by S J Hartland
“They’ll see you’re armed. The watch captain will demand to know who you are. It’s dangerous times, Roaran. If they don’t like your answers, they’ll lock you up as a spy, hurt you.”
He bared white, even teeth. “I dare them to take me.”
Azenor shook her head. “I swear you sometimes act barely twenty with this male posturing. Doesn’t age bring wisdom?”
“Who said that? Some minstrel still sucking at his mother’s teats? It brings only regret.”
Azenor walked away.
“Azenor.”
Walk away and don’t look back. Her brother’s sword slapped her thigh.
“Azenor.” She turned. Roaran dismounted. He stood holding the reins, uncertain.
“I’ll come for you,” he said. “The night a cursed lord I cannot yet tell you about puts aside his doubts and picks up a Seithin sword named Fortitude.”
Stretched on her bed, Azenor closed her eyes as servants fussed with damp cloths for her brow and her brother fussed with questions.
“He was armed with steel, Azenor.”
“I don’t know his name,” she repeated for the third time. “I went into the forest to gather flowers, like I told the sentries. A storm came, and I got lost. This man found me. Brought me back to the castle. He didn’t give a name, and I didn’t ask.”
Aric scoffed. “You didn’t ask? Did a flower bite your tongue? What are you hiding? I know when you’re keeping something from me.”
“All right. You caught me out. I went to meet my lover. His name is Cathmor. He says he’s a king or something. I didn’t believe it. Men will say anything to have their way.”
“Ha, ha. Where’s my horse?”
“Aric.” Reluctantly she opened her eyes. “Enough questions. I’m tired and dizzy from the heat. Why does it matter? The stranger is not a raider. They’re Venivan.”
“How do you know that?” Aric leaned from a stool, his tone sharp.
“Surely it’s likely.”
He rose in one graceful movement. She had forgotten how he moved. How he brooded. But other gestures felt so familiar she wanted to cradle his beloved face and kiss him.
Next she’d want to kiss Isobel. Then the palace dogs.
“Not the king,” her brother muttered. “But a king’s man? Spying on us. We’ll know soon enough. I sent men to hunt him down.”
Azenor dragged her fist to her mouth. The Three give Roaran the sense to be far from here.
If Aric’s men caught him, they would drag him back to the castle, chain him in that hideous pit where they kept suspected spies. A place of no light or hope. The guards left prisoners hungry and thirsty until they dragged them out to question.
She trembled. No sword could kill a death rider but Roaran could bleed. And hurt.
“This stranger did us no harm. You can’t arrest someone because they carry a sword of Seithin steel. Why should he be a spy? You’re too suspicious.”
“I’ve good reason, Azenor. This land is about to erupt. The king’s spies are everywhere.”
“Tell me what is about to happen? You used to tell me everything.”
“You used to listen. Now you fault everything I say.”
“You say things I don’t like.” Said things. That was in the past. Her anger, all of it.
He grimaced. “Now we come to it. The reason you stole away—with my sword, by the way.” He patted the hilt in his belt. “This is no toy.”
“About the sword—I’m sorry.”
Aric edged up a brow. “Did some changeling swap places with my sister in the forest? The Azenor Caelan I know never uses that word.”
“Nevertheless, I am sorry. It’s a valuable weapon. Once belonging to King Ryol. You can tell that from the broken crown cut into the metal.”
“I’m impressed.”
“But here’s the mystery, Aric.” Azenor could not resist showing off. “The Seithin no longer existed in Ryol’s time. So how can a sword of Seithin steel carry his mark?”
“It was melted down from another weapon. Or the broken crown added later.”
“I thought you’d know. You spend so many hours studying old writings.”
Aric’s dark gaze held hers. “Some things the past can’t teach us.”
“Like how to tell a woman she must marry for the sake of her family, her people?”
He laughed. “Yes, like that. About the Stone Knight, Azenor—”
She silenced him with a gesture. “Stop. Whatever I said the other night it’s forgotten.” Certainly by her. How long ago it seemed.
