The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  “The Crow King is a usurper,” Lawen growled. “He stole the throne from the line of Wintervale ages ago. He’s not even Simaeri!”

  “He’s not human, that is true,” Traycen said, smiling. “He is superior. Chosen of Afallon to lead Simaerin now and always, none shall stand against him for long.” Flames raced up his arms, punctuating his words, adding heat to his tone. His eyes blazed, though the features of his face remained unruffled, even icy.

  Lawen resisted stepping back. “Monster.”

  Traycen chuckled. The flames on his right arm shifted downward and dripped from his fingertips to form the shape of a sword. His hand closed around the burning hilt, and he raised his blade. “We are all eager to end this and hurry onward to protect what is precious to us. Shall we commence?”

  “At once,” Lawen agreed, and summoned a blade of water from the palm of his hand, siphoning from the fluids of his body. It slid forward, hard like ice, but warm to touch. He grasped it and stepped forward to meet Traycen’s charging blade. As the two conjured swords connected, no sound rang out; but a pulse rustled the trees above, and the stillness of the woods deepened like a tuneless hum.

  The rush of rising wind shattered the silence. Adesta lifted his hands. The gale obeyed, throwing Traycen into a nearby bramble. Lawen darted forward, sword lifted, ready to strike the man down — but a stream of fire exploded from the bramble, catching on the trees above as Lawen scrambled back to avoid being scorched.

  Traycen emerged from the fiery wall of trees, eyes smoldering in the light. He raised his blade and leapt forward with a cry.

  Lawen stumbled back as his sword met Traycen’s fury. Adesta stepped in again, metal sword thrusting to strike Traycen’s side, but the Corvus mage moved quicker: a wall of fire burst from the forest floor, and Adesta retreated at once. Wind would only feed the flames. Lawen hoped Adesta would realize his disadvantage and go on ahead to help Gwyn, if he could.

  But the Fraeli nobleman stayed. The breeze died down. The fires sputtered.

  Adesta was no fool. Keep the wind level low, stifle the breeze, and the fires couldn’t strengthen naturally. The only missing element was water, and that Lawen could easily supply. They’d been following a little brook for several days.

  Lawen stepped backward, freeing his blade. In the same moment, he stretched his senses toward the brook and tapped it. There wasn’t a lot of water there, for the true autumn rains had yet to begin, and a drought had settled across the woods — but there was enough.

  On command, the water climbed from its bed and into the air to form a fog bank. The air turned moist. Visibility shrank.

  It wasn’t much, but the fires would struggle against the dampness.

  “Clever,” said Traycen. “But fire is stronger.”

  The flames shot upward with renewed vigor and licked at the trees, reaching ever higher, like ravenous beasts not to be denied sustenance. A wave of nausea washed over Lawen as Traycen’s will permeated the ground around him, nearly tangible.

  “You’re not bad for an inexperienced mage,” Traycen said, “but Gwyn is by far your better. Even before he was trained, his will was stronger than yours, and thus his magic is greater.”

  Lawen grinned. “You needn’t tell me. I know my brother’s strength.”

  The fog curled around Lawen and Traycen, growing thicker, and the smoke of the fires rose higher. Adesta vanished in the haze as sounds grew muffled. Lawen swung his sword, and Traycen’s met it with the same soundless shudder. Traycen’s eyes narrowed and he leaned close.

  “You’re a fool to believe you can defy the Crow King. What could possess you to think you have a single thread of hope?” The question shone in his eyes, bright and disdainful. “Simaerin is stronger for his leadership. Greater by his will. Why destroy what he has built?”

  “Because,” Lawen replied, gritting his teeth against the other man’s pressing blade, “no nation should be built upon the foundation of murder. Were the Crow King a just man, an honorable ruler, I wouldn’t care a whit what his origins are. But the Crow King kills the innocent. Oppresses the weak. Demands war. These things are wicked, Traycen! They’re wrong. There’s no justification for the murder of children. Not ever.” He kicked out his foot and caught Traycen’s knee. The man buckled with a gasp.

  Adesta charged from the fog and plunged a knife into Traycen’s back. The mage grunted and collapsed.

  Panting, Adesta looked surprised by his own good timing. He wrenched the knife free and straightened, pale hair stuck to his damp face.

