Tree of Ages Box Set

by Sara C. Roethle

Finn’s face flushed as Sativola helped her to her feet. She was quite sure that her current blush would last a lifetime. She wanted to run away to her cabin, but was fearful that the sirens might return. Of course, if they did, she’d make Sativola kiss Kai back into awareness instead of her.

  Seeming to sense Finn’s loss for words, Sativola cleared his throat and explained, “Sirens. They’ve returned along with all of the other Faie, it seems. Finn claims we lost two men.”

  “Who?” Kai asked, speaking to Sativola, though his eyes remained on Finn.

  As Sativola shrugged, Finn explained, “The man who was keeping watch, and the wiry man who tried to harm Naoki.”

  Kai nodded, his expression somber. Finn suddenly felt horribly guilty. If she’d known about the Siren’s call, perhaps she could have saved the other men. Of course, even if she’d known, she wouldn’t have had much of an opportunity.

  Kai looked toward the nearby railing in thought, then turned back to Finn. “Sirens,” he mumbled to himself in disbelief. “And you saved me?” he added, meeting her eyes.

  Finn wrung her hands as she warred between embarrassment and irritation. “The proper response would be thank you,” she snapped. She probably could have saved the wiry man instead of Kai, but she could admit, at least to herself, that she’d made the right choice.

  Kai just stared at her, still surprised, as his damp hair dripped moisture down onto his unshaven face. Finn stared back, not sure what else to say.

  “I’m going back to sleep,” Sativola announced as he stood, looking back and forth between Kai and Finn, still sitting on the deck, then settling on Kai. “Let us hope that if the Sirens return while I’m gone, Finn will still find you worth saving.”

  Kai watched Finn as she stood, continuing to wring her hands. Full darkness had descended upon them, making her look like some sort of ghost, outlined in fog and moonlight.

  “Finn,” he began as he got to his feet and took a step toward her.

  “Stop,” she demanded, raising her hand in defense. “If you make light of me right now, I will never speak to you again.”

  Kai halted. He’d had no intention of trying to embarrass her about their kiss. Quite the contrary, actually. “I was just going to say, thank you,” he explained, wanting to move closer to her, but fearing she’d turn and run back to her cabin.

  “I need you to bring me to the Archtree,” she stated, lifting her nose into the air. “I couldn’t very well just let you die.”

  Kai cringed. Finn really did know how to cut right to the bone when she needed to. He took another step forward, then stopped. “You should return to your cabin and get some rest,” he said finally. “Hopefully the fog will clear by morning.”

  Finn nodded, but didn’t move.

  “Wha-” Kai began to ask, but Finn cut him off.

  “I would prefer it if you returned to your cabin first. I would not like the Sirens to return while I’m away, making my efforts for naught,” she explained haughtily.

  Kai’s heart did a nervous little flip. She was worried about him. “I was going to check on Anna first,” he explained. “Warn her of the Sirens, and notify her of the two men we’ve lost.”

  Finn nodded sharply. “I’ll go with you.”

  Kai’s instinct was to make a joke about Finn just wanting to spend more time with him in hopes of stealing another kiss, but he knew such a comment would backfire in a truly terrible way, so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he nodded and gestured for Finn to walk ahead of him toward Anna’s cabin.

  She did just that. Kai followed behind her small form, wanting badly to reach out and touch her, but knowing he’d likely never get the chance again.

  Chapter Ten

  Uí Néid was not the homeland Iseult remembered, the homeland he so often saw in his dreams. Nor was it where he imagined the refugees would set up camp. To them, it was simply a ruined city that offered the basis for new structures. To him, it was a legendary city, brought down by its own people’s foolishness. Crumbling spires of stone were all that was left of what was once an impenetrable wall surrounding the small, seaside city, most of its buildings long since turned to rubble.

  That wasn’t to say that it was no longer habitable. New, wooden structures had been built, and the original walls had been patched. The road leading into the city was dotted with stands covered with small, hide canopies. The stands were the type that would be moved as soon as the sun went down, though since it was midday, merchants stood at attention, calling out their wares to those entering what was once Uí Néid, a name long since lost to most.

