The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  “Why are we waiting for Gwyn?” asked Nathaera. “What are you plotting?”

  The gentle smile stretched a little wider. “I must put to rights what he has broken, and for that, we must have three things: a private place to conduct our negotiations; leverage worth negotiating over; and a lure. Kive has been the lure. This castle is the most secluded realm of any land across the world. And you, my dear lady, are the perfect leverage.”

  “What has he broken?” demanded Nathaera. “You’re the tyrant who’s done so much harm. How many have you killed in all, Crow King? How many babes, how many children?”

  The king laughed. “I’ve lost count. But each death was necessary. Quite, quite so.”

  “Necessary for whom? Why? What is your aim?”

  His smile dropped away. “There is no reason at all why I should answer any of your questions. You are nothing. Now, Gwynter. He is worth my time, worth my attention, and even my patience. Him, I shall await.”

  Chapter 44

  Swan Castle sparkled under the noon sun. Gwyn’s skin prickled as he drank in its grand construction for a second time, so delicate yet so solid. And, most of all, sad. Even in the full light of day, sorrow clung to the air, just as it had on his last sojourn to this hallowed place — yet this time, the wails rose higher. The taste of tears pressed against Gwyn’s tongue.

  “Come, Aluem. The Crow King is already here. We’re late.”

  The unicorn carried Gwyn ever nearer to the ancient edifice, Celin pacing at his side, unwearied. As Gwyn studied the spires and tors shining like ice against the sun, he tried to unknot his stomach. The Crow King had gotten here first. Was Gwyn too late to save Kive?

  ‘Gwynter, look there. At the doors.’

  His grey eyes settled on the gaping portcullis. There, in the doorway, hunched a figure draped in tatters that rustled in the mild breeze. Tendrils of matted hair tumbled down the figure’s shoulders like a mantle of black.

  “Kive,” Gwyn whispered. “He lives.” He raised a hand and called out: “Kive! Ho there.”

  The figure canted his head but otherwise remained still as the statuary stretching above his head.

  “How piteous a sight he is,” Celin murmured, tone thick with sorrow. “You should have seen him in the glory days of our kingdom. So beautiful, so gentle. Majesty beamed from his very soul. O son of Roth, fallen creature once fairer than the very moon, what cruel fate is thrust upon you? To what bitter end must you dance upon the Weave?”

  The three companions reached the portcullis. Kive stooped into a clumsy bow. Rising again, his red eyes caught Gwyn’s, but there was no hint of recognition within them. “Master is waiting. Come, rats. Come and Kive will show you the way.” He turned and stepped beneath the portcullis and into the courtyard of Swan Castle. Gwyn urged Aluem forward, Celin on their heels.

  The fountain remained standing in the courtyard, its bed heaped with decomposing leaves in putrid water. The trees stood naked and weeds peeked through the crumbling cobblestones, shriveled.

  Celin crossed the courtyard to the fountain and fell to his knees. “High King Aveon, fallen father of Roth. ‘Twas in his reign that Ilid fell prey to dark magics, but he gave his life that his son could escape. Roth stole away in the night and returned many years later to reclaim his rightful throne, bringing Lady Shalesta here to rule for two hundred years in peace. This statue was erected to honor the memory of so great an Ilidreth. Now he stands alone, a last crumbling remnant of a once-great land. Oh, Gwynter. The grief I feel is deeper and sharper than a dagger to my heart. Can there be any hope left for such a ravaged world, so rife with wickedness?”

  Aluem led Gwyn to the statue where Gwyn lowered his hand to the kneeling Ilidreth. “Come, Celin. Let us find what hope remains, and we shall harness it to pursue a future of liberty and happiness. Come.”

  Celin took Gwyn’s hand and rose. He nodded, saying nothing.

  Gwyn released his hand and turned toward the towering doorway of the castle. Kive hunched there, waiting, silent. Aluem cantered across the courtyard, Celin keeping pace, and they entered the ruinous castle. The shroud of cobwebs glowed against the trickle of sunlight snaking into the vestibule. Kive led the company straight ahead, while Gwyn’s eye strayed to the staircase he’d taken before, where above Lady Shalesta lay in eternal slumber.

  At the end of a long gallery, Kive stopped before a set of white wood doors rising to the ceiling. He opened one door and slipped inside, then drew his head back out to stare at Gwyn and Celin. “Come, hurry. Master grows impatient.”

