by Mok, DK
Valamon undid the buckles around Haska’s lower leg, gently removing the shin guard.
“I’m sure you know this is going to hurt.” Valamon gripped the shaft of the arrow.
Haska’s lidded eyes swivelled to Valamon.
“Are you enjoying this, Crown Prince of Talgaran?”
“If I knew how to ease your pain, I would,” he said quietly.
He pulled hard on the arrow and Haska stifled a cry, clenching her fists against the ground. Her eyes opened weakly as Valamon wound a bandage around her knee.
“You did hear the part where I’m going to execute you and kill your family?” said Haska.
“I heard you say it,” said Valamon. “I’m not sure you’d do it.”
“Why is that?” Dark fire flickered in her gaze.
Valamon tied off the end of the bandage.
“Because you’re not my father.”
He rose to his feet, extending a hand to Haska. She hesitated for a moment, then grasped his palm. As she hauled herself to her feet, she suddenly twisted Valamon’s arm behind his back and shoved him to the ground. Kneeling on his shoulders, she grabbed a loose roll of bandage and swiftly bound his wrists.
Valamon rolled over, and it seemed as though Haska stood aflame, burning with a cold, unspeakable rage and an unshakeable purpose. She looked at him as though his very blood was a poison to her, and a pang tore through him.
“You understand nothing of vengeance, or love, or suffering,” said Haska. “You cannot possibly comprehend the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve endured. There are things that can never be forgiven. That can never be undone. Talgaran will pay in blood and in the blood of its children, just as we did.”
“So the cycle can begin again.”
Haska’s eyes flashed, and Valamon braced himself.
“It’s true that all I know of war comes from books,” said Valamon. “I haven’t lived it like you have. But I know that violence perpetuates hatred and revenge in unending cycles, consuming kingdom after kingdom, generation after generation. Our children will see you the same way you see the Talgaran Empire, just as Talgaran saw the Eruduin Empire and the sorcerers before them. The price of vengeance is that you become your enemy and the cycle continues. Your anguish, your rage, your scars, inflicted on a generation to follow. Are you prepared for that, Lord Haska?”
Haska grasped Valamon’s shirt, hauling him towards Ciel.
“It’s easy to espouse forgiveness when you’re the one who’s sinned,” she said.
Haska pitched Valamon into the saddle, climbing up behind him. Ciel began to trot forward, picking up speed as the sun climbed the azure sky.
“Would my death be enough to satisfy you?” said Valamon. “Would you spare my family if you took my life as vengeance?”
“Why should I stop at killing you when I could kill them all?”
“Honour. Restraint. Grace. I’m sure your people value such things.”
“It didn’t do them any good.”
“Morality doesn’t always lead to longevity,” said Valamon. “But that’s not the point.”
They rode in silence for a while, the wind whipping at them through the pale green trees.
“I thought you didn’t like your family,” said Haska.
“Why would you think that?”
Hoofbeats thrummed over the grassy woodland.
“Rumours,” said Haska.
Seris woke to dappled sunlight and birdsong. It would’ve been one of his more pleasant awakenings of late, if not for the throbbing headache, the bloodstained grass, and the memory of screaming.
He was alone in the clearing, and he wasn’t sure if this was a good thing. He assumed that Elhan had gone foraging, although by late morning, he began to suspect that she’d just gone. He couldn’t really blame her—he’d almost gotten her killed several times already, and last night… Last night, he’d really messed up. Blowing up those tents, trying to rescue Garlet. A knife in the back, literally, was Elhan’s thanks for getting Seris out of the camp.
However, he wasn’t sure what he would have done differently, and he suspected that this underpinned Elhan’s decision to part ways. Seris knew he was a burden, and not just because he was a lousy forager and eternally penniless. He hadn’t even been able to heal her last night. All he had were good intentions, and at some point that wasn’t enough.
