“We can’t wait any longer,” said General Mershen. “Supplies are low, and the men are restless. Some have threatened to return to their homes, for all they’ve done since enlistment is ‘cower in this den of filth’—their words, not my own.”
“None would dispute them on the part of filth,” quipped Remien down the table.
A few men grunted in agreement.
Gwyn fixed Mershen with a sharp look. “The weather has warmed, and the thaw can supply water in plenty. Let the men cleanse this den to liven their spirits and chase away disease, if they feel so restless. But I do agree we can afford to wait no longer. Food in particular is my concern. The Crow King is content to let us rot in Talbethé if that is our wish. He’ll make no open move against us. We must march to him.”
“Sire, without the aid of Fraelin, we stand no chance,” said Cluv.
“My country will answer,” Fayett said, “but they cannot yet move. If we could but wait a week or two more—”
Cadogan stirred. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Prince Fayett. As the Winter King said, food is scarce. Either the Winter Army marches now with what food remains to it, or we stay here to eat one another as the cannibals of the isles. Anyone who deserts now will be cut down the instant he returns to his village. The Crow King will not forgive a single soldier who has served King Gwynter. Not one.”
“You would know,” said Cluv with some heat.
“Aye,” Cadogan said above a murmur of assenting voices. “I would know.”
Gwyn slapped a hand against the table. “Gentlemen, if you would turn a sword against your allies, I would turn my sword against you. The traitor in our midst is only he who acts against our cause.” He swept his gaze over those at the table. No one stirred. “Preparations for our march must begin at once. We have three days. After that we will move out. Not only do we need food, but if the Crow King continues to swell his ranks, we’ll be cut as wheat beneath a sickle.”
“Wasn’t that already likely?” murmured Grene.
Gwyn pinned his gaze on the man. “Aye, that’s true. But under Afallon’s protection we stand a chance. Should we wait, I doubt we will receive his blessing—for I highly doubt he would be so eager to bless cynical fools.”
“Sire, what is our strategy once we reach Crowwell?” asked Remien. “Do we mean to besiege the city and pray for a miracle?”
Gwyn smiled faintly. “I would not begrudge the prayer; but no, we aren’t waiting on a miracle. I believe we must make our own miracle and let the rest follow. I’ve sent Towwen Stone on ahead at Cadogan’s suggestion, and he is setting the stage for our arrival. A frontal strike is only a fragment of our plan. The Crow King expects an army, and so we will supply one. We also need to weaken the number of our enemy, and so the army is crucial. But it isn’t enough. The Crow King will also anticipate magery, and we shall supply that too. But we also know the Crow King sacrifices lives to strengthen his own magic. We can’t allow him to use our own men against us.
“Most of you understand the Weave on a fundamental level. It keeps the world vital. Keeps us vital. Priests call it the substance of divinity, or the touch of Afallon. I’m inclined to believe them. If this is so, the Crow King’s magic was once divine and is now corrupted. One might call its new form the substance of damnation. Quite literally. If the Weave in its natural state feeds the world, then the Crow King’s magic in its tainted state stoppers the world. Cuts off the flow of magic. Kills whatever it caresses.”
“Most of this we understand, at least a little,” said Mershen. “Are you implying that we need to shore up the Crow King’s magic somehow? Yet its nature is to stop things. How can we stop that which halts, already?”
“You misunderstand me,” said Gwyn. “There is a reason the fae have fallen. There’s a reason they can’t rise again. These are connected to the source of the Crow King’s magic.”
Those assembled exchanged mystified glances, except for the Ilidreth High Lords, General Cadogan, and Aluem, each who well understood magic. During the long winter months, Gwyn had been learning all he could of the Weave from the Ilidreth and his unicorn. It was under their tutelage and in viewing the pool of memory that he now understood what he must try to do.
“The source?” asked Remien.
Gwyn nodded. “The Weave flows. It cannot stop itself. It can only be directed or redirected. However, something else might stop it. Not a mage, for we are subject to the Weave’s flow as much as the Weave itself is. Not the Ilidreth, for they are born of the Weave and are its children, as are the unicorns. It isn’t anything we know, but the Crow King found a tool. Something to manipulate the Weave. To make it stop. Yet the Weave cannot stay stoppered, for it must run, always. Should he dam it up, all of it, it will eventually burst asunder. His purpose, gentlemen, is to destroy magic.”
