Some two floors and half a wing away a pen was tossed down with enough force to bend the nib and lightly splatter ink on a cluttered desk top.
“Fuck!” Rowan growled, the summons from his father echoing in his mind. “If it’s not one goddamn thing it’s another...!” ’Whadya want, Jarath?’
‘You – here – by Jonas – now. It’s time you earned your living.’
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” the Nightlord grumbled to himself, separating the ink-splatted sheets of music paper from the rest scattered over the desk top, and dropping the pen on top. Making sure the wards around his suite were still set to prevent anyone from just walking in, he held an image of his father in his thoughts and took a step forward, finishing it beside the seneschals small desk.
“Hey, Jonas.” Like Rajan, Rowan half-raised a hand in greeting as he strode to the study door. There had been times when he’d ‘walked directly into his father’s study without specific invite, and been painfully ejected each time by the more powerful lord. It had been a long, slow process, but Jarath had him partly trained, at least.
‘You may enter,’ his father stated just before Rowan reached the inner door.
Without breaking his stride, the Doman’s second son entered the study. Having already detected Rajan’s presence, he showed no surprise at seeing him there.
“Hey, Raj, how’s it going, man?” he greeted. The seer inclined his head, but remained silent while Jarath spoke to his second son. There was a long pause as Rowan digested what he’d been told.
“Let me get this straight,” the Nightlord said, almost a full minute after his father had finished, “you want me, and a few others, to go to Anraun and help Morgan ferry his army, and some guests, to Thesa?”
“The select of Morgan’s army. That is correct,” Jarath confirmed. “There is nothing at fault with your hearing, at least. And the quicker you leave, the quicker your task will be completed.”
“Alright,” Rowan said, folding his arms over his chest, hiding the words printed on his short sleeved purple top. “What did I do wrong this time?”
Jarath sighed and pushed his chair back. “It would take longer to catalogue your misdeeds than it would to transport all of Morgan’s subjects. Rajan, please tell your...cousin the likely outcome of this request before the need for it is ended.”
Rajan dipped his head briefly towards Jarath before turning to Rowan. “Because of the interaction with the seer Liath and the shadows she casts over people’s futures, I can only predict your leaving Saybel to do the Doman’s bidding.”
Rowan shrugged, thinking that looking at Rajan was a lot like looking at Tarik, his younger brother and Jarath’s third son – except for the eyes. Tarik’s were large and dark, fathomless at times. Trust him to be on Iantii when something like this came down. Ferrying an army; Christ, what the hell would come next?
Rajan broke into his wandering thoughts. “Ninety six percent probability.”
Rowan rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay, when do I leave?”
“You will not be going alone,” Jarath assured him, glancing down at his list. “There will be another... 17 with you. Be ready in one hour’s time.”
“Fine. See you in Delgannan, Raj. An hour, Jarath,” he muttered and left the study, working out how long it would take the 18 of them, plus Raj and whoever else Morgan had, to take say...200 people and arms to Thesa. He could take four people at least, but he bet not all the others would be as able as himself. He could push it to six, he decided, maybe even eight, as long as they all maintained a physical connection with him and didn’t do anything stupid like letting go mid ‘walk. Anyone got lost between worlds. it was not his fault. Sometimes you could find that person again, most times they remained lost. Limbo was what many races called the ‘non-space’ separating the various worlds and dimensions. Whatever the hell it was called, being lost in it was no picnic.