Seris dusted off his robes and ambled several circles of the clearing before choosing a likely direction. He was a fairly poor tracker, but he figured the trail of blood spatters was a reasonably good start.
After Horizon’s Gate, he’d begun to understand Elhan’s predicament. However, after several weeks of living it, he couldn’t imagine a lifetime of running, always looking over your shoulder, always alone. She said she didn’t mind it, but…
Seris had never felt unlovable. For most of his life, he’d had Petr and Morle, and every time he healed someone, it was the love of Eliantora passing through him, however temperamental her affections. He had never imagined that he might live his entire life unloved and alone, with no prospect of that ever changing.
He was sure that this had shaped Elhan. The figure in the woods with the blade shining red… The prison melting into sand… The fires, the screaming, the eyes… It was the curse, and Elhan was somehow trapped inside, waiting to be freed.
Seris found her by the edge of the cliff, perched on a precarious rock improbably balanced on the ledge. An expanse of thick woodland filled the huge valley below, like a lake pouring out to sea. Elhan crouched on the cusp of the rock, and Seris felt dizzy just looking at her. He felt an urge to cling to the ground.
“Perhaps you should move away from there,” said Seris.
“I think I know where the search party was hunting last night.” Elhan’s gaze skimmed the woods below. “Near the western edge of the Lirel Lands.”
“All right. Now let’s move away from dangerous ledges…”
“I won’t fall.” Elhan continued looking out towards the horizon. “Just like the blade didn’t kill me.”
“If it had been an inch to the left—”
“It wouldn’t have struck an inch to the left.” Elhan turned to Seris with oddly cold eyes. “You’ve seen what I am. Stop trying to convince yourself otherwise. I’m not some sweet mute with aggression issues, or a repressed noble in need of a little affection. I’m exactly what you thought I was the first moment you laid eyes on me.”
Seris was slightly taken aback, and he guessed she was more than a little peeved by his actions last night.
“Elhan, that’s not—”
“I’m beyond even your reach, cleric,” said Elhan, her voice hollow. “You can’t bring back the dead.”
They rode into the encampment as day tipped into afternoon. Ciel cantered through the tightly held formations, past a sea of banners and uniforms from countless different regiments. Whispers rippled after them like a tide following the moon.
Alone through Lirel Lands—
Dragging back the son of Delmar—
Without the aid of sorcery or soldiers—
The daughter of Ilis—
The daughter of Ilis returns—
The daughter of Ilis was damned tired by the time she marched into the Tower Hall. The air smelled strongly of thunder and fire, and a blue light crackled along the walls in hair-thin wisps.
“Lady Amoriel, how are we faring?” said Haska, glancing at the runes inscribed across the floor and walls.
“Two hours and we’ll be ready,” said Amoriel. “Provided your numbers are correct. If not, well, Liadres can give you a vivid description of the consequences.”
Amoriel turned a sharp smile towards Liadres, who was chalking symbols on the floor.
“Lady Amoriel, I learn with humble gratitude,” said Liadres, but his tone meant, “I said I was sorry!”
Amoriel swept her gaze lightly over Haska.
“You look troubled, Lord Haska.”
Haska shook her head, rubbing
her eyes briefly. Troubled didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling, and she was certain the bandages were cutting off critical areas of circulation. He was probably trying to give her gangrene.
“I’ll just be glad when this is done,” said Haska.
“What happened to your mask?” said Amoriel, in the manner of someone who knew that no one else would dare to ask.
Liadres’ chalk squeaked on the stone.
“Tell me when we’re ready to proceed,” said Haska stonily, and strode from the hall.
Muted light washed through filmy white curtains. The sunlight always seemed pale in here, as though it had travelled too far, so that only its light and none of its warmth remained.
Falon knelt by the queen’s bedside, the embroidered silk sheets a dozen shades of cool white. Queen Nalan’s glossy dark hair flowed across her pillow, her lucid eyes gazing at a distant point beyond the vaulted ceiling.
