“Are they all gone?” he asked.
“Illium’s men? Yes. They have long since been laid to rest,” She told him. “But there are still those with mingled blood in the city. “Navid, grandson of Payam, is chief of the Ramsguard, and there is Gelinda, granddaughter of Barkas, who has been tending to you and your friends. Everard had many sons, and so did Dacain-”
“Did Illium?” Cal asked, interrupting the Queen. “I mean, did he ever take another wife from among your people?”
She smiled softly at the young man. “No, he never did. My father always told me that when he asked the King why not, Illium would always respond with the same answer.”
“And what was that?” Cal asked.
“That he already had a wife, and if he could be about finding this light he sought, he hoped to get back to her,” she told him.
This made Cal’s heart both happy and sad all in the same moment, for he knew that Evande had not waited for Illium. She gave herself over to the black waters of despair and ended her waiting.
Silence hung there between them for the moment as the thoughts and implications of all that was said weighed heavy on his mind.
“I am sorry for the loss of your friend, Cal, and I am truly sorry that you were not able to say goodbye to him,” she told him with sincerity in her dark eyes. “This is why we chose to bury him here, amongst the sons of Haven, alongside those who so bravely sought Illium’s light.”
Cal sighed a surrendering breath, the anger he had tried to hold onto exhaled at the understanding of so many things. “Thank you.”
“It has been long since my people have seen the equine. We were once a proud people whose greatest delights were the braided manes of our horses and the gleams of our gilded chariots,” she told him. “For us to see and care for a horse, a horse as beautiful as he was, was an honor for both me and my people.”
One of the Queensguard approached them, his white cape trailed behind him in the swirling mist. “My Queen,” said Mezulari with a bow of his head. “Navid has sent word from Sendoa’s men; there are strangers near the pass.”
She turned her head slowly, thoughtfully, to meet Cal’s eyes. “Are there more of your friends that I do not know about?” she asked him, her kindness quickly replaced with a weighty caution.
“No … none that were with me,” he told her. “We left them all at the colony.”
She studied him, her dark brown eyes blazing with a hundred unasked questions. She turned to speak to her guard and then thought better of it as a question formed on the tip of her tongue. “Could you have been followed?”
Cal thought on it, remembering the green-eyed ravens, the band of Nocturnals that had found their camp, the timber wolves that had attacked them, and the little girl they had rescued along the way.
“It is possible … though we have been traveling for a very long time, and—” He tried to explain, but she had already turned her attention to the messenger.
“Have the Ramsguard at the ready behind the wall, half held in reserve,” she ordered with a quick and deliberate cadence to her voice. “And have Sendoa and his guardians beyond the gate armed and ready to protect it at all cost.”
Mezulari bowed his obedience, turned, and quickly faded back into the mist of the forest as he left to deliver his queen’s orders.
Johanna turned her attention back to Cal before she left to see about her people. “Let us hope that you were not followed, Cal,” she said as she let out a worried sigh. “I pray that these strangers are not of the Sorceress, but if they are, and war is what she seeks … then war we will give.”
“How will you fight?” he asked. “If it is her, I mean?”
“For over a century, my people have been preparing for this moment,” she told him, without a trace of wavering in her voice. “Our hiding has not been without purpose. If the Ravens wants Shaimira … it will have to contend with the host of the Ram.”
It was with those words that Johanna bowed her head graciously and then left Cal there in the forest with the graves and the histories of Haven.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cal prayed that it wasn’t an attack as he walked between the graves in the misty woods, reading the names of the heroes of Haven. He thought long on all they must have endured, and hoped that he, too, might continue the quest they had set out on so long ago. He stopped again to look at Illium’s grave as his pulse quickened at the unbelievable sight.
The sound of a horn in the near distance rang out, bouncing off the encircling mountains and finding his ears. “Astyræ, Deryn.” He startled from his reverie. “I’ve got to find them.”
The groomsman of Haven started to run towards the carved horse that marked Farran’s grave, but as he did the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. A flush washed over him like a fever, though he did not feel ill. He slowed his pace and continued cautiously, the mist making it hard for him to see beyond the reach of his violet gaze.
Cal instinctively reached for Gwarwyn, though it wasn’t quite fear that had alerted him. He heard the sound of feet on the ground before him, but the mist clouded his vision from seeing who it was.
“Hello, there,” Cal said as calmly and friendly as possible.
No response came. He walked past the large elm that towered over Farran’s resting place, scanning the darkness all about him.
“Astyræ? Queen Johanna?” he asked the mist. “Sendoa, is that you?” No response came but the sound of heavy feet upon on the mossy floor. He flexed his hand and gripped the hilt of his sword. “Please, show yourself. If you are friend, you have—"
The sound of a snort caused his words to falter right on the tip of his tongue.
“What in the damnable dark?” he said aloud, but the only response was the heavy stomping of impatient feet and another exasperated snort. “Farran?” He asked in confusion. “Is that you?”
As Cal walked past the marker, the mist began to part. What stood before him there in the open space was the most beautiful beast he had ever seen. “Dear God,” he whispered to himself.