All fell silent. Gwyn studied each pale face, each pair of troubled eyes, each furrowed brow. The breeze picked up, dallying with the banners overhead.
“What tool did he find? Where could he discover it?” asked Remien.
“Ages ago,” said Celin, in his rich, melodious voice, “High Prince Kovien left the lands of Ilid on a journey to find answers to his private fears. Somewhere across the sea he found a new, dark purpose and the tool to implement his purging of the world. Now we stand upon the brink of undoing. We must discover what he is using, though we do not understand how it is possible. We must try.”
“But how?” asked Mershen. “Can such a tool be some tangible object hidden within Crow Castle? Would the Crow King keep it in such an obvious place?”
Celin gracefully shrugged. “Where else would he keep it but near himself? Where else might it be better guarded?”
“But what sort of object would it be? And how could you even approach it?”
Remien chimed in. “I’m still having trouble believing there could be a tangible tool of such power. How might it be forged? Where would he have found it upon the sea?”
“On that matter, I will keep my peace for now,” said Gwyn. “Suffice it to say, there is one means of forging such a tool, and there are stories of fell places where such things might be kept. Places better left unexplored, but which might truly yield such horrors as would drive even a noble fae to the blackest purpose.” He glanced at Aluem, who nodded. They had discussed long what they had seen within the Vale’s pool and determined not to reveal the source of the Crow King’s strength: for what sane man would defy such overwhelming power?
“Even should you locate this vile tool, sire,” said Grene, “how can you destroy something so dreadful? If it can dam the Weave itself…” He shook his head.
Gwyn sighed. “As to that, I have no answer yet. I can only pray when the time comes, I will find a means to do it.”
Cadogan’s voice rolled along the table, a commanding rumble. “Enough questioning of your liege. He has given a command to prepare for your march. That is your aim. Are there any other relevant questions?”
Silence replied. Gwyn nodded. “Please go about your duties, gentlemen. Be sure our Heshi prisoners are comfortable. The Winter Army leaves in three days.”
Wind tossed Gwyn’s loose hair about his face as he prowled along the top of the wall. Beyond the keep, patches of snow dotted the earth, painted orange under the withering glow of dusk. On the morrow, Talbethé would be emptied of its army, and the march on Crowwell would begin.
He had spent the past two days looking over supplies, addressing his soldiers, planning with his officers for the weeks’ long march and subsequent siege. His heart hung heavy. So many men would fall in battle against a foe who could easily wipe them from existence if he chose.
That thought still plagued Gwyn. Why didn’t the Crow King end this now? Was he truly bound by his own limitations as Aluem had said?
Kive’s voice drifted above Gwyn. “All the world’s blood spreads across the snow.”
Gwyn located the fae standing on a merlon further along the battlements. “Kive, come here.”
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The fallen fae leapt across the merlons until he stood before Gwyn upon the stone edifice. “Yes, Shiny?”
“Why do you say that, Kive? What thoughts run through your head?”
“Rats, Shiny.”
“What else? Kive, did the Crow tell you things? Did he ever mention what he intended to do to the world?” He leaned a hand against the merlon and gazed up into Kive’s red eyes. “Do you remember the Crown, Kive?”
The fae’s eyes widened as he flinched back. “Hush, Shiny. Shhh!”
Gwyn felt the familiar seizing of his will. His mouth sealed shut. He sighed through his nose and caught Kive’s ankle as the fae looked ready to bolt away. Gwyn shook his head, and Kive slowly relaxed and crouched before him.
“Shiny, some things mustn’t be spoken. The Crow wouldn’t like it.”
Gwyn held his gaze and waited.
Kive exhaled and nodded. “Very well, Shiny. You may speak.”
“Kive, tell me what the Crow said. If you don’t try, I and all the other animals will likely die. Can’t you help me, Kive? Can’t you try to be brave for Shiny?”