  Iseult glanced at Maarav, who rode beside him down the bustling street. If he was as affected by the sight as Iseult, he did not show it. Of course, Iseult did not show it either, at least outwardly.

  They rode onward, ignoring the street-side vendors as Àed and Ealasaid brought up the rear. Before they’d run into Anders, Iseult had hoped to leave the girl in this new settlement, but if An Fiach was on its way, it would not be an option. She feared them, of that much Iseult was certain. The only reason he could see, was that perhaps she hid powers of her own, and feared persecution. He did not blame her. Anyone who was different was wise to fear such a fate.

  No, they could not leave her, nor could they stay. They would warn the settlers of their impending visit, then move on to Maarav’s ship. They could not let themselves be caught in the middle of a budding war.

  They dismounted as they reached the newly constructed gates, and the ill-dressed guards standing on duty, questioning any who wished to enter.

  Iseult turned his attention to one of the guards, a boy that couldn’t have been more than eighteen, yet before he could speak, Ealasaid rushed forward, dropping her horse’s reins in her excitement.

  “Seisyll!” she exclaimed as she threw her arms around the boy, nearly knocking him off his feet as she ruffled his short, red hair.

  “Eala!” he shouted back, his green eyes lighting up now that he realized who had attacked him. “I never thought to see you again. When you left-”

  “How are my sisters?” she cut him off. “And my mother? Surely you’ve heard more news of them than I.”

  “Eala . . . ” he trailed off, his expression falling.

  Iseult knew something bad was coming. This young boy did not likely leave his village voluntarily like Ealasaid had.

  “What is it?” she breathed, worry clear in her voice. She stepped away from the boy, but continued to clutch at his arms with her small hands.

  Seisyll looked down at his feet. “Eala, they’re gone. Few made it out alive.”

  Ealasaid swayed on her feet and Maarav stepped in to catch her before she fell. Seisyll stood there uncomfortably in his ragged clothing, looking lost.

  After a moment of recovery, Ealasaid pulled herself from Maarav’s grasp and stepped toward Seisyll again. Those entering the city behind them stepped aside to speak to the other guard, ignoring the scene Ealasaid had caused.

  She smoothed her hands down her pale blue skirts, then lifted her gaze. Tears rimmed her eyes, but did not fall.

  “What happened?” she demanded, turning that painful gaze to Seisyll. “Why are they dead, when you’re standing here alive?”

  Seisyll looked a bit like he might cry himself. “The Tuatha came first,” he explained. “There were massive wolves that didn’t quite look like wolves, and little creatures that huddled in the trees, singing people to sleep. The wolves killed a few, but eventually we managed to run most of them off with fire. Then An Fiach came, claiming they’d heard of the Faie activity. They started putting the townsfolk to the question, claiming there must be a reason why the Tuatha were congregating there.”

  Iseult noticed Maarav eyeing the passersby as Seisyll spoke. Turning back to their small group, he whispered, “We should not be discussing such things openly.”

  Iseult would have liked to argue with him just for argument’s sake, but his alleged brother was right. In times where Faie sightings could cause the demi
se of an entire village, even speaking of the Tuatha was dangerous.

  Ealasaid had finally started to cry with silent tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. Ignoring Maarav’s advice, she shakily asked, “They killed my family, didn’t they? An Fiach?”

  Seisyll nodded morosely. “They were not good men, and took advantage of their power. Many tried to run, but few of us made it out alive. We were robbed, and many were burned alive after being put to the question. I fled along with several others, but we were chased into the woods. When I finally made my way out the next morning, I was alone. I met up with a caravan on the road. They’d heard of a place taking settlers. A place that would not allow An Fiach within its walls.”

  Ealasaid looked like she might collapse again, and was at an apparent loss for words. While Iseult sympathized, their time was short. He turned to Seisyll. “Who is in charge here?”

  Seisyll looked up at Iseult, who stood a good head taller than him, and gulped. “C-conall,” the boy stuttered. “He can be found in the tower within the gates.”