  Lawen knelt beside Traycen as the fire in the trees dimmed and lowered. Pressing a hand to the man’s neck, Lawen sought a heartbeat. There, faint and growing fainter. Traycen coughed and struggled to move. He managed to shift his head until he could fix an eye on Lawen. He drew a ragged breath. Adesta must have pierced his lung.

  “Save her,” whispered Traycen. A tear slid from his eye. “In life my loyalties could not…be swayed…but in death…he has no claim on my affections… Save Natty. Tell…her…”

  The man fell still, his eyes dimmed, and the flames hissed and drifted away as smoke, leaving blackened trees in the fog.

  “What a despicable creature,” Adesta said. “He abandoned his daughter, and yet he pretends affection in the end. Did he truly think we would buy into so pathetic an act?”

  Lawen rose to his feet. “I suspect some part of him was sincere. Who can say that he wasn’t magically manipulated by the Crow King? Perhaps he had no choice but to serve, even at the cost of his family. Or perhaps he was a zealot who only saw truth in the last moment of his life. Would you judge a man’s soul, Lord Gilhan? I dare not.”

  Adesta grimaced. “You are right, of course, but his treatment of Lady Nathaera was still egregious.”

  Lawen nodded, eyes resting on Traycen’s body. “I don’t like leaving him here, but we must press on.”

  “What good will that do? We are still days away from Swan Castle.” Adesta sighed. “Already we are too late. Our part to play in this act is finished.”

  Lawen frowned. “Perhaps. But we must go on, nevertheless. If all we find when we reach Swan Castle is the remains of a battle, we must go to discover how it ended, and help if we can.” He glanced back. “Did the horses run?”

  “No, I tethered them while you fought. I enjoy a good walk, but not for quite so long.” Adesta moved through the fog and appeared moments later, guiding the horses forward. “They’re a little spooked.”

  “Assist me with Lord ren Lotelon. I won’t leave him here.”

  Adesta hesitated but nodded and helped drape the dead man across Nathaera’s stallion. Lawen swung up into his saddle and clutched the reins of the other horse.

  “Hurry. We’ve wasted a great deal of the day.”

  Adesta mounted his own horse. “Very well, Simaeri mage. But we will be slower with your baggage.”

  Chapter 46

  Flames filled Gwyn’s vision as he staggered sideways to avoid impact. The tongue of fire singed his sleeve and pant leg, tickling flesh. Gwyn stumbled and fell to his knees, sword clutched in his hand. He panted for breath, sweat dripping into his eyes.

  Steps approached, sharp and resolute. Gwyn looked up through the smokey haze atop the dais and made out the shape of the Crow King coming near.

  “I will give you one last chance to swear fealty, Gwynter, or I shall cut you down and slay your loved ones next. All of them. Even your little sisters.”

  “You can’t,” Gwyn said as he lurched to his feet.

  “Can I not?” The king chuckled. “Are you pretending to be wounded? Are you not down to the last ounce of magic you can muster?”

  “You can’t kill me,” answered Gwyn, meeting the king’s gaze through the smoke. “I am of Wintervale. By right of blood, you cannot cut me down, Kovien.”

  Fury flashed in the king’s eyes. “An ancient oath, whose potency is long deluded. It is time to test the last of its strength. I would wager that you shall die today, Gwynter, and at my
hand.”

  “Try. I shall fight you to the last.”

  The king chuckled. “Little fool.” He lunged forward, quick as lightning, and Gwyn barely raised his sword in time to block the slicing blow. He slid backward, limbs trembling, teeth gritted. The king stepped back and broke contact. Swung again. Gwyn caught the blade with his and forced it left. He tried his own strike, but the Crow King parried and thrust in the next moment. Gwyn couldn’t block it. Wind encircled him: a last stand against the king’s power, but the sword cut through it, heedless of Gwyn’s magic.

  The sword ran through him as easily as a sickle cuts through wheat. Gwyn heard Nathaera scream from far, far away.

  He stood for a moment, stunned, and his eyes lifted to meet the Crow King’s pale gaze. The king stared back, disbelieving. Warmth spread from the wound. Gwyn lowered his eyes to find his chest. A flower of red blossomed around the blade.