For a long time Kive held still, so still he might have been a statue. He stirred, eyes wide and unfocused. “The Crow needs blood, Shiny. Always he needs blood. Always.”
Understanding dawned as chill as midwinter. Gwyn shivered. “The Crown needs fuel. Wars feed it. Massacres feed it. He can’t destroy magic without sacrificing life, any life, his people, his enemy, doesn’t matter… He wants us to march on Crowwell. Death is his answer.”
Kive shook his head. “Not all death, Shiny. Not old death. Not natural death. Only bad death. Young death. Sacrificial death.”
Gwyn fisted his hands as rage rumbled through his frame. “Like Lawen.” His voice drifted out low and trembling. “He would dare to use the deaths of the innocent to break the Weave. By Afallon, I will not abide it. I must stop him.” He reached up and Kive leaned closer until Gwyn could rest his hand against the fae’s cheek. “Help me, Kive, please. Do you know where the Crown is?”
Pain and fear lit in Kive’s eyes, bright and deep. His frame shuddered beneath Gwyn’s hand.
“Shiiiny,” moaned Kive.
Gwyn smiled gently. “Kive. Tell me. Be brave.”
“Always he keeps it near him.” Kive gasped out the words, body shaking with the struggle. He bowed his head and let out a sob. “Oh, Shiny. Master will be furious.”
“I won’t let him harm you, Kive. Not any longer.”
“Always he hurts me, even from afar. Shiny cannot change that. The Crow is my master.”
“I know, Kive. I saw.” Gwyn released the fae and stepped back. “Come with me. We must ride ahead of the army. We must face the Crow King alone.”
Kive looked up. “We’re going to my master?”
“Yes, Kive. One last time.”
Chapter 32
The past winter had been a trial for Nox, bound to the streets of Charquae, living off rations, uncertain of how the war waged beyond the gates. Each morning he climbed to the top of the city wall and visited Parsha who had taken up residence on the battlement heights.
This morning, in a light rainfall, he climbed the same steps, less winded than he’d been last autumn. That wasn’t surprising, as he’d spent most of his days through the long winter honing his sword skills and climbing up and down this same flight of stairs. While Nox wasn’t skinny, he had become more fit, and that rather satisfied him. His arduous work had paid off.
“Good morrow, my round friend,” Parsha said, with a toothy grin. He perched cross-legged on a merlon, arms folded, wearing the guise of a human as he often did these days. He had assured Nox that he endured wearing the form because it decreased his appetite. While the granaries still held food, the winter had been brutal and spring planting would start late. Rations must continue. Parsha usually ate venison, but there was none to be had within Charquae, and he couldn’t venture far outside and maintain his protective magic. Instead, he dined on barley and oats like most of the city. If he despised the fare, he said nothing.
“Do you see anything?” asked Nox as he leaned through a crenel to peek over the wall.
“There is movement in the east.”
Nox perked up. “What sort?”
“The clouds of battle are gathering. The Winter King makes his move.”
Nox blew out a breath as his heart danced a jig. “It’s finally coming to a head.”
“It is time for us to leave Charquae,” said Parsha. He unfolded his arms and rose to his bare feet. “Come, Nox. Climb onto my back and we shall start for Crowwell and the tyrant king.”
“Now?” asked Nox, glancing toward the city below. “What of Charquae’s protections?”
“The Crow King shall be too preoccupied with the Winter Army to heed this city at present. It will remain safe until this war is decided. Make haste. We must catch the Winter Army.”
Nox clambered onto the crenel and then up onto the merlon beside his dragon friend. He caught Parsha’s robe sleeve and waited. Wings spread fluidly from Parsha’s back first, and then he transformed: His face grew long and fanged, changing color as scales spread along his muzzle. His arms lengthened; his legs stretched. It took only seconds, as Nox clutched what became Parsha’s foreleg. Despite the transformation, Parsha wasn’t his usual tremendous size—not yet. He was instead the size of a horse. Nox climbed onto his back and leaned forward, wrapping his hands in the dragon’s silken mane.
“Ready?” asked the dragon in a rumbling voice.
“Ready.”