  Iseult nodded, and led his horse away from the others toward the gate. He could hear Maarav speaking softly to Ealasaid as he walked away, but did not take note of what was said. He needed to speak to this Conall, and warn him of the oncoming soldiers. Then he would find Finn.

  Àed soon joined him as he walked through the small, ruined city, observing the ramshackle huts made out of coarse driftwood, along with the larger, intact stone structures that had been patched to make them functional once more.

  Iseult did not look at anything too hard. Part of him feared that the ghosts of the past might look back at him.

  Seisyll’s vague instructions proved valuable as Iseult took in a large tower that hovered over the city ominously. Such a tower had not existed in Uí Néid previously. It was made out of wood, and did not seem structurally sound. Still, many men, and even a few women, patrolled the base of the tower. They were the city guards, most of them likely as green as Seisyll.

  Before approaching the tower, Iseult scanned the busy street behind him for Maarav. It took him a moment to spot him, hunched over so that he could speak quietly with Ealasaid as they walked, leading their horses behind them, some distance behind where Iseult and Àed stood with their own mounts.

  Not wanting to waste any more time, Iseult approached the nearest tower guard, a tall woman somewhere in her fifties, wearing rough hide armor that was likely just as old as she. It also seemed too large, and had probably been originally fashioned for a man.

  Iseult looked down at her. “I must speak with Conall.”

  He’d expected resistance. No lord would ever agree to host a stranger without reason, but he received none. The woman waved an arm at the tower and said, “Up there.”

  A younger woman approached and took Iseult’s horse and Àed’s mule creature without a second glance. Iseult turned to Àed, who shrugged, just as confused as he.

  With a final look back to Maarav and Ealasaid, Iseult began to approach the tower, though Àed did not follow.

  At Iseult’s questioning glance, Àed explained, “I’ve made it a habit in my later life to stay out of the affairs of cities and lords. I’ll wait here for the others.”

  Iseult nodded and made his way into the tower, whose doors stood wide open for any to enter. He didn’t know who this Conall was, but one thing was for certain. Conall was a fool.

  The interior of the tower was circular, with piles of rough, decrepit armor, and shoddy weaponry stacked against the walls. Several attendants sorted the piles, prepared to outfit the settlers as best they could. A wooden staircase spiraled upward to Iseult’s right, toward the upper levels of the tower. The stairs seemed just as unstable as the rest of the structure, making him question the soundness of the upper levels.

  He sighed. Voices could be heard above, so he at least stood a chance of not plummeting to his death. Making up his mind, he took the stairs two at a time, leaving the small antechamber behind him.

  The staircase spiraled along the outer wall with thin supports running downward, while the wooden floors of each level spanned the diameter of the tower to hold themselves in place. Looking up, one could only see the bottom of the next level, and not all the way to the top.

  Three levels up, Iseult found who he was looking for. A man that had to be Conall, sat on a rough wooden chair, while several plainly dressed attendants served him food and wine.

  None noticed Iseult initially, until he cleared his throat to gain their attention. Conall looked up immediately, perceptive gray eyes boring into Iseult as he stood impassive.

  Conall’s hair had once been blond, but most of it had faded to a whitish gray. His beard looked almost yellow, with streaks of white shooting through its unkempt mass.

  He lifted one meaty palm up to Iseult in greeting, then plopped it back down onto his ample belly. “A visitor?” he asked, looking Iseult up and down. “No,” he corrected before Iseult could speak. “Too well dressed for a refugee, yet your weapons are not those of a soldier.”

  Iseult gritted his teeth, annoyed with the entire display. “It doesn’t matter who I am,” he cut in. “I’ve come to warn you that An Fiach will arrive within the day. I know not what they intend for the people here, but I imagine it will not be to anyone’s liking.”

  Conall frowned for a moment, then began to laugh. This brutish, fat man was clearly mad. Iseult waited for the laughter to die down. Conall’s attendants seemed uncomfortable, and most showed eyes wide with fear. They knew the reputation of An Fiach.

  “Let them come!” Conall shouted, seeing that no one would be joining in his mirth. “We are prepared to give them a taste of what they have already bestowed upon many of those who dwell within this city.”

