by Ellyn, Court
“Please, I’m a stranger, all the way from the islands. Sure I had no idea I was trespassing. I was just trying to get warm. I’m Rhian, son of Ryrden, and I seek Thorn Kingshield. Please.”
The woman stood abruptly. Heated whispers hissed like the icy wind among the trees. At last the woman snarled, “Bad timing, avedra. Get him on his feet.”
The arrow sent blazing blades of pain down to his toes and into his hip as strong arms dragged him from the ground. The radiating lights were gone. A dozen warriors surrounded him, tall and grim and armed with bows, swords, and daggers. Their skin shimmered like ivory pearls; their ears tapered to points; their gestures flowed like wind and water. Two of them had aquamarine eyes! Them. Is this who the seal meant? How could a seal know of these creatures, and why send Rhian to find them?
The woman grabbed Rhian’s jaw in fingers as strong as a crab’s claws. Her eyes were violet, cold, and fierce. Fair hair with traces of sunset orange fell around a face more beautiful than any he’d ever seen. Strange green marks snaked across her cheeks, along her chin, and between her eyes.
“You are avedra, are you not?”
Would the truth hurt or help? When the woman’s eyes narrowed, he blurted, “I am.”
She released him, nodding as if his admission were merely an annoyance, certainly not alarming or scandalous. “I am Evriah, Captain of the Dranithion Rhithiel, and you will come with us.”
~~~~
14
The proud stag leaps into the path of the arrow;
so the arrogant man.
—Elaran proverb
The bridge was a bad idea. The Folly of 998, if not the folly of the century. Prince Valryk wasn’t the only Aralorri who thought so, and ironically, many Fierans agreed with him, too. The pylons and beams stretched a quarter mile across the Bryna, nearly complete. The bones of what would be twin guardhouses stood at both ends, fleshing out a bit more every day. The echo of masons’ hammers knocked back and forth across the water. Lander, Lord Tírandon had invited the Black Falcon to inspect its progress—and to lodge another complaint.
The king sent his son to deal with Lander and the bridge.
The summer sun seared Valryk’s chain armor until it was too hot to touch. The cerulean surcoat provided little protection. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and down his chest, soaking the padded undershirt. He’d be damned if he’d wear the helmet in this heat, even if the sun freckled his face. He hoped for a cooling south wind, but the leaves of the cottonwoods lay so still that they might have been painted on that opaque blue sky. His courser flicked biting flies with his tail and stomped irritably. Even the waters of the Bryna looked too warm to provide relief. Across the river, the gray-green leaves of the Brambles baked to brown crisps, which laid bare the finger-long thorns.
The drum towers of Athmar poked up through the southern haze. Of all places to locate a bridge, why here? What were the Falcon kings trying to prove? They were both fools if they believed the Brother Realms would get along any better now than twenty years ago. The bridge only made raiding across the border that much easier.
The night before Valryk’s arrival, a shepherd from Midguard village reported his flock missing. The man’s son had been gravely wounded trying to fend off the raiders. During the flight back south, one of the Fierans fell from his horse, broke a leg. He swung from an elm near the Aralorri end of the bridge. The heat and flies had already gotten to the corpse.
Huddling in the shade of a scraggly cottonwood, the prince’s guard and ten Falcon guardsmen took bets on how long the body would hang before it rotted from the rope. Valryk held a perfumed kerchief under his nose, mopped his neck, and considered what was to be done.
Captain Creag, commander of the Midguard garrison, seemed oblivious to the stink. So did Lander, who asked, “I guess it’s too much to hope that His Majesty will force the Fierans to give back our sheep.”
“Of course it is,” Valryk replied. “The king has all but retired from public duty. Yet he expects the rest of us to carry on as it pleases him.”
The heat alone did not account for the redness in Lander’s face. “I thought it pleased him to … how was the proclamation phrased? … seek ‘immediate and complete retribution’ for raids like this. The king wrote those words when you were but a boy, Highness. The warning kept the Fierans in check for the most part, until now. This bridge will be our undoing, mark me. The damnable historians ought to refer to it as the War of the Bridges.” He spat.