The dragon beat his wings and lifted into the sky. As he pulled away from the city wall, his body lengthened and grew, until he became his normal, massive size, and Nox was but a tiny passenger upon his back. Parsha headed southeast against the rain, but though the downpour grew worse, Nox remained warm against the dragon’s heated spine.
Chapter 33
Arianwen meant to escape. Each night she drew the diamond from the toe of her slipper, gazed into its prisms, and resolved to run away. But fear stayed her hand. Even as she held the diamond close and felt its pulse, drinking in its savor, her dread of the Crow King clung stronger still.
What chance would she have to evade the king’s far-reaching eye? Even with the diamond, Demréal was dead, fallen to the Fiend. And the young man who had brought the gem to her—what good had it done for him? On command he too fell at the very feet of the king, courageous but dead.
Lying on her bed, fingering the diamond, Arianwen wondered if it might not be better to jump from the window and end her life. But that too was foolish, for the Fiend stayed ever watchful. He wouldn’t let her die.
“Why?” she whispered, wishing the diamond could provide the answer. What did the Crow King desire of her, if not her body? What fell purpose did he intend?
Always she asked. Always there was no answer.
She shut her eyes as emotions swelled and closed her throat. She curled into herself, clutching the diamond close. Wishing to understand. Fearing to know. Her eyes burned with tears. He had said he meant to break her. It was working, little by little.
“My lady, do not grieve so.”
She gasped and sat up, hair clinging to her face. Through her tears and tresses, she glimpsed a figure, strangely bright, standing before the bed.
She clawed aside her hair, then lifted her chin as she banished all emotion from her face. “Who are you?”
The man took a step closer. Arianwen gasped. She could see through him to view the window. “You’re a spirit?” she whispered, heart lurching in her chest.
“I am.” The man smiled and bowed his head. “Lawen ren Terare was my mortal name. I am here to offer solace.”
She shook her head. “But how…? I do not…” The diamond in her palm warmed. She glanced down and found it glowing.
The spirit spoke on. “My brother is the Winter King. Even now he rides toward Crowwell to challenge the Crow King. All will soon be decided.”
“Why are
you here? Why come to me?”
“You wished to understand why the Crow King keeps you close.”
“And you know?”
He nodded. “You bear a strong resemblance to his mother, Queen Shalesta of Swan Castle. Once, long ago, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy her. Now, in his madness, he believes you are she.”
Chills crawled down Arianwen’s limbs. “Impossible. He knows my name. He knows my family.”
“But his madness knows you differently. The Crow King desires to destroy magic. He will sacrifice however many people to do it. But you, he will protect.”
“He said he wants to break me.”
“Yes. He does. So you will understand him.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “What can I do?”
“Escape, Arianwen. Run from here and use the diamond to defend yourself against the Fiend.”
“How can I? Not even Demréal could win while she had the diamond.”
The spirit sighed. “She didn’t use it. She intended it for you.” He stepped sideways and motioned to the window behind him. “Go, Lady Arianwen. Have courage and take the leap.”
She stared at the open portal. Dare she try? “He’ll find me.”
“He may. But if you don’t try, the only certain thing is that he won’t need to find you.”
She pinned her eyes on the spirit. “Why do you aid me?”
He smiled. “You asked for help, and the diamond in your hand provided such. Go, my lady, while daylight prevails.”
She rose from the bed and moved toward the window. He stayed still as she passed him to gaze down on the castle grounds far, far below. “Where will I go?”
“The Winter Army approaches from the north. It will shield you.”
“They’ll all die. The Crow King cannot be stopped.”
“Perhaps. In the end, the army may fail and fall. The Crow King might destroy magic and then enslave what remains of humanity. When magic dies, so too will dragons and unicorns. The fae will fade into madness and become as the Crow King himself: tyrants, or servants to such. Or perhaps the Winter King will not fail. Perhaps he will cut down the mad king and raise a banner of hope, preserving life and honor and faith. Can we know what will occur? Nay, my lady. We can but hope until the Winter King triumphs or crumbles in defeat. Mayhap your perspective is more realistic, but I much prefer my own.”
The Complete Duology Page 49