  “Kive, wait,” said Gwyn. “We don’t need to see your master. Come with us now, and we’ll go home. It’s me, it’s Shiny. Do you remember me?”

  Kive shook his head. “This is no time for talking, little rat. Master is waiting. He has something for Rat. A gift.” He slipped back into the room beyond, and Gwyn followed on Aluem’s back, pushing the door aside to enter the throne room.

  Carved wood shaped like white trees rose against either wall, great roots creating gradual steps that led to two winged thrones. Gwyn felt as though he had stepped back into the woods themselves, as though the chamber breathed. A gaping hole in the ceiling added to the effect, carrying the sweet breeze of autumn from beyond. Under a strand of sunlight stood the Crow King at the chamber’s head. Behind him, bound and gagged, Nathaera sat upon one throne.

  Gwyn cried out and Aluem increased his pace.

  “Welcome,” declared the Crow King, arms raised in perfect mimicry of the fountain statue outside. “I have long desired to meet you here, Gwynter ren Terare, even as I wished never to meet like this at all. Had you only followed me without defiance, had you sworn loyalty to your king and not broken faith — but alas, it is not in the nature of a Wintervale to bend the knee. You would rather die than serve another.”

  “That isn’t true,” Gwyn said as Aluem halted before the raised dais. “Were you a sovereign worthy of fealty, I would bend the knee this very instant and serve you faithfully forever — whether or not you are Simaeri. But you’re a tyrant and a warmonger. Indeed, you are mad.” He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the Crow King.

  “Mad, am I?” The king softly laughed. “Ah, Gwynter. Do you know what madness is?” He turned his hand toward Kive as the fallen Ilidreth crawled up the dais steps. Kive groped the hem of the Crow King’s robes and kissed his feet. “Madness is mindless subservience. Madness is cowering before one’s terror. Madness is the complacency of softhearted fools. As such, I am not mad. Simaerin is mad! Kive is mad! But not I. I am powerful; therefore, I am sane.”

  Gwyn shook his head. “Spoken like a true madman.” He patted Aluem’s neck. The unicorn started up the steps as Gwyn kept his sword level with the Crow King’s chest. “Release Nathaera. Release Kive. Let them go free.”

  “I shall,” said the Crow King, smiling, “but only under two conditions. ‘Tis fair. Two prisoners in exchange for two requests.”

  “What are your requests?”

  “Firstly, you must serve me diligently all the days of your life, never wavering. Consequently, your rebellion must stand down. The days of Wintervale shall never come again to Simaerin. This must be sworn by magic and blood, for I well understand that your past oaths were not binding. Your royal blood saw to that.”

  “And secondly?”

  “You must bind all magic across Simaerin, as you have unbound it. Only the mages under Corvus shall wield magic henceforth, and you shall oversee that so it remains.”

  Gwyn lifted an eyebrow. “But I didn’t unbind magic.”

  “You did. A consequence of your heritage, likely unwitting. But there it is. You must bind magic anew, apart from those who serve me loyally. Though unbound in ignorance, you are adept enough now in magery that you could consciously contain it.”

  “Why can you not bind it? Didn’t you once?”

  Annoyance flitted across the Crow King’s face, then vanished. He smiled. “I did, but I was not challenged by Wintervale then. You are the
first in a very long time to cause me any trouble. I do not begrudge the change.”

  Gwyn shifted his grip on his sword. “You guarantee that your prisoners will be freed if I swear to your terms?”

  The Crow King’s smile faded. “My word is binding, as is any mage’s.”

  “You once spoke of Kive as a threat to Simaerin,” Gwyn said. “Yet you would let him go now?”

  “On his own, he is no threat. If you are my man, and he fancies you as a substitute master, the threat is even less.”

  Gwyn frowned. “But he’s your brother.”

  The Crow King fell still, so still he might be a statue. His gaze drifted toward his feet, where Kive groveled. “I have no brother. This creature is my slave. My pet. He is merely a nuisance I deem to tolerate for my amusement. My brother is dead. He fell long ago.” The Crow King’s voice rose as he spoke, losing the gentle tones as his eyes widened. “He fell beside his parents, long, long ago, as Shaeswéath burned at my feet. He is nothing to me now. Just a cur. I have no brother!”