  “I have killed you,” the Crow King whispered, voice wavering with awe and horror. “I’ve vanquished the heir of Wintervale.” He drew back and wrenched his sword free.

  Gwyn held a hand over the wound. Why do I feel no pain? Wind swelled around him, and he realized he was falling. The ground caught him, strangely soft. The Crow King remained in his vision, silent and pale, regal and terrible.

  A sweet, gentle voice whispered in his ear. “Hold on, Gwynter. You mustn’t die.” Golden hair tickled his face, and Gwyn slowly turned his eyes from the king to find Nathaera’s blue gaze. When had she gotten free? Did Celin loose her bonds during the fight?

  Everything held quiet, so quiet, like a warm summer’s night in Vinwen. Slow and lazy and wonderful.

  He smiled at Nathaera, but his smile faded as cold washed over him, stealing that summer evening.

  “It’s far too late to save him,” said the Crow King at a distance.

  Water fell onto Gwyn’s face. Nathaera is crying. He tried to reach up, tried to wipe away her tears, but his arms wouldn’t move. He couldn’t move at all.

  ‘Stand aside, Lady Fair.’

  The voice sounded like the rushing winds of a storm.

  Gwyn turned his eyes to find Aluem above him. His horn glowed faintly; his eyes shone bright; beautiful, majestic.

  ‘Alone I do not have the power to save you, Gwynter, but there is no cause to fear. You are the heir of Wintervale, last of the line of Cygmund, dear brother of Lady Shalesta. By her grace shall you live, for the ancient oaths do not lose their potency through the ravages of time. What is immortal cannot be undone by what is mortal. Behold.’

  Aluem stepped aside. Gwyn looked, and all he saw at first was the Crow King. But there, beside the mad king, swathed in white and silver that flowed like water and silk, stood the woman who had long slumbered in this castle. Long hair fell down her back, dark as ravens’ wings, her eyes a piercing blue as clear as a summer lake reflecting an endless sky.

  She glided forward. The Crow King cried out and cowered.

  The woman knelt before Gwyn, met his gaze, held it steadily. “Blood of my brother,” she said in tones like swansong, “lie still, and I shall see you mended.” She lifted her head and reached a hand toward something beyond Gwyn’s sight. “Kive, my son. Come.”

  “No, stop!” cried the Crow King. “You are dead. You cannot aid him!” He turned toward the spot where his mother looked. “Kive, remain where you are. Master forbids you to come!”

  Sobs, faint and miserable, touched Gwyn’s ears. He drew a breath, though the cold deepened. “Kive,” he whispered. “Please.”

  Footsteps neared, and the sobs grew louder.

  “Come on, Kive,” called Nathaera. “Help Shiny.”

  “Come to me, Kive,” said the woman, smiling so sweetly the cold lessened within Gwyn, though his vision wavered.

  The rustle of cloth suggested Kive knelt nearby. “Oh, Shiny,” he breathed, still weeping. “Warm, beautiful Shiny!”

  “Give me the stone, my dearest,” said the woman.

  Kive reached into his robes and withdrew a familiar blue gem, just the shade of the lady’s clear eyes. He bowed his head and presented it to his mother, who took it with a smile.

  “Thank you, Kive. You have done well to guard it.” She turned back to Gwyn. “Few may wield this stone, for it is precious. Once already you have used it, and only thrice can it be invoked. This is the second event, wherein I shall use it to save your life.” She pressed the stone against Gwyn’s heart. “The oaths of old hold strong, and the line of Wintervale shall never fade by the will of others. But I give to you fair warning, Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale. You are the last nonetheless.”

  His brow furrowed even as warmth spread through him. Before he could ask the question, the lady rested his hand against the stone, pulled back, and turned toward Kive.

  “My precious child,” she whispered, and placed her hand against Kive’s cheek, “I am sorry for your pain. Your suffering has been beyond reckoning. But your strength and bravery have never failed. I am so very proud of you. Fight, dear Kive. Become well, and know that I love thee.”

  With that, she vanished as though she had never been. The ancient chamber fell still. Gwyn turned his eyes to find the Crow King, but he too had disappeared.

  “Gwynter?”

  He turned toward Nathaera, who held him in her arms, tears shining in her eyes. Gwyn smiled. “I’m all right for now,” he whispered, clutching the stone tighter. “It seems I’m meant to live a while longer yet.”

