by Jack Conner
Hiatha nodded and hurried off to see to Meril. Niara straightened, sniffed and left the long, gleaming Pool. She retired to her solar, the round, sun-filled room covered in flowering vines. It smelled lovely, of rose and honeysuckle and jasmine, and it was so bright and pretty, with veined, white marble floors and walls, and a small glass dome overhead