by Sarah Hawke
They found their victims instead.
“Damn,” Rohen swore as they approached a wide, rocky hill just south of the road. Three snow-dusted bodies were clumped loosely together near a large boulder, and the dried blood staining the surface of the rock from several dozen yards away. Varlothin remained dormant, so he rushed over to investigate on the off chance one of them was still alive.
“Guardian guide their souls,” Delaryn whispered, her hood pulled tightly about her face. “What were travelers even doing out here?”
“They weren’t travelers,” Rohen said, pursing his lips in thought as he rolled over one of the bodies. “They were sorcerers from the Galespire.”
“What?”
He knelt and inspected the bodies. There were two men and one woman, all his age or even younger, though they were clad in simple furs rather than the purple cloaks worn by channelers under the protection of the Keepers. Their Brands were what gave their identities away, and considering how fresh their scars looked, they couldn’t have been marked for long. He didn’t recognize their faces, but that was hardly a surprise. What was surprising, aside from their strange dress, was the complete lack of any trace of the Keepers who should have been chaperoning them.
“They were definitely killed by Chol,” Rohen said, grimacing at the sight of the bloody, gnawed limbs and blackened wounds wrought by Godcursed steel. “Except for the female…”
Delaryn covered her mouth with the sleeve of her cloak. “Why do you say that?”
“Her throat was slit open from behind. The Chol aren’t typically that precise…the others were just stabbed.”
Rohen forced down the reflexive tide of bile rising in his throat. He had seen plenty of corpses since the Chol had first emerged from the Godcursed Reach six months ago, but the sight of such wanton butchery still made his stomach turn. A part of him hoped it always would—no one should ever become numb to this horror.
“I don’t think they even tried to run,” he whispered, glancing around the area for footprints. The bodies were all so close together it almost looked like they had been dumped here, but that didn’t make any sense. The Chol didn’t drag away bodies for food like gnolls; they either ate the victims where they fell or moved on.
“Why would sorcerers from the Galespire even be out here?” Delaryn asked.
“I have no idea,” Rohen said. “Sehris was supposed to be the only channeler up here.”
Delaryn shivered as a fresh gust of wind fluttered her cloak. “Perhaps they escaped,” she suggested. “They could have been fleeing to Nelu’Thalas.”
Rohen shook his head. Such things had been known to happen—the tendency of the highborn elves to accept sorcerer refugees was a major source of conflict between the two kingdoms—but that couldn’t have been the case here.
“They’re way too far west to have been heading to Nelu’Thalas,” he pointed out. “And I can’t believe anyone would intentionally flee deeper into Torisval with the Chol on the loose. This doesn’t make any sense…”
He turned away from the mangled bodies and swore under his breath. His list of unanswered questions just kept getting longer. What in the name of the Guardian was going on here?
“Oh, gods,” Delaryn said, pressing her fingers into her temples. “I can hear them…”
Grimacing, Rohen glanced east before shifting his gaze down to his weapons. The dagger was still glowing, though Varlothin was not. But if she could hear the Wailing, it wouldn’t be long.
“The road should be just ahead,” he said, taking her wrist. “Come on!”
They jogged toward the snow-covered path heading west to Lake Hollanshir. The frozen, crumbled cobblestone barely even counted as a real road, but it was still better than trudging through trackless terrain. They kept a brutal pace, half to outrun the Chol and half to try and beat the cold. The wind grew especially brutal as the morning waned, and Rohen kept expecting that he would need to carry Delaryn at some point—ruthless tests of endurance were part of life for a Templar, not a queen—but she stubbornly pushed against her limits hour by hour, mile by mile.
He should have known better than to doubt her. Despite the way Thedric had treated her, she had never been the typical coddled, kept daughter of a duke. She had always enjoyed archery, horseback riding, and even fencing when giving the chance. Her Roskarim blood ran as thick as his elven blood, in many ways.
The dagger refused to stop glowing no matter how far they traveled, though Delaryn stopping hearing the Wailing after about an hour. Shortly before midday, they finally spotted the small fishing village of Dorelas on the horizon. Rohen had never been happier to see a bunch of ramshackle huts and cottages in his whole life.
“Maiden’s mercy, I hope they have something hot to drink,” Delaryn said through shivering teeth as they drew close.
“I’m sure they will have anything the queen needs,” Rohen said.
She shook her head. “I told you last night—they can’t know who I am!”
“Didn’t you already pass through here on your way to the Hold?” he asked. “Surely they’ve already seen you.”
“No, they didn’t. Thedric kept me hidden in the carriage.”
Rohen paused and frowned. “He didn’t even let you wave at them?”
“No. He said I was ‘too beautiful for the eyes of peasants,’ but I think he just didn’t want to remind them that a Whitefeather was still alive. Not until I was heavy with an Ashellion child, anyway.”
Rohen’s stomach twisted. The bitterness in her voice was as cold as the icicles in her hair, but he could still see the pain and guilt in her eyes even with her hood drawn over her face. He wanted to comfort her, but he forced himself to keep his attention focused on the two fur-clad hunters standing sentry near the palisade shielding the edge of the village. They strode out to meet the newcomers, their bowstrings nocked but not drawn. One was an old, grizzled-looking male; the other was a middle-aged female with a wide, weather-beaten face.