“There’s nothing we can do about the bridge, m’ lord,” Valryk said, “but we can seek immediate retribution.”
Lander and Creag stopped looking at the bridge and slapped eyes on their prince.
Valryk swatted a blood-fat fly that landed on his horse’s shoulder. “If the Fierans want the sheep so badly, they can have them. I’ll give you the coin for new flocks myself. But what will the Fierans do if they have neither fences nor barns to shelter their stolen livestock?” Valryk jabbed a thumb back toward Midguard Tower. “Captain Creag, gather your men, torches, and plenty of oil. Lead your men across that bridge and burn every barn and sheep shed you encounter. Take rope to pull down the fencing. Not one outbuilding is to be left standing, nor a single rail of fence.”
“But, Highness,” Creag said, “the raiders might have come from any number of villages.”
“Then pick one. One not too close to Athmar but within its domain.”
Creag hammered a fist to his chest and wheeled for the fort.
“People are not to be harmed. If it can be helped. Let their efforts to rebuild keep them too busy to raid for a while.”
Lander’s grin was a nasty curl as he gazed across the river. “Athmar is sure to seek retribution of its own.”
“Then repeat the measure,” Valryk snapped. “And make sure your people are armed from now on, my lord. They are to practice with pikes and bows daily. The women, too.” He leaned close to the man and confided, “But if I hear that you returned the favor and stole back your sheep with a few strays, I’ll order the torch set to your lands.”
Lander’s grin died a swift death.
Valryk cantered back through the gates of Midguard. After a lukewarm bath, he climbed to the parapets and watched a plume of smoke bloom on the southern horizon.
~~~~
Word of what happened reached Bramoran before Valryk did. Crowds of townspeople hailed him like a conquering hero; others scattered from his path, as if fearing his displeasure. Both reactions took him by surprise, and neither felt completely unpleasant.
Would their opinion of him change if they were made privy to the king’s tirade?
“You’re a hothead just like Lander! I did not send you to Midguard to wreak havoc on the Fieran countryside.”
Valryk stood in the king’s private study still wearing his armor over a layer of sweat and dust. He loathed this room. It smelled of brandy and midnight trysts, parchment and ink and his father. “You didn’t see what those Fierans did! That shepherd’s son will probably lose his arm, if the wound doesn’t kill him first.”
Rhorek’s fist thundered atop the desk. “I have seen it! I’ve seen it my whole life. And that my own son would return wound for wound shames me. It shames me deeply, Valryk. You are confined to the castle until I can patch things up with the White Falcon.”
Valryk nodded and grinned. “You do that. You excel at patching over the problem.”
He retreated from the study only to run into his mother outside the Audience Chamber. She pursued him all the way back to his suite. “You know of his efforts to prevent another war. Why do you seek to undermine years of toil?”
“If he cares so much for peace, he should have built a wall, not a bridge. Given his life-long experience fighting Fierans, you’d think he’d have learned not to trust them.”
“The bridge was a joint desire, the first reached by the Falcon kings in a long time.”
“Yes, and did Father ask the White Falcon why he wanted such a bridge?
Arryk professes friendship, but bridges are just as handy for invasions, Mother. Arryk’s people need to learn to stay on their damned side of the river, not feel as if we’re inviting them to run amok.”
“It is your duty to help keep the peace, Valryk, to ensure it lasts long into your reign. Do you want war? Is that it?” The grief in her eyes shamed him more than father’s temper.
“Of course not.” He knew better than to speak his next thought: the last thing he wanted was to give Kelyn an opportunity to shine.
“Then you must be more careful.” She continued to lecture him until she realized he was undressing to climb into the bath. His chamberlain worked briskly and silently to set aside the armor and sweat-stained underclothes. The queen departed in a flustered rush, “You make your own legacy, my son. Every day, with every decision. Make sure it’s one you’re proud of.”