Returning to his study, Rowan cleared the sheets of paper from the desk top, carefully locking them away in the top drawer. It was great fun on that little blue world – the Otherside, friends of his called it; Earth the inhabitants unromantically named it. Who named their world the stuff it was made of, for chrissakes? Might just as well have called it soil, or mud, or sand – they had another option and that was terra, yet that was just a different world for Earth. But it had the best music in all the worlds he’d ever been to, and just now, it was getting really exciting; so many new sounds, new equipment, singers and musicians experimenting. Man, some of them were wild – chicks were crazy – new dope – hippies, flower power, festivals... the possibilities were endless. He wanted to get back, slide into his alter-ego there, write songs and sing some blues, not be a pack-mule for Morgan bron Sultain, although he did owe the new High Lord a couple of favors. With that thought in mind, he went over to his drinks cabinet, taking up the left hand corner of the study behind his desk. Locked in the bottom cupboard was his favorite drink of the moment; well, one of them. In a distinctive square bottle with a black and white label bearing a name and number, the rich amber contents just begged to be sipped – he could hear the sound of the seal breaking when the bottle cap was twisted, the silken glug into a glass, the ‘woody’ hint on the tongue, the bite...Rowan sighed again, stuffed the unopened bottle into a soft shoulder bag, grabbed the old, shabby jacket off the back of his chair, and thought of Anraun. Of Delgannan, and the Great Hall specifically, and took a step forward, disappearing before his foot touched the waxed wooden floorboards of his study floor again.
“Whoa! Hey, take it easy, kid!” Stepping backwards to keep his balance, Rowan thrust one hand out at a skinny, tow-headed youth who seemed to be on the verge of attacking him. Frowning at the noise, bustle and confusion on the normally peaceful Great Hall, the Nightlord held the kid in place with a strong mental command and glared around looking for Morgan, or at least someone who looked as though they knew what was going on. A large, strong hand clapped on his shoulder nearly making him bite his tongue tip.
“The fuck...! Ky, man, you’re livin’ dangerously, sneaking up on someone like that! Kid, will ya leave it?” Glaring at the youth, Rowan reinforced his order with a stronger mental suggestion, his frown deepening as he realized the potency of the mind he touched.
“It’s all right, Resh,” Ky told him, “This is Rowan, the Doman of Saybel’s son – one of them, anyway. Rowan, meet Resh; he’s Mesar’s son and also the son of a sorceress; he has a twin somewhere, too, who seems to be integral to the whole situation.”
Just as Rowan opened his mouth to speak, Ky added, “Oh, and he’s a mute.”
Rowan closed his mouth. ‘Hi kid. Now, back off, willya. Or else...’
Warily, Resh took a step away from the Nightlord, having just found the most powerful mind he had encountered in his entire life. Stronger even than Liath and the other night-shaper, yet he looked just like an ordinary person, less well dressed than most here with old, untidy clothes, but there was so much potential in him that Resh shivered.
“Mesar – do I know him?” Rowan asked, turning to face the tall blond who draped an arm over his shoulders, guiding him up the hall towards the dais.
“No, I don’t think so, he left the academy years ago after a disagreement, but you know his sister – Annushi, Head of the seers, and he was friends with Tia’mar, Head of the magi.”
“Yeah, right, I might have heard something...hey, Bal, good to see you – are you going down to Thesa, too – or wherever it is I’m pack-ponying you all to?” Rowan called, spying Balin moving through the shifting crowds in their direction, a tall, black-dressed young woman, red-chestnut hair waving over her shoulders accompanying him.
Giving each other a back-slapping hug, the harper and the singer parted for Balin to introduce his companion.
‘You’re Tarik’s brother,” Liath almost sighed, having no difficulty whatsoever remembering the younger Nightlord’s face. Rowan had the same wonderful bone-structure, hair and dark eyes, although his were the
deep-green of a winter sea and his looks were a little more masculine, and as far as Liath knew, he was happier with members of the opposite sex than his brother was.
Rowan took the hand she held out, raised it to his lips, and lightly kissed it while looking deep into her eyes. She was Morgan’s love – the Nightlord could feel the connection between seer and lord – and a helluva lot of other stuff, some of which shouldn’t be there at all. At some level, he’d always been aware of the bond between Anraun's High Lord and... and... Anraun, but now it was...different, stronger, more complex, and had another female right in the middle of it! There must have been fireworks when all that happened, he grinned to himself. Serve Morgan right, he needed to lighten up a little at times.
For her part, Liath found, if not a kindred spirit, someone who was on a similar wavelength, less fey than Rajan, but much more – dangerous. She shivered lightly as their strengths touched, assessed, equalized and settled. She knew that whatever forces she commanded, Rowans were considerably stronger. With the Nightlords on their side, the coming battle may not be as hard-won as she’d feared, and there was a chance she might just come out of it alive.