“Over here!” the male shouted when the flurries parted enough for him to recognize the seal on Rohen’s chest and the blue-gold coloring of his trappings. He frowned at Delaryn, just as confused by the site of her pristine noblewoman’s cloak as the sight of a Templar. “By the Guardian, where did the two of you come from?”
“Whitefeather Hold,” Rohen told them, bracing himself for their reaction when they heard the news. Hopefully, this wouldn’t trigger a panic. “The Chol attacked the castle. We don’t know where they came from or how they got in, but King Thedric—”
“He’s dead,” the hunter said, his face twisting behind his beard. “General Galavir told us the news this morning.”
Rohen froze in place. “Galavir was here?”
“Yes,” the grizzled hunter said. “He said he barely made it out alive. Thank the gods he wasn’t the only one.”
A surge of bile rose in Rohen’s throat. General Galavir had taken the last griffon before the Chol attack. How could he even know what happened unless…?
Oh, gods.
“The Guardian clearly smiled upon us during our escape,” Rohen said, his voice a breathless rasp. “Is the general still here?”
“I’m afraid not,” the hunter said. “Major Thorne isn’t here, either—he headed for Rimewreath a few hours ago. He left soldiers behind, but—”
“They’re not enough!” the female hunter protested. “For all we know there are a thousand more of those damned elves out there in the forest. I bet that Whitefeather witch is out there commanding them somehow!”
“The general said she was dead,” the male hunter reminded her. “Watcher spit on her corpse.”
Rohen took a deep breath and tried to stay focused. His mind couldn’t help but flash back to his interactions with Galavir and Thorne in the Hold. Had Rohen been so distracted he missed something? Should he have seen this coming somehow?
“I, uh, I don’t know what happened to anyone else,” Rohen stammered. “The Chol swarmed the halls in the middle of t
he night. I was barely able to grab Lady Primrose here before the guards were overwhelmed.”
The hunters turned to look at Delaryn. With her shoulders hunched and her cloak so tightly drawn, she looked utterly miserable—or terrified.
“Gods, you must be freezing, my lady!” the male said, his face belatedly flushing with embarrassment. “Forgive us—please, come to the inn and sit by the fire. We don’t have much to offer here in the way of comfort, but anything we do have is yours.”
“Thank you,” Delaryn said, keeping her hood drawn and flicking her eyes to Rohen. He took her arm and escorted her forward, suddenly thankful that she had left her tiara behind.
The hunters led them to a battered old cottage near the edge of the lake. While they walked, Rohen eyed the tents the battalion had erected in between the village’s many cabins. The people of Torisval were legendarily insular in many respects, but after years of leaderless chaos in the wake of Duke Haldor’s death—and after months of Chol incursions—they were also desperate for help. Thedric had assembled the Pact Army to defeat the horde, but he had also wanted to start mending the wounds of the civil war. He had believed that it was long past time for Torisval to be reintegrated into the rest of Darenthi.
Now he was dead, and the moment the tharns in the south heard the news, there would be blood. Some of them might even recall their armies to fortify their lands in anticipation of another war for the throne. In principle, Delaryn should have been the unquestioned ruler now, but in practice…
In practice, the people will blame her for Thedric’s death. She was right—everyone will assume the worst. Gods, what a nightmare.
The warmth inside the cottage was a welcome relief from the cold, at least, and Rohen requested a private room with a fire just so he and Delaryn could have a few minutes alone. The locals didn’t protest in the slightest—if anything, they were relieved to see a Templar and learn that someone had survived the slaughter. When Rohen asked about Zin, the hunters said that he and his “chained elf” had departed before first light. The trepidation the locals felt about the only Keeper leaving town had been mitigated by relief that a dark elf sorceress was no longer among them.
“Thank the gods no one recognized you,” Rohen breathed, craning his neck to peer outside the door one last time before he shut it behind him. When Delaryn didn’t respond, he turned and watched as she huddled by the fire and sipped at her stew. She had kept her hood up, though strands of her blond hair were starting to peek out from inside.
“They honestly believe I’m responsible,” she whispered. “They blame me for everything.”
“They don’t know what happened,” Rohen told her. “They’re just repeating what they were told.”
“They’re repeating what they believe,” Delaryn said, tilting her head to face him. “For all we know, they’re right. The Chol could have been there for me.”
Rohen swallowed and shook his head. “No, there’s something else going on here. Something that doesn’t seem like it could possibly be real.”
He could see her hands trembling, and this time, it had nothing to do with the cold. She seemed desperate to blame herself no matter what. He was just about to lean down and console her when she abruptly stiffened and frowned.
“General Galavir wasn’t at dinner,” Delaryn said, her voice hoarse. “How could he have even known about the attack?”
“He couldn’t have,” Rohen said gravely. “Not unless he knew the Chol were coming.”
The haunting implications hung in the air like a fetid wind. It seemed ludicrous to even say the words aloud, and yet…
“What are you saying?” Delaryn asked.
“I don’t know,” Rohen admitted. “It doesn’t seem possible. It may not even be possible. No one can control the horde.”