Valryk stewed in the tub. Once he felt sufficiently cleansed of the disgrace, he eased into a cool robe of summer silk and ordered dinner brought up to him. “If I’m to be confined to the castle,” he told his chamberlain, “I’m not leaving my rooms unless expressly ordered. Let them forget I exist, if that’s what they want. Wine, lots of it. Mosegi. Bring me a Fieran vintage and I’ll drown you in it.”
As soon as the servants left, Valryk flung open the drapes and shutters, letting in a furnace blast of summer air. He drew the sigil quickly. The magic prickled along the back of his hand like needles. “Lasharia! Damn it, hurry up.”
Ever since that night two winters ago when she’d become his lover, she hesitated to answer his call. Days, weeks might pass before she appeared in their tower room, and more often than not she behaved like a closed shell. But other times … ah, he lived for those other times. Still, he suspected she answered his call only because she had promised to and not because she wanted to. Why had she given herself to him if she knew it would change everything? She never provided a convincing answer.
He waited for the servants to deliver enough food and wine for a banquet, then swiped two bottles of Mosegi red and descended into the tunnels. Valryk didn’t expect to see Lasharia tonight or even the next, but he hadn’t restocked their cupboard in some time. So he was surprised when he unlocked the door and found her pacing before the hearth, nervous as a cat in a dog kennel.
“What took you so long?” she bit.
He laughed bitterly at the irony. “What has you so ruffled?”
Lasharia relaxed her wringing hands, raised her chin, and demanded, “Tell me what incited such an urgent, rude summoning.”
Valryk wilted into his armchair. “I’m almost nineteen, but I’ve just been slapped on the back of the hand for taking some initiative.” He explained the rest quickly, preferring not to dwell on it.
In any case, Lasharia appeared to be only half listening. She stared off at nothing, unspoken worry tightening her face. Belatedly she said, “Your father has always been foolish, letting his enemies walk all over him until the situation is out of hand. But this bridge might serve us yet, Highness.”
Us?
“Endure your punishment with dignity and be assured it won’t last forever.” A generic, hasty sort of encouragement. Her glance darted toward him, then away again. “Valryk….” She started pacing again.
“What’s wrong?”
“This … this might be the last time.”
The thread between them, having grown thinner and thinner over the last couple of years, despite his frantic attempts to strengthen it, frayed a little more. Dread sank like a stone in his belly, ached from his chest to his toes. “Last time for what?” Of course he knew the answer.
“That I can come to you.”
Valryk surged to his feet. “No! Why?” She had never threatened to stop seeing him before, not even after their lovemaking or when she kept him waiting for weeks at a time.
She gulped hard, and Valryk couldn’t tell if she was more fearful of his proximity or the of the words she spoke. “Our war. It’s not going well. The Captain is becoming desperate. He says if we don’t find help, we’ll lose everything. Our home, our freedom. We need allies. He even suggested human allies to help us turn the tide. I advised him against it. It’s unheard of. Involving humans, it goes against everything … but more than that, I’m afraid for you. The foes we fight are more fierce than any you’ve read about in your tomes of tactics.”
His hands gripped her shoulders, not caring if he bruised her, only that she understand. “Lasharia, anything. I’ll do anything to keep from losing you.”
She became very still then. Her arms relaxed under his fingers. She breathed deeply, and the tension ebbed from her face. It was the same relief he’d seen in his tailor when Valryk’s demands for perfection finally turned into words of praise. Had Lasharia not realized how he felt about her? Or had she accomplished something else entirely? Valryk released her, and she sank onto the edge of her chair. “The Captain asked to meet with you,” she whispered. “To discuss a proposal. In private. Here.”
If providing troops and supplies to a people in need was what it took to keep her safe, very well. “Now, we’ll summon him now.” He hurried to the high arrow loop where a shaft of sunlight speared the Ixakan rug. “What’s his name?”