  Chapter 47

  Lawen entered Swan Castle, chest tingling, throat aching as he thought of his brother. Cold nipped his fingers. Adesta walked beside him. They’d left the horses tethered in the courtyard. Traycen’s body had been buried in a shallow grave near the Crystal Way, perhaps to be fetched on the way back, should Nathaera still be alive and wish it.

  The journey had been arduous, but apart from that, nothing had stirred to hinder or harm them. Lawen wondered if that was a good or ill omen, but he didn’t dare voice the question. Adesta held his tongue as well.

  Uncertain where to begin their search of the grand estate, Lawen made for the throne room along the wide gallery. His mind comprehended the ruinous grandeur that surrounded him, but his heart urged him on. He must discover what had happened to Gwynter. He mustn’t stop for anything. Adesta seemed to understand, and he’d never complained that they slept for only an hour or two before pressing on. Now, hungry, weary, filthy, the Fraeli nobleman strode evenly beside him, eyes darting this way and that in search of answers.

  Lawen suspected Adesta’s motivation centered around Nathaera. He didn’t blame the lad. Her fate might be worse than Gwyn’s.

  The doors to the throne room were more intact than others in this fallen realm. Lawen threw one aside; it hit the wall with an echoing boom. The chamber stood empty, but the scars of fire across the head of the room accompanied the faint, lingering scent of smoke. A battle had taken place here, but several days ago.

  Lawen’s heart sank into his stomach. He moved forward, Adesta on his heels, footfalls echoing off the walls. Blood stained the dais steps, dry now, and dark. Lawen crouched and touched the stain. His fingers trembled. Someone had lost a lot of blood.

  “There you are!”

  Nathaera’s chipper voice brought Lawen whirling around as he straightened. She stood in the chamber’s doorway, whole and hail, but for dark stains against the fabric of her borrowed dress.

  Adesta rushed toward her, arms extended. “Thank Afallon you live!” He caught her and pulled her close, embracing her so tight Lawen thought she might turn blue.

  He hurried to their side. “How are you? What happened? Where is Gwynter?”

  She laughed. “I’m well. Perfectly well. As for what happened — well, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you as we go. Come along. Gwynter’s what you really want to know about, anyway. He’s doing fine now. A little weak from all his magic usery, but mending, just like she said.”

  “Who said?” Lawen shook his head. “Tell us everything fro
m the beginning.”

  Nathaera guided them along a passage to the west of the throne room, and into a circular wing fitted with several rotting couches and dilapidated chairs. As she led them along, she recounted everything she had seen since Kive brought her to Swan Castle.

  She halted before a wooden door and finished her narrative before reaching for the knob. “I think the whole ordeal shook Gwynter deeply. How could it not? He nearly died.” She smiled. “But he’s whole again. Tired though, just as I said.” She pushed the door aside and stepped into the bedchamber beyond. “Kive hasn’t left his side. I think he sees something of his mother in Gwynter.” Nathaera chuckled. “Funny, I know. But there is a sort of similarity in their bearing. After all, they are distantly related!”

  Sunlight illuminated the chamber. Moth-eaten curtains at the windows had been tied aside and a faint breeze wafted into the room. Gwynter slept under the musty coverlets of a sagging four-post bed, a little gaunt, but breathing just as Nathaera had said. Kive lay curled up at the bed’s foot, and Celin stood in the far corner, grim and still.

  Lawen padded forward and sat on the bed’s edge. He caught Gwynter’s hand and held it tight.

  His brother stirred. His eyes fluttered open and he stiffened. “Lawen?”

  “Here and whole,” Lawen whispered, smile broadening. “As are you, thank Afallon.”

  “It certainly took you two long enough to reach us,” Nathaera said, not sounding as fierce as she probably wanted.

  “We were delayed,” Adesta said. “The Crow King sent someone to deal with us.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke.

  Lawen frowned and turned from the bed. “He sent Lord ren Lotelon, Nathaera. It was us or him.”

  She stared. “Oh.” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh.” She turned away. “Well, this is…difficult…I’m disowned, after all. Yet I’m crying…”

  Gwynter tried to sit up. “Nathaera.” He sank back against his pillows, quivering.