  Gwyn stared down at the Crow King, unflinching. “So adamant, Your Majesty. Why?” He brought his sword-point nearer. “Are you certain that your brother died so long ago? Or does a guilty conscience impede your memory?” He drew a breath. “Kovien.”

  The Crow King’s eyes widened more. His breath caught. “Silence. Silence. Be silent, fool! Kovien is dead! Kive is dead! All fell before my wrath and glory! NONE YET LIVE!”

  “Majesty.”

  The voice belonged to Celin.

  Gwyn turned his head to find the Ilidreth on his knees before the dais, head bowed, eyes raised toward his ancient lord.

  “Forgive me, sire,” Celin said, “but you are Kovien. I remember well.”

  The Crow King let out a harrowing scream: filled with rage and misery, longing and grief. He backed away from Gwyn, away from Celin, toward the throne. “They are all dead! I saw to that. I killed Kovien myself.”

  “Yet you are he,” Celin insisted.

  “NO!” The Crow King turned toward Nathaera and raised his hand to strike, black flames leaping from his fingers. Gwyn waved his sword. Torrential wind followed the path of his blade and flung the king aside. Gwyn and Aluem pranced forward and stepped between Nathaera and the fallen king.

  “My answer,” Gwyn said, “is no, Crow King. I shall not serve you, nor shall I keep the Weave bound. Nor shall I let you take Nathaera and torment Kive further.”

  The king squared his shoulders and lifted his hand. “Detestable Simaeri, stand down before your king.”

  “I see no king. You must stand down, or we must fight.” Gwyn dismounted and stood beside Aluem as the unicorn tossed his head.

  A smile lighted on the Crow King’s face. “Then we shall fight. Avéas weth!” Black flames leapt from his fingers as he lunged. Gwyn raised his blade to block the attack. Wind rushed by his ears, responding to his defensive magic. The wind faltered as the king’s flames formed a wreath and shot forward in a raging cyclone.

  Gwyn leapt right and fell to one knee, then swung his sword, flinging wind at the king. The flames grew, fueled by the windstorm. Gwyn rolled and swept both hands inward, still gripping his sword. Two strands of wind swooped in on the king, but the Ilidreth allowed his black flames to consume him as they swallowed the wind’s ferocity. As the flames died down, Gwyn found the king unharmed. Gwyn had heard of lesser mages consumed by their own magics, particularly the aspect of fire, but the Crow King was no novice.

  “You still have much to learn, Simaeri mage,” the king said. “Heed this lesson. When I have beaten you, bend the knee and swear fealty, else I will end the lady Nathaera’s life and seek your beloved brother’s next.”

  “You won’t find Lawen so easy to kill,” Gwyn said. He adjusted his sword grip.

  The king chuckled. “Oh? Is that because he is a mage? This isn’t news to me. General Cadogan already discovered Lawen’s hidden talents, but as the man was dying anyway, we left him alone. And then you acted. Brave, reckless, young Gwynter dared to enter my woods, defile my mother’s tomb, and take what did not belong to him.”

  “You admit to it,” Gwyn said. “You call her mother, yet you say Kovien is dead.”

  “He is dead!” Fire burst from his hands, rising high over his head. “All the royal family fell. I am the Crow King!”

  “Kovien Crow-King. You forsook your name to protect your magic. It was Kovien who dabbled with the unholy, and so you blame him — the name — for your actions. You refuse to be responsible. Is that not true?”

  “Silence.” The soft voice rang across the chamber, echoing with the voices of phantoms. “How little you understand.”

  “Tell me, then,” said Gwyn. “Tell me all that happened and let me help you. Tell me that you were tricked or forced to destroy your father’s kingdom, and I will endeavor to free you of the darkness. Are you like Kive, fallen against your will? Tormented by some vile force? Do you remember?”

  A dark laugh filled the air. “Tricked? Forced? No. No, no, young Wintervale. I was not so naive as Kive is. Not so trusting. I well knew the prejudice and caprice of men’s hearts. Simaerin stood to gain much in our demise. The Ilidreth were too peaceful, too soft, and they falsely believed that the oaths of old would hold evermore, even as rot and jealousy consumed valor and loyalty. Our people were being slaughtered. My father turned a blind eye. He blamed other lands, distant lands, for the deaths of the Ilidreth — but not Fraelin, not Simaerin. Not his allies!