He started to draw the sigil, but Lasharia grabbed his finger. “No one summons the Captain. Tonight. He’ll be here tonight, when Forath is highest. I have to go. I’m sorry.” When she kissed him, muttering her apology again, he got the feeling she was apologizing for more than the brevity of the visit.
~~~~
Thyrra set when the sunset still blazed in the west; Forath rose from the Drakhans, bloody and arrogant, as his mate retreated shyly from sight. The moons, so far asunder, warred. It was a time when passions drove men mad. Valryk paced, fidgeted, and watched the warrior moon creep up the darkening sky. When he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer, he busied himself sharpening the sword his father had given him upon his knighting this year at Assembly. Onyx and rough-cut sapphires picked out the falcon set into the nut-shaped pommel. The sword had not yet earned a name, nor had he decided on one. If Lasharia’s captain had anything to say about it, the sword would have one sooner than Valryk had hoped.
Who were these fierce foes she had mentioned? The only current war he knew of had something to do with the dwarves. They had been fighting his entire life, so he no longer thought anything of it. News came out of the mountains of yet another slaughter in some subterranean town, and it was like eating oats again for breakfast, bland and soon forgotten. Valryk always suspected that Lasharia’s people fought a second clan of Elarion. He sat up straight, whetstone forgotten. Pieces clicked into place. Every time he happened to glimpse what lay beyond the portals Lasharia used, he saw stone, stone, stone, and Lasharia herself had mentioned fighting in narrow tunnels. Why would Elarion fight dwarves? What grievance was there between them? Perhaps the Captain would explain.
At last, Forath summited the black-velvet sky. Valryk buckled on his sword, lit a lantern, and descended into the tunnels. He hoped the Captain would not keep him waiting long. The room in the tower felt more like a cell at night, and the slightest breeze keened through the arrow loops, reminding Valryk of the ghost of the lady that mother feared. He lit the candles on the sideboard and the lamps on the mantelpiece and set out every goblet and glass he had purloined over the years, dusted them, washed them if they needed it. The Captain might bring a full entourage, after all, and a prince mustn’t embarrass himself by being unprepared.
His ears pricked; he turned to face the darkness cloaking the far corners of the cell. Had he heard the shuffle of a footstep, the sway of a garment, the whisper of a sigh? Twice more he thought a presence neared, but turning found himself alone. When next his nape tingled, he determined not to turn but kept polishing the rim of his father’s favorite silver cup.
A voice slid out of the dark. “Slanta, Your Highness.”
Valryk whirled and dropped the cup. It clattered across the floor and rolled to a stop
near the toe of a shiny armored boot. A dark gray cloak seemed to accentuate the Elari’s height and breadth of shoulder. Inside a deep hood his face was shadow but for the pale curve of a chin.
“I am the Captain. You have my gratitude for agreeing to see me.” His voice was baritone silk.
“How long have you been here?” Valryk demanded. There had been no warning like the dank, cool breeze that came with the opening of Lasharia’s portals.
“Your ears did not deceive you. I wanted to watch you. Lasharia told me much, but I wanted to see for myself.”
“Better we had met in daylight, if you wanted to spy.”
“The darkness here is bright compared to some.”
Valryk remembered his manners. “Shall I pour you a drink, Captain?”
“Ah, yes. That is the polite way to go about it. We have been fighting for so long that I nearly forgot the niceties. Please.” He swept back the hood; his hair was nearly the silver of Thyrra’s glow. A master’s hand had carved that face from alabaster and washed it with starlight.
Valryk offered him another of the king’s goblets and gestured toward Lasharia’s armchair.
“Pardons, Highness, my armor does not permit. But please …”
Valryk folded himself into his own chair, careful not to sit on his sword. The captain eyed it, extended a slight nod and grin. Valryk’s face heated; he hadn’t meant to imply that he lacked trust in his guest and so realized he had worn it only to prove that he was a big boy, too. Shadows covered his embarrassment and he was grateful for it. “May I put a name to the face?” he asked.
Silence dripped past. Just as Valryk began to regret he had asked, the Captain said, “I am Lothiar, and certain ears must never hear that.”