“Sherrin Cross.” That sounded right. “Brings 200 swords. His lands border the Isles and the Mountains. Sometimes the Henge fights for Dal-Kanu, sometimes for the Isles. You want to bind Sherrin through wedlock to ensure the Henge fights for the Isles. So war is coming?”
“Gods.” Aric stared at her. “I thought you ignored our tutors. Yes, we’ll soon be at war.”
“I’m listening.”
Aric studied her for a long moment. “You seem different. Why is that?”
When she said nothing, he shrugged. “What I tell you does not leave this room. The king has made certain demands. Unreasonable demands. We will reject them. For our defiance, he will bring war to the Isles.”
So Roaran had told her. So many nights they had sat together as candles guttered, talking of what he glimpsed in visions. Of a ghoul god about to break free of Roaran’s prison, of how they might defeat that god.
It all began now. With the king marching on the Isles. With Aric defeating Cathmor near Dal-Gorma. After a hasty ceasefire, drawn-out negotiations followed where they bartered over land, gold—and her.
Then her brother, her beloved brother, would ride to Dal-Kanu to murder a boy.
So the threads weaved together.
“You’ll defeat the king,” she said.
Aric unfolded a broad but sceptical smile. “It may not come to anything.” He smoothed her hair. “You do look tired. I’ll ask Ethne to tend to you.”
Alone, Azenor drew her knees to her chest. Misery roiled. Roaran told her it would pass, that everything passed. But he had centuries to learn that.
Azenor had not.
“Azenor?” Ethne nudged the door open with her foot. She carried a basket of cloths and bottles no doubt containing weird balms. Their scents struck Azenor from across the room, a ménage of pungent herbs and resinous earthy roots.
“Whatever you have there, it surely stinks. If this is some torture Aric dreamed up to make me confess I met my mysterious lover in the forest, tell him I surrender.”
Ethne laughed. She put the basket on the table and sat on the bed. “Aric says you’re dizzy.” She touched Azenor’s arm, then whipped her hand back with a yelp. “By The Three, Azenor. The Enarae is all over you. How? I thought magic sealed this castle’s gateway.”
Gateway? Of course. Roaran said as much. At Tide’s End, Dal-Kanu. Vraymorg.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ethne did not hear. “The high priestess,” she muttered. “She’ll know what to do. She’ll know if the magic protecting the gateway fades.”
“Nothing fades. You’re talking rubbish. I got lost in the forest, spent a miserable night in the mud and then a stranger brought me back.” Azenor shrugged. “That’s all there is to tell.”
Ethne forcefully shook her head. “I smell the Enarae, feel its enchantment tingling through your arm. You forget what I am.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Why do you lie to me? I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“I can keep a secret. You know that. Whatever you say, it stays between us.”
Azenor covered her mouth with her cupped palms. The unsaid words burned. She ached for that comfort of shared confidences.
Even in these few hours since she walked away from Roaran, her loneliness grew too much to bear. If only she could talk about her lover, about the Enarae, about Roaran’s prophecy and that awful bu
rden of knowing what she must let happen.
“There’s no secret,” she said firmly. “I told you what happened.”
Ethne’s gaze hung on her face. Then she shrugged. “Have it your way.”
“Ethne—”
The young sorceress did not look at her. She determinedly focused on rummaging among bottles and sachets in the basket.
“Oh gods, Ethne.” Azenor’s voice broke up. Her eyes pricked with tears. “I’m so miserable. It’s all so awful.”
The girl dropped the sachets. At once she was beside Azenor, her arms about her. “Hush, hush,” she comforted. “It’s all right. It will be all right.”
“It isn’t. It’s so hard. Why is it this hard?”
Ethne squeezed her hand. “How long did the Enarae trap you? Let me fetch Aingear. She’ll help.”
“No. She can’t know.”
“But you walked through the Enarae. How? Because of your Caelan blood?”
Azenor sucked in a deep breath. “A death rider took me.”
Ethne shot up, shuddering in horror. “That’s impossible. A sorcerer killed every death rider centuries ago. The Damadars lost the knowledge of how to make them.”
Azenor thought about Roaran’s strong arms, his soft lips. Her heart surged with longing but also with pity. A Damadar sorceress long ago stole his body, woke him from death to serve her god. Roaran didn’t ask for it.