  Iseult had the overwhelming urge to stride up and punch the man, but was not in the habit of striking the witless. “If you resist, they will slaughter you,” he explained calmly. “If you cooperate, many will be tortured, many will die, but some may live. Your best option is to disperse before they arrive.”

  Rage crossed Conall’s lined face. “We will not run from those fiends!” he shouted.

  Iseult stared him down, and soon Conall’s face fell. “Will you stay and fight, or not?” Conall asked, surprising Iseult.

  He inhaled deeply, then let it out. He did not like the idea of leaving the settlers to their deaths, but there was little he could do to change it. “I have prior obligations,” he answered.

  He had just decided to leave and warn the other settlers as best he could, when Ealasaid came charging up the stairs behind him. Maarav was hot on her heels, trying to stop her, and failing.

  “I will stay and fight!” she shouted. Her eyes were a bit wide, but the set of her mouth was firm. Her curly hair was a wild mess, as if she’d been tugging at it in frustration.

  Iseult turned his attention to Maarav, who stood behind Ealasaid, looking slightly embarrassed. “What on earth did you say to her?” he asked.

  Ealasaid moved to stand in front of Conall, who watched the scene with a bemused expression.

  “I simply told her to focus her emotions toward vengeance, as crying would do her no good,” Maarav muttered, then lifted his gaze to Ealasaid and Conall.

  Maarav groaned as Conall said, “You’re welcome to fight, lass. Your bravery far outweighs that of your companions.” He cast a bitter glance at Iseult, then looked back to Ealasaid. “Journey back to the base of the tower and choose your weapons.”

  Ealasaid nodded, seemingly satisfied with herself.

  Shouts erupted outside, soon followed by the thudding of footsteps racing up the tower stairs. One of the women that had been seeing to the makeshift armory crested the stairs and skidded to a halt beside Maarav.

  “They’ve been spotted,” she panted. “An Fiach. A larger contingent than I’ve ever seen.”

  Conall stood abruptly and thrust a fist into the air. “Let them come!”

  Iseult shook his head and muttered, “Fools,” under his br
eath.

  Conall raced down the stairs after the female messenger, moving much faster than Iseult would have suspected for a man of his girth. His attendants followed shortly after, leaving Maarav, Ealasaid, and Iseult alone in the room.

  With a frantic look to Iseult and Maarav, Ealasaid tried to rush out of the room, but was deftly caught by Maarav as he reached out a hand to grab her upper arm. He pulled her back toward him.

  “We should be leaving,” Maarav announced, looking to Iseult while ignoring Ealasaid as she struggled against his grip.

  Iseult replied with a sharp nod. “If we can.”

  Maarav suddenly retracted his hand from Ealasaid with a gasp, and the young woman dashed away and down the stairs.

  Iseult looked a question at him.

  Maarav’s eyes were wide. “It felt for the life of me like I’d been hit by lightning,” he said, astonished. He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers as if afraid they no longer worked.

  Iseult let out an irritated breath and chased after the girl, figuring she’d used whatever gifts had caused her to flee her village. They needed to leave. They should have never even stopped in the ruined city. Now it might be too late.

  He sped down the stairs, skipping several with his long legs until he reached the landing. The sound of steel on steel accosted him as he rushed outside, confusing his senses. Yet more jarring still, were the various eruptions and waves of magic holding the greater numbers of An Fiach back near the gates. In some areas, fire scalded the men, in others it was as if great torrents of wind manifested out of nowhere to knock them off their feet.

  From the looks of things, the men of An Fiach had not expected resistance of any nature, let alone destructive magic. Yet the settlers attacked them ferociously, leaving the soldiers with time only to defend, not to attack. Many of the soldiers charged onward, dispersing amongst the settlers to make themselves less easy targets. The fighting spread out toward the tower, and into other areas of the city.

  Amidst the chaos, Iseult spotted Àed, fending off attackers with little bursts of magic, while obviously just trying to escape. Legend had it, and yes, Àed the Mountebank was a legend in his own right, that the aged conjurer had stood up against his daughter and lost, becoming magically crippled in the process. That weakness showed now, as the old man barely made it past his attackers and toward Iseult.