“How is Your Majesty feeling today?” said Falon gently.
“Impatient, Falon,” said Queen Nalan, her voice still smooth and resonant but fainter than usual. “These are not easy times to rule, and soon the burden and the privilege will be yours.”
“Gods willing, not soon.”
“The gods are rarely willing, Falon. But you must be.”
“Always, Your Majesty,” said Falon. “My life belongs to king and empire.”
Queen Nalan’s expression softened slightly.
“Princess Katala seems a good match,” she said.
“Your Majesty,” said Falon, which he felt was a better option than saying, “When hells devour the earth.”
Princess Katala certainly seemed a highly competent woman, but she unnerved Falon just a little. The horses were scared of her, which made Falon uneasy. And whenever the topic of Princess Katala arose, Qara developed a small furrow on her forehead, and her mouth formed a slight moue, which he also took to be a bad sign.
“I fear for the future of our empire,” said Queen Nalan. “Difficult decisions must be made, and you must not be afraid to make them.”
“Have my decisions ever disappointed you, Your Majesty?”
“These decisions will be difficult to make alone. To rule, you must be mind and body, force and discipline. You must not cede to vice or sentiment. You rule for your people’s survival, not their love. There are always sacrifices…”
Queen Nalan broke off abruptly, still staring intently at the ceiling. It seemed, perhaps, that her eyes glistened slightly.
She hadn’t asked about Valamon nor mentioned his name since the day the “champions” had been sent to retrieve him. Falon hadn’t spoken to her of Valamon since then, partly fearing it would upset her, partly fearing it would not.
Falon reached for her hand, and she let him hold it a little while.
“I’m tired, Falon,” said Queen Nalan finally.
A fluttering flag could be heard from somewhere outside, flapping softly in the breeze. Falon rose to his feet and bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty.”
ELEVEN
She’d stayed too long. She always swore it would never happen again, but you could only run from yourself for so long.
Elhan wove through the trees, occasionally glancing upward to realign her bearings. She could hear Seris pattering through the woods behind her, keeping his subdued distance again. The number of people she’d met who had thought they could beat the curse, who thought that all it took was a little patience, a little guidance, a little heart. Most of them were dead, the others too traumatised to realise they were still alive.
That was what happened to the people around her. She’d seen it in Seris’s eyes so many times, and every time he fought it, it came back. The expression on his face when she’d cut down the hanging man, that look of unspeakable horror, of unbearable disgust. Elhan flicked it from her mind like a tick from her skin. Everyone looked at her like that eventually. It didn’t matter. There were always new lands to explore, new people to horrify.
The key was not deluding herself. Everyone thought she was crazy, but Seris was a prime example of genuine crazy. Loopy as an intestine, nuttier than pecan pie. He was all kinds of naïve and stupid, believing in things, believing in people. She supposed that came with the faith—you had to believe in things for it to work. But she knew better.
“Garlet said something about the daughter of Ilis,” said Seris. “Do you know anything about that?”
Elhan slowed her pace, just a little.
“Ilis… There’s Ilis del Fey. It’s a local legend. When Delmar tried taking this region during the Tide, he never managed to subjugate the Fey. He ended up pretty much killing them all. They say Ilis took over the resistance after Delmar executed her husband, and she was responsible for driving the Talgarans from the area.”
“Did Ilis have a daughter?”
Elhan shrugged. “Don’t know.”
She could hear Seris thinking. It seemed like such a painfully laborious and unrewarding process, she wondered why he did it so often.
“Elhan, back at Lemlock’s camp, did you know Garlet was still alive?”
“Does it matter? If he wasn’t dead, he was going to be soon.”
“Don’t you care about things?”
“‘Care’ is such a vague and deceptive word. I like things. I like hot food on a cold night. I like a cool breeze on a warm day. I like going for a swim in the summer.”
“Is it always temperature-related?”