“A Damadar sorceress knew just enough to make one more.”
“You’re serious,” Ethne stammered. “Except—if a death rider took you through the Enarae that means you died.”
“I died.”
A silence grew around them, laden with undercurrents. Ethne’s shock and disbelief. That ghosting of strangeness. Tide’s End, even with its scents of sea and salt and blossom, no longer felt like her home. How lonely and disconcerting to no longer belong here.
Ethne entwined her fingers, then released them. “Was it his kiss? Is that part of the legend true? But that means he holds the measure of your years.”
“I know what warning you will give me.” Azenor’s tone dulled with resignation.
“Do you, princess? Do you really?”
“My sight will fade. I have a few weeks, at best, until I see only shadows and shapes.”
Glumly, Ethne nodded. “A death rider’s touch binds you to him. Wander too far from his side and your sight goes, or so legend says. That first, then—” She wet her lips. “But that isn’t the warning I would give you.”
Ethne exhaled, a reluctant puff of breath as fragile as driftwood in a heaving sea.
“He’s dangerous, Azenor. A death rider is the god Ghani-Jai’s weapon.”
“I trust him.”
“You trust a dead warrior? A creature restored to life through a blood rite so horrific the presiding priest or priestess risked death. A death rider sacrifices to his god with his blade. Kinslayers. Murderers. All face his justice. And Ghani-Jai is righteous and hungry.”
“I trust him.”
“Why?” Ethne grabbed her arm. “Why do you trust him?”
Azenor swallowed hard. “Please don’t ask me anything more. It isn’t fair to tell you. It would destroy you, put you in danger. Especially here.”
“So you trust a death rider, but you don’t trust me?” Ethne swept a candle holder from the table. “Why should I expect anything else? You’re an Isles princess. In your eyes I’m so far below you I deserve only lies.”
“That’s not true. It’s because we’re friends I can’t tell you.”
“Whatever you say.” Ethne turned her back. “My lady.”
Azenor stormed to her feet, her hands fisted at her side. “You want to know why I trust him? You won’t thank me for it, but I’ll tell you if that’s what you really want.”
Ethne slowly faced her. “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be. You will be.”
“No.”
“Very well.” There was a hardness in her that was new, her words stiff and emotionless. “I trust him because of who he is. Because this death rider is Roaran Caelan.”
Ethne took a step back.
“Are you satisfied?” Azenor said. “Are you glad I destroyed everything you believe in?”
“No.” Ethne threw up her arms as if to fend off the words. “No.”
“It’s true. The seer king lives. Just as those cultists always believed.”
“It can’t be true.” Ethne voice trembled.
Azenor seized her hands. “I’ve been with him for ten years. I journeyed with him beyond the Enarae. Touched him.” She briefly closed her eyes against another stab of longing. “I know him, Ethne. I do not lie. Roaran Caelan is alive.”
The young sorceress struggled to speak. Her voice, when it at last came, rustled like an autumn leaf. “What have we done? All those innocents the high priestess executed. Oh gods. I must tell Aingear. She has to know.”
“She can’t. Certain things have to happen.”
“It’s to do with a prophecy then.” Ethne groaned. “It has to be if the seer king really doesn’t rest. I don’t know what to think. Prophecies are vicious things, Azenor. Never what they seem.”
“Will you tell Aric something for me?”
Eyes still dulled with shock, Ethne stared through her. “I could summon him. Roaran. Oh, how I should like to see him. Is he as extraordinary as the bards say?”
“Ethne, listen. I need you to tell Aric those raiders are Venivan. They’re hiding in a snake valley a day’s ride from here. Will you do that?”
The young sorceress blinked. “I’ll tell Aric I had a dream. What else can I do, Azenor? How can I help you?” She nibbled her lip. “Help him. The seer.”
At the unsettling fervour gleaming in Ethne’s eyes, hairs lifted on Azenor’s arms. Just his name, his legend drew unsought devotion. A good thing Roaran didn’t want to take back his throne. At least—she paused. At least, he never said he sought that.