‘Hey, lady, you are far too beautiful to die young,’ Rowan stated in her thoughts, eventually releasing her hand, sensing Morgan’s approach.
“Are you so much in Jarath’s bad books that he’s making you do all this alone?” Morgan enquired, halting at Rowan’s side, briefly joining hands with the Nightlord.
“For once, no. I just dropped in early to give you this, and to let you know there’ll be another 17 little helpers for you, I think he said.” Digging into the slouch bag over his shoulder, Rowan brought out the square shaped bottle and handed to his friend.
“I’ll save it for later; if it’s as good as the other bottle you brought last time – South...something, it’ll need to be appreciated slowly,” Morgan mused.
“Southern, not South,” Rowan muttered, remembering Tarik had said exactly the same thing only a few days ago, then really looked at the High Lord. “Hey, like the hair – is it real?”
“As opposed to...?”
Rowan just laughed and slapped Morgan’s shoulder. “Gotta pop back home, pick up the rest of the mules and be right back over here. Don’t know who’ll be with me, except that we’re all on Jarath’s shit list.”
“Tell me something I hadn’t already guessed.”
Morgan’s dry comment echoed in Rowan’s mind as he walked back home and returned to stand beside Jonas’s desk, narrowly avoiding stepping on toes in the crowded ante-room. Gazing around, he sighed, knowing why the majority were on the shit list; losers most of ‘em...he halted that line of thought, put fingers to lips and gave a piercing whistle that cut through the noisy chatter.
“Listen up, everyone, we’re going to Anraun, Delgannan and the courtyard to the Great Hall – who of you haven’t been there...?” There were a few mutters and hands tentatively raised. “Okay, make sure you follow my signature. Jarath’s not gonna be pleased if you get lost on the way – me neither, ‘cos I’ll be the one that has to come back and find you. Got it? Right...and ladies, no high heels.” There were louder retorts, and movements of air from various parts of the room as the three female Nightlords returned to their suites to don sensible footwear. When the three had arrived back in the ante-room, Rowan did a quick visual check making sure all were paying attention, and asked, “You all got my signature?” of the ones who had never walked to Anraun.
All Nightlords had a ‘teleport signature’ unique to themselves and identifiable by other Darkworlders, a bit like the scent of an animal that could be followed by anyone equipped to detect it. It faded after a short while unless it belonged to close family, friends, or someone who had regularly been walking together.
Receiving affirmations from all, he raised his arm in a ‘follow me’ gesture, and successfully led the room-full of Darkworlders off Saybel and to Delgannan.
Chapter 35 – the island fight
Even though travel was so swift as to seem instantaneous, it still took four hours for the various Nightlords, Morgan, seers, magi and any other who could walk, to complete the transportation. Few of the horses were accustomed to that sort of travel and, although Hurral put his famous way with horses to the test, after a couple of near injuries, it was decided the animals would make the journey by sea – speedily assisted by the magi’s weather control utilized to the full.
While the rest waited at Thesa, Morgan alone made the short journey to the island, letting the land transport him directly to his destination.
There was a hush as he stood on the lowest slope of the central valley, looking towards the capital town. No insect or animal moved, no whir, chirp or slightest rustle in the dry grasses. The whole island held its breath.
Morgan closed his eyes, bowed his head and slowly knelt. After a while, a breeze, slight, almost unfelt, brushed his cheek. A butterfly caress, then it was gone. A corner of his mouth twitched in a split-second smile. Again, the little breeze returned, touched its butterfly fingers to this...not-intruder. This...male’s cheek, daring to linger. He raised a hand, the breeze danced into his palm, a miniature eddy, spiraled around his wrist, enveloped his hand. It grew stronger when the identity of this unknown force was reached and realized – opened its heart to him, cried out its pain and woe, fears and hates – its love. Completely enfolding the High Lord in its warm, whirling windy embrace, the portion of the land that was Akashii welcomed its long yearned for lord, showing in him ways without words and speech, all which had happened. The crimes that had taken place here – still fresh and raw in the land-mind of rocks and earth whose timeline ran at a very different pace to that of humans.