“I like you,” said Elhan. “Sometimes.”
There was a slightly stunned silence.
“You remind me of a mouse drowning in custard,” she said.
“You like mice drowning in custard?” said Seris faintly.
“Not if they drown all the way. Because then you can’t eat the custard. But you probably wouldn’t know about custard, it being sweet and sticky and all that.”
Elhan’s steps slowed, and her gaze searched the dappled forest floor.
“They were around here.”
The forest was darker here, with shafts of sunlight pricking through the dense canopy. Elhan could smell the faint odour of horses and blood, but she couldn’t see any fresh tracks, except maybe one…
“Would this help?” said Seris from behind a row of bushes.
Pale pebbles had been piled on the dark earth, forming a thick, distinct arrow.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” said Elhan.
“I think it’s pointing to that.” Seris walked over to a nearby tree.
Dark symbols had been carved into the smooth, pale bark. Seris’s eyes traced the neat combinations of numbers and letters.
“They’re coordinates,” said Seris. “Near here.”
“I suppose we’d call that an invitation.”
“I think they were searching for the person who left this message.”
“What makes you say that?”
Seris pointed to a squiggle above the coordinates—a stylised series of curves and lines.
“This is archaic shorthand for Talgaran. The stag from the royal crest.”
Seris’s finger rested on the barbs above the stag’s head.
“And this is a crown,” said Seris.
Elhan paused.
“Prince Valamon couldn’t just write his name?”
“It’s a pretty long name.”
“Yeah, why don’t you ever have princes called things like ‘Yit’?” said Elhan.
Seris didn’t reply, assuming that her last word had been a response to the wall of barbed arrows aiming at them from between the trees.
Elhan had never been hit by an arrow, but there were a hell of a lot of arrows right now. A slim figure stepped forward, his tan clothing patched with rough hide, two long, thin blades hanging from his belt.
“Perhaps it’s going to be a good day after all,” said the man.
The Lirel villages were scattered around the edge of the rising plateau, clustered around waterfalls that tumbled down the rocky cliffs. Wooden huts b
lended seamlessly with the trees, and leaves sprouted from eaves and archways. Children raced through grassy clearings, while hunters fletched arrows or roasted meat on open fires.
It was a peaceful scene, but Seris found it difficult to ignore the strange tension plucking at him. Although he could still feel Eliantora near him, he didn’t seem able to reach her. The sense of unease grew stronger as they entered the village, tingling through Seris like vinegar washing over a sore.
The Lirel warriors escorted Seris and Elhan to a large central cabin. Sunshine streamed in through an open skylight, and a statuesque woman in her forties was inspecting a wide mat laid with battered swords and daggers. She wore a stitched tunic and buckskins, long blades hanging from her belt. Her hair was tied back in a short brown braid, and a dot of mud was painted on the back of each hand.
The woman glanced up as Seris and Elhan entered.
“Ebrelle, we found them near last night’s ambush,” said the lead warrior. “Both unarmed.”
Ebrelle stared flatly at the pair, taking in Seris’s tattered robes and Elhan’s bandages, scabs, and blood-spattered clothes. Ebrelle crossed her arms.
“Let me begin by telling you that I lost two people last night, with another three headed the same way, so I have no patience for bravado or games. Now, what’s your story?”
Seris didn’t really know where to start. It’d been so much easier when all he had to do was brandish Falon’s scroll, but he suspected that kind of thing was akin to suicide in these parts.
“We’re just passing through,” said Seris, “on our way to the western free lands.”
“We normally go around,” said Elhan. “But we ran into some trouble with the brigands.”
Seris felt this was a gross understatement, but mostly true. Ebrelle seemed satisfied that this explained Elhan’s state of dress.
“I’m sorry to hear about your wounded,” said Seris. “I’d like to help.”
“Clerics aren’t much use here, I’m afraid,” said Ebrelle.
“Will you let me try?”