“There’s one thing,” she said. “Will you come with me to Dal-Decma? To a tournament. There’s someone I must see.”
“Pairas intends to compete in Dal-Decma.” Ethne raised a suggestive eyebrow. “The prize money is significant.”
“And he is penniless, as usual.” The two women exchanged indulgent smiles.
“Then Pairas draws you there?”
“No.” That was done with. Azenor hardly remembered why he enticed her. That with few prospects he was forbidden to her? “It is someone else.” Someone she must betray.
The two men huddled by a fire beneath a cloudy sky. They cradled cups in gloved hands, unnoticed in their frieze tunics and black kersey cloaks amid the cheerful tournament crowd.
The younger had curling hair the dark-brown of cinnamon and wide, hazel eyes. Cold reddened boyish cheeks at odds with his stubborn mouth and firm jaw. His older companion’s wispy auburn hair thinned upon his brow but thickly pelted to broad shoulders.
At their furtive manner, their careful glances, Azenor nudged Ethne seated beside her on a log. “What plots are those two about?”
The young sorceress sniffed in disgust. “Cahirean. Trying to pass as Mountains men.”
Azenor pulled her cloak tight. Wind from distant snow-tipped mountains gnawed. She thought the Downs a soft land, warm and honey-scented, but autumn blistered cruelly.
“How can you tell? They might be from the Mountains.”
“Trust your nose. These two bathed once in their lives.” Ethne thrust crusted bread at her. “Eat quickly. The next round of the contest of swords begins soon. We’ll need a place near the field to see whoever you wish to see.” She flicked up a brow.
“Be patient. I’ll point him out. Just don’t ask me why.”
“More mystery. Like what you did all those years with Roaran. I’m bursting at the sides to know all about him. Maybe I should use a potion to make you tell me.”
“I wouldn’t want to destroy your illusions, Ethne.”
Azenor chewed bread, watching the crowd
in the makeshift field tavern. It thronged with Downs soldiers, merchants and their wives, peasants, thieves even, seeking food and drink between pursuing entertainment, riches or advancement.
A tournament offered more than a test of skill and courage or a chance to win gold. Warriors might offer their services to wealthy nobles. Men bartered over lands, priests and priestesses sought grants for temples from the powerful Nate Caelmarsh.
From his name, she and Caelmarsh shared a common ancestor. But beyond that the Downs lord did not interest her. Sly, everyone said. Gendrick used the word ambitious and made it sound like a bad thing. Well, Caelmarsh had a daughter. And the king was yet to wed.
A torturous ache began behind her eyes, like her skin stretched too tightly across her brow. It was sharp and dizzying then gone. No. Not yet. Just let me keep my sight a few days longer.
Azenor dug her thumbs into her temples. Seeking distraction, she considered the markets that always sprang up at tournaments. Guildsmen and traders sold finely crafted pewter and silver jewellery, charred meat, mandarins, apples, grapes, spices and silk from stalls or carts.
Whatever you sought, you’d find here. Except flesh. Its sale, legal across the sea in Veniva and Wardour, was forbidden in every region of Telor but the Icelands where the Damadars grew rich on the slave trade deep within their ice caverns.
Azenor had wandered the markets that morning. A trader sold her a wrought gold-handed dagger, declaring it worthy of a champion. She chuckled at his smooth lies. The thing was a bauble. Though she felt safer with it in her belt.
“He left men twice his age in the dust.” The Cahireans still plotted. “We must be careful.”
Ethne dragged a finger over her throat. “Someone’s for it.”
“What if they’re talking about an Isles man? Pairas is here. And Sherrin Cross.”
“More likely some Mountains wretch. There’s always tension between Mountains folk and Cahireans. Their queen retains some ancient claim to the lands around the gorge. But she’ll not raise a hand against a man like Vraymorg.”
“Vraymorg. I know little about him.” Roaran avoided her questions about the Lord of the Pass.
“Not much to know. Just another Mountains thug. Come on.” Ethne pulled Azenor to her feet. “We’ll pay for a seat. Near the fence, but not so close we’re ducking swinging swords.”