  “Yet I saw, when I rode out to protect the borders of Ilid. I saw all the horrors, the atrocities. I saw what none would dare to see. I became afraid — and fear led me to seek an answer. I found one. I found my answer, Gwynter. And I brought it home. Father rejected it. Mother — foolish Fraeli woman! — begged me to stay my hand. In that moment I knew: the Ilidreth were weak, fallen, and unworthy to be saved. I had transcended them all, and it was my duty to end them, before they fell of themselves. So, I did. I ended the Ilidreth, nearly all. The Vales fell, their keepers fell. It served them right for their compassion toward men. The fault lay with my mother. Such a weak, tenderhearted, frail thing.”

  “And your brother? What was his crime?” whispered Gwyn, staring at the mad king. How had his illness begun? How did a man reach such a place as this?

  “Kive? Kive was weakest of them all. He chose to wed the princess of Wintervale — he intended to unite Simaerin and Ilid — to carry on the tradition started by our father. But I wouldn’t have it. I threw the princess from her own castle and brought the pieces to my brother. His horror, his grief; they filled me with such ecstasy. I knew from then what I must do.” He laughed his gentle laugh. “Oh, Gwyn. To have such power — such strength. You cannot comprehend it. How could you? You are bound by the laws of mortality, but I? I grow stronger with each babe I slay, each dark deed I accomplish. Yet you think to stand against me? Oh, Gwynter, it is a fool’s errand to try. There is nothing — not man, not magic — who can defeat me. Not even your Afallon — for I am a god.”

  Chapter 45

  The wingbeat of a crow brought Lawen’s head up from the trail. Adesta nocked an arrow and raised it to the sky, though the heavy foliage made it impossible to spot the bird among the burning shades of autumn.

  The rustle of leaves ahead turned Lawen’s eyes back to the trail. He met the gaze of Traycen ren Lotelon. The mage stood among the trees, emitting his own light; a faint, silver glow curled from his frame.

  Lawen dismounted, steeling himself for an engagement he might not survive. His horse snorted, and Lawen patted the stallion’s neck, keeping his eyes on Traycen. “Adesta, go on without me.”

  The Fraeli mage scoffed. “You cannot believe you would best him alone. No, my friend. I shall remain and aid you. I, too, am a mage, if you recall.”

  “Gwyn will need backup if I’m killed.”

  “Forgive me, Lord ren Terare,” said Adesta as he strode to Lawen’s side, “but I feel very certain Gwynter would agree with me in this matter
. He has the unicorn. You would be alone. Do not let noble sentiment stand in the way of good sense, sui? Besides, after all that your brother has done to spare you, should you not be less careless with your life?”

  Lawen sighed and nodded. “Fraeli sentimentality is far superior to my own, so I shall yield.”

  As though he’d waited upon their decision, Traycen started forward only now, orange flames licking his fingertips as he spread his hands at his sides.

  “He wields the aspect of fire,” Adesta murmured. “Such is very dangerous in these woods, even with the recent rain.”

  “It’s all right,” Lawen replied. “I can protect the trees, for my aspect is water.”

  “Ah, yes.” Adesta nodded. “Conjuration. So you said. I use wind, just as Gwynter does. I am defense — though I am not so adept as your brother. His skills are immense.”

  Traycen halted a few feet before the two young men, fingers engulfed in flames. “Which of you chooses to die first?”

  “We fight together,” Adesta replied. “If you seek an honorable duel one on one, you must first be an honorable man. That you are not, and so we shall battle you at once.”

  Traycen chuckled. “It matters very little. Crushing both of you will be like crushing two ants, rather than one. It’s the same effort.”

  “Before we begin,” Lawen said, “you should know that your master took Nathaera. For all we know, he’ll feed her to Kive. She’s your daughter. You can’t turn a blind eye to that.”

  Traycen lifted a brow. “Why should I not? If the Crow King desires my daughter for any reason, he is welcome to her. The fool girl deserves to be punished.”

  Lawen stared, cold shuddering through him like a blizzard. “You’re bluffing. Even you aren’t so heartless.”

  “Even I?” asked Traycen, slanting his head. “You think my fealty to my king is so flimsy that I would defy his will? Do not lump me in with riffraff such as you. I’m no rebel. My loyalty to the Crow King shall never waver.”