Morgan, tears unheeded on his cheeks, swallowed hard, struggled against the flow of images, the... emotions of the land, alien in this form, but in the end just let himself go and relived the Akashii arrival, settlement, departure of some of them and massacre of many more. Yet beneath the savage and primal visions and feelings was threaded hope, peace and forgiveness. Minds open to others to help and guide visitors who came to learn and share – not maim, rape and torture. And all around him his land soothed, loved and gave hope to him and this tiny island apart.
Finally, he opened his eyes, drew breath and looked around. Blinked, not quite believing the sight before him. Gone were the scrubland and rough weeds, broken paving and canted walls grimed with decades past, the tumbled buildings, ruined fountains and shattered statues – his vision swam in and out of focus, at once so near that he could see the grain in wood and stone, then so far as if he hung in the sky looking down on a complex model or child’s toy on a velvety carpet of lush green, laced with paths and roads of flat, smooth stone, embroidered with colorful edgings of blooms.
A fanciful feeling occurred to him – Anraun was a woman, powerful, seductive, confident in her beauty and charm. The island was a girl, or nymph – playful, coy, pretty. Somewhere in his thoughts, he heard a faint giggle, wondered if he’d just created something. Then a different voice replaced it, one he knew from his time inside the mountain.
Thank you, she said, and he felt her love. It is apt you meet with the exiled world here, where so much was caused in its name. But she will not come through unscathed. Although it will clear the way and allow another thing to come to the fore – something she wants.
“She?” Morgan repeated aloud. “Do you mean Liath?”
His land spoke no more, although he felt the confirmation. Thoughtful, he returned to Thesa with a location for the troops and temple folk who were still all gathered in the gardens, chatting, relaxing on the grass, or simply standing waiting for orders. Informing the quarter-masters, Morgan took a moment to watch the start of the maneuvers. There were piles of tents and camping gear, food, water and other supplies less easily identifiable, all packed on sled-like contraptions with harnesses attached. While he watched, Rowan stood in front of one arms crossed, scowling. Morgan saw his lips move in what was likely a long and deta
iled comment on the state of his life before the Nightlord slipped the harness loosely around his body, briefly tested it, then leaned forward, taking a step. He, and the sled, vanished to a smattering of applause from other watchers. Moments later, he returned, still scowling.
With Rowan chivvying them, the Nightlords continued transporting people, equipment and tents to the ‘renewed’ part of the island. Watching them, with their arms held out for their ‘passengers’ to hold onto, vanishing mid-step, Morgan idly wondered why all Darkworld nobles, male and female, were called Nightlords. Why weren’t the females called Nightladies? He could understand why ladies of night wouldn’t appeal, being too close to the working ‘ladies of the night’ and the courtesan connotation. Perhaps because the Saybelese ladies were not the gentler sex, and whilst not being accepted as Primes or Seconds, were certainly no less powerful than the lords were. Rowan should...
“Daydreaming?” Ky enquired, joining Morgan and drawing all thoughts of the Darkworld hierarchy out of his mind.
“Waiting for you. That your gear?” Morgan nodded to the bag strap and double-headed axe visible over the big northlander’s shoulder.
“If I need anything else, I’ll get someone to take me back. You seem to have got the hang of using the land to get you from A to B.”
“It’s a wonderful way to travel – just don’t let go of me,” Morgan warned, picking up his own bag.
“Would I ever?”
***
Leaving the dark-stoned walls of the keep, Varen felt a novel moment’s panic when he appeared not to move through time and space, but remained static, held just on the boundary of awareness, the almost seen walls behind him, realities flowing out to the sides – nothing ahead of him. No sensation of direction, no guiding pull towards his destination, just the nerve-twisting idea of being held on the event horizon, in permanent stasis...and then his foot touched ground. The island filled his vision with thin-boled, stunted trees, wilting vegetation and dry grass, the faint sea-scent of ozone beneath sun-scorched land and the dusty smell of hay. Noises of insects and birds were fewer than he would have thought, had he given anything but himself a thought.
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