“No, you are not Farran, are you?” he said calmly to the massive white horse, whose deep blue eyes threatened to peer into Cal’s very soul. Cal raised his hands, his fingers splayed as he approached the magnificent creature.
The horse snorted and stamped his hoof upon the mossy dirt while Cal continued to speak soothingly, singing his words as he approached the horse. “How did you get here?” he asked curiously. “The queen said there were no horses left here in Shaimira?”
It was almost as if this horse understood the question being asked of him. All at once he took a step toward Cal and shook out two glorious, white-feathered wings. Cal stopped, his hands still splayed before him, his mouth agape in wonder. “In all my days,” he said to the beast as he kneeled before the winged horse. “I have cared for and tended to hundreds of horses, but I would have never believed this … what are you?” he asked with great reverence in his voice.
The horse snorted and then bowed his own head. Cal’s clouded eyes drank in the magical form of this mighty, winged horse, as a man thirsty for water after wandering long in the dry, barren land.
“My name is Cal,” he said as he stood to his feet, close enough to feel the breath of the mighty creature on his face. Then he heard a word whispered in his mind.
Uriel.
“Is that your name?” Cal wondered aloud. The horse just stared at him, his large, dark eyes both fierce and kind in the same moment.
Cal reached out for him, placing one of his hands upon his soft pink nose. He felt the warm exhale of the creature’s assent. “Beautiful! You are absolutely magnificent, you know that?” he said as his hands stroked the soft, white coat.
“What are you doing here, Uriel?” Cal asked as his hand slid from behind the horse’s ear and onto his strong neck. As his hand found the horse’s throatlatch, a surge of energy passed between them, and he began to hear the voice of the magical animal all the more clearly.
And with those words, the winged horse bowed its magnificent head. An explosion of power and wind erupted as Uriel unfurled his wings and climbed into the darkened sky. Cal’s eyes were wide with wonder as he watched the mighty horse take to the sky before him. “Please, don’t leave me!” he shouted to the ascending horse. “Please!”
But Uriel flew away without another word, and Cal was left without comfort for his wild and racing thoughts. Just then, the sound of another horn blast cut through the wonder of the moment, and Cal remembered the words of the messenger and the warning of Uriel. “Astyræ, Deryn!”
Cal took off in a sprint, out through the Weeping Woods and back into the heart of the city. He reached his room at the house of Gelinda, but found that Deryn and Astyræ were no longer there.
“The gate!” he said aloud as he fastened the ancient breastplate of Terriah over his chest and cinched his sword belt tighter about his waist. He took off running as soon as he was armored, praying all the time that his friends were safe and that the warning of Uriel was not yet upon them. As Cal drew closer to the entrance of Shaimira, he saw hundreds of soldiers gathered in rank and file, whose ram’s horned helms and bright mail over blue tunics presented a formidable greeting to whomever may have found the passage under the falls.
A blast of the horn rang again and Cal’s heart began to beat wilder and more frantically in his chest. He ran through the ranks of the Ramsguard, finally spotting the golden hair of Astyræ and the tiny blue glow of Deryn there upon the battlement of the lone, stone wall. “Astyræ!” he shouted as he ran, his chest heaving with worry and exhaustion. “Astyræ, are you alright?”
His words found her ears, and both she and Deryn turned to see him running towards them.
“We are alright, Cal!” she shouted down to him.
“But the strangers!” he shouted back. “It’s the Sorceress’ men! The white horse told me!” he yelled without explanation as he ran closer and closer.
The Queen heard his words and turned her head in the most curious of manners as the portcullis creaked to life before him.
“No!” he shouted back. “Why are you opening the gate?”
Horns sounded and the Ramsguard began to shift their formation into two columns of men on either side of the entrance to the stronghold. “No!” Cal tried to shout above the noise, but it was of no use. The iron gate began to raise, and the guardians locked into formation with spears brandished. The keepers of the pass appeared beyond the gate, escorting the strangers they had found.
Sendoa entered first and Cal ran up to him in a panic. “Sendoa! What are you doing? This is not safe!”
“Orders of the Queen,” he said, his voice and his face stoically resolved.
“But why?” Cal tried to argue. “She doesn’t know what she is doing!”
“Are you saying that you have found this place, but you haven’t the room or the hospitality to share it with the likes of us?” came a jovial, dramatic voice.
“What?” Cal said as he spun around to see where the familiar voice was coming from.
“Or are you just afraid that we are going to embarrass you in front of your new friends, eh?” Goran said with a wry smile.
“Goran?” Cal asked incredulously.
“Aye, brother,” the woodcutter said. “Not just me. It’s the whole lot of us here … or at least, almost the whole lot of us.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Lower your weapons,” Marcum ordered in pained speech.
“What do you think that light is?” Brádách said, his eyes wide with wonder. “I’ve never in all my days seen something so … so, well … pretty.”
Keily just stared, her mind whirling with questions as she thought of Roshan.
“Corporal,” Marcum ordered. “Take two of your men and go see if he is as friendly as we are hoping he is.”
“Yes, lieutenant,” the white-bearded corporal agreed.
“Keily?” came the worried voices of the children who hid underneath the ox cart.
