between them. He and his brother corresponded often, but both knew better than to include anything approaching treason in their letters. They kept to general information about the war against Fraelin and exchanged news of Mount Vinwen if they chanced to hear anything. Beyond that, nothing. Still, Gwyn could guess what Lawen might be undertaking. Of late, his brother’s letters were far more vague than usual, and sometimes a bit peculiar. Gwyn suspected the Crow King had charged Lawen with the task of finding Nathaera and Kive, but after a year and a half, there was small chance of success. No one had seen or heard from them.

  An ache filled Gwyn’s heart as he thought of the two exiles, on the run, or perhaps dead by now. Where could a disgraced noblewoman and a fallen Ilidreth possibly hide for so long? Certainly nowhere in Simaerin. That left only two feasible possibilities, but no one would say it: they were either dead, or they had reached Fraelin. To most, either possibility amounted to a death sentence.

  Lord Traycen ren Lotelon had publicly disowned his daughter. Windsur ren Cloven had become betrothed to another noblewoman of some distinction, insensible to the damage he’d inflicted on Gwynter’s family and Nathaera.

  At least, Gwyn prayed he was unaware. Otherwise he might not be able to keep his temper in the man’s presence. Best to pretend Windsur was the dunderhead Nathaera once called him.

  “I should congratulate you.” Lawen’s voice broke into Gwyn’
s thoughts. He turned to smile at his brother.

  “For what?”

  “I was rather proud of my promotion, but you outrank me now. Tall, handsome, and powerful.” Lawen’s eyes twinkled.

  Gwyn grinned. “I would much rather remain a lieutenant. Or better still, a nobleman farmer. I miss Vinwen.”

  “Then you shall enjoy the last of my gifts,” said the Crow King. “You’ve spent the past ten months mucking out Keep Arch. I suspect you require a brief respite to maintain your health. I’ve granted you three months’ leave. You and your brother.”

  Gwyn stared at the king, then turned to Lawen, who laughed.

  “I received my papers of leave this morning from General Cadogan. It’s all arranged. We travel on the morrow.”

  Giddiness washed over Gwyn like he’d plunged into Temm River near Mount Vinwen. Home. He could go home! He’d last seen his mother on the steps of the manor house over a year and a half ago. His sisters must be so big. The fields would be approaching harvest-time by now. Mavell might be baking pies this moment, their aroma wafting from the kitchen windows to torment the stablehands working outside.

  Shaking himself of his thoughts, Gwyn bowed at the waist to the Crow King. “I thank you, sire. Your gifts are most generous, and I humbly accept them.”

  “Now, now. Don’t grow soft on me, Gwynter. I expect this time to buoy you up, not turn you into a sopping dish rag, do you understand? At the end of three months, return to Crowwell before you head for Keep Arch. Strange things are brewing in Fraelin, and closer still. Unrest grows. Return to me soon, so that we may head it off.”