“But someone could lure them, right?” She took a deep breath and braced herself. “What about the bodies we found on the road this morning? Could the Chol have been following them?”
“Possibly,” he said, pacing across the small room. “Three sorcerers traveling together would be a tempting target. I suppose a handful of Chol could have broken off to pursue them, but that still leaves a mountain of questions. How did they even get there? Who brought them? They were all Branded—they came from the Galespire.”
“All I know is that with Thedric dead, there is no proper line of succession,” Delaryn said, her voice turning flat and dark. “The tharns will go into frenzy trying to choose a new High King, but Jarec Galavir is the one man they all trust and respect.”
Rohen stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “There’s no way. There has to be another explanation.”
Delaryn set down her bowl and gazed into the fire. “Galavir hates me more than anyone. He was furious when Thedric told him about the wedding—I could hear them yelling two rooms over in the palace. He said that marrying me was an insult to every man who had died in the war.”
Rohen closed his eyes and rubbed at his face. He would have given anything for the Lord Protector to be here right now. Kraythe was the only other man in Darenthi that carried the same respect as Galavir. But if he had fallen at the Hold as well…
“Galavir is a hero of the civil war,” Rohen said. “He led Thedric’s forces to victory, and he was just given a duchy!”
Delaryn didn’t reply. She didn’t have the answers, obviously, and neither did he. The very idea that Darenthi’s greatest general would intentionally lure the Chol to Whitefeather Hold…
It wasn’t just unthinkable; it was insane. There had to be another explanation.
“At least Zin and Sehris are all right,” Delaryn whispered.
Rohen stepped over to the window and peered outside. Some of the soldiers were busy fortifying the palisade while others were huddled around the campfires speaking in hushed, anxious whispers. All around them, the villagers were trying valiantly to go about their daily lives despite the shadow of the Chol looming over them.
“We need to get to Rimewreath as soon as possible,” Rohen said. “With a horse, we should be able to get there not long after nightfall.”
“These villagers might not recognize me, but there are thousands of people at the fortress,” Delaryn told him. “Someone will know who I am, and then…”
Rohen turned back to the fire and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Then we’ll just have to make certain that no one gets a good look at you,” he said. “Sehris will be quarantined in the fortress somewhere. No one will want to be around a sorceress. As long as we can get to her, we’ll be fine.”
Delaryn looked away and closed her eyes. He knew she didn’t believe him, at least not completely. He would try to protect her, but he might not be able to. There were over ten thousand soldiers in Rimewreath, not to mention hundreds of officers, knights, and lesser nobles. The High Queen of Darenthi wouldn’t be able to hide her presence for long.
But Rohen didn’t know what else they could do. Staying here wasn’t an option, and it wasn’t as if he could just take her to the Galespire. Whatever plan they came up with, they were going to need to help.
“I’ll get some more food,” he said, picking up the bowl. “Hopefully, I can convince someone here to lend us a horse.”
“And give us some furs,” Delaryn added.
“I’ll do what I can,” Rohen said. “With the Guardian’s grace, we’ll be back with the others tonight.”
9
Rimewreath
The implacable frozen fortress called Rimewreath had barely changed since the last time Delaryn had looked upon its weathered, dark gray walls. Six years ago, back when her father had still been High King, he had brought she and her brother here to see the “Bulwark of the North” up close, but neither of them had been particularly impressed. Rimewreath had every bit as much history as Bloodstone or Palegarde or Griffonwing—it had withstood countless attacks against Chol and Roskarim barbarians—but its crumbling towers and chipped battlements hadn’t even been able to spur the imagination of a war-
crazed fifteen-year-old boy like Skaldir. The fort was little more than a glorified stopover for hunters and merchants transporting their goods south from Dawnbreak to Harabel or Silver Falls.
Yet Duke Haldor had insisted that Rimewreath remained important. It was here, he had sternly reminded them, that the Whitefeathers had defeated the Roskarim hordes countless times over the past five hundred years. Their ancestors had built their names and their glory by protecting Torisval from rampaging barbarians sailing down the Hailstorm River. His marriage to the clan-lord’s daughter—a woman their shamans hailed as their messiah—had ended generations upon generations of bloodshed and promised peace throughout the north. Her father had wanted his children to appreciate the importance of their mixed heritage, and Rimewreath had played a pivotal part in that history.
At the time, Delaryn had mostly ignored him. She had found the halls especially drafty and the soldiers especially boorish, and she had spent most of her days wishing they could ride back south to the palace in Silver Falls. Little had she known how precious her family’s history was—or how her eventual husband would attempt to erase it so thoroughly.
Today, the dour gray walls of Rimewreath were an oddly welcome sight. She and Rohen made good time down the road, especially once he allowed her to take the reins of their mighty Tybellian draft, and the fur cloaks they had acquired from the village made the cold substantially more bearable. The freedom of riding her own horse again made it so much easier to keep her mind off the grim reality of their situation. For most of the journey, she contented herself by swimming in the blissful memories of their first lessons with Master Haral back in Silver Falls. Rohen had fallen off so many times she couldn’t help but smirk as she rested her cheek against his back.