“It’s alright, children,” she told them as she bent down to catch their worried gazes.
“What is that purple light?” Gabriel asked.
“Is it some kind of magic?” Annsley wondered aloud.
“I hope it’s the good kind,” Gabriel replied.
“Me too,” she said with a smile. “Though my heart is not troubled by it. Now stay put until I tell you otherwise. Alright?”
“Alright,” the children said in unison.
As the cart drew closer to the huddled remnant, Johnrey and his men went out to greet it and its driver. Marcum could see plain enough by the glow of the violet light that the corporal had removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and had reached out in greeting to the man atop the cart.
“Sheath your blades now, lads” Marcum said with exhausted relief. “The THREE who is SEVEN has sent us a rescuer … we are going to be alright.”
Johnrey returned to the remnant first, running out ahead of the cart with tears streaming down his face.
“Corporal?” Marcum asked, his brow furrowed with question.
“I’ve never … never even thought to imagine,” the old corporal tried to explain.
“You never what?” the lieutenant asked impatiently.
“I never imagined that anything like that ever existed in this world of ours. And here, now, of all times and places, we find something like this?” Johnrey said as tears of joy fell uncontrollably down his face.
“Pull yourself together, Corporal,” Marcum said as his own eyes contagiously misted over. “I still have no idea what it is that you are blubbering about.”
“Lieutenant, is it?” came the voice of the driver.
Marcum looked over the shoulder of the corporal, meeting the kind eyes of the wild-haired, old man who drove the cart. Then his gaze shifted from the unexpected driver to the violet glowing light that emanated from a creature his eyes had never dreamed to behold. There, perched atop the back of the seat of the wagon, was a silver-winged warrior whose brilliant armor looked as delicate as fishbones and as fierce as lightning flashes.
“What in the damnable dark!?” he exclaimed as the whole of his company turned to see the incredible sight.
“Lieutenant?” the old man asked again, his patience not hindered by the bewilderment of these soldiers.
Marcum swallowed, unsure of what questions he even needed to ask anymore.
“Lieutenant, my name is Elder John,” he said with kindness in his aged, wrinkled face. “And this ball of brilliant light,” he chuckled as he spoke, “is Faolan, Captain of the Sprite Host, commander and servant to Queen Iolanthe herself.”
“What?” Marcum said with a dry, parched mouth. “Sprites?”
Faolan stood to his feet, the crystalline armor reflecting his own violet brilliance. “Lieutenant,” he said with a respectful nod of his head. “I understand that my appearance may be startling to you and your people. But may I suggest we speak of lineages and long stories once we have reached safety, and not when the enemy is still at large?”
Marcum rubbed at his eyes, then turned to make sure that he was not the only one seeing this mythical creature alive and present before them. “Yes,” he managed clumsily. “Yes, of course, Captain. My name is Lieutenant Marcum, and these are all that is left of the company of brave guardsmen that were under my command.”
Faolan flitted up and out of the seat of the cart and flew over to meet the lieutenant face to face. “You have fought and sacrificed bravely against an enemy who knows no valor and who has earned our vengeance. Now you must rest and recover your strength; for though your battle may have finished … the war for Aiénor has just begun.”
“And what will you do, Sprite?” Marcum said, the weariness of
these last days weighing heavily upon him. “What can any of us do to thwart that army of darkness whose vanguard is held by dragons?”
“Alone?” Faolan said. “Nothing. But by the power of our Great Father, and for justice and the memory of Éimhear, the slain High Queen,” Faolan’s face hardened, “and for all our people, both Sprite and man … together we will strike a brilliant blow to her darkened heart.”
The captain unsheathed his silver blade. As he did, a note pierced the darkness about them, and without warning the back of the mule cart exploded in a wash of violet eruption as a dozen more Sprite warriors came out of hiding. They drew their own blades, small and terrible, and the song of their vengeance echoed against the mountains to the north.
Marcum raised his wounded arm across his chest in salute to this unlooked for friend. “Are there more of your kind?” he asked.
“Many more, Lieutenant. I will escort you and your people to Petros, whereby the skills of the Poets and Eógan our healer, we will see to it that you are mended.”
“Thank you,” Marcum said as relief flooded his eyes.
“But what about the Ravens?” Keily blurted out. “Who is going to find them and stop them? We can’t just let them go, unopposed, wherever the bloody hell they will it! Not while there may still be more of our people alive and scattered.”
Brádách limped over and put a hand on her shoulder. “There now, lass.” He tried to comfort her, but she slumped off his kindness and stared deep into the violet eyes of the Sprite captain.
“They will not go unopposed, Daughter of Ádhamh,” Faolan replied. “Though recklessness will never produce the victory that your heart seeks.”
“It is not victory that my heart seeks,” she said as angry, tired tears pooled in her eyes and fell down her face. “It’s vengeance. It’s … payment … retribution for the hell they have brought upon all of us.”
“Arthfael,” Faolan commanded.
The large Sprite flew over to his commander and knelt before him on the damp dirt, placing the point of his blade against the ground and bowing his head to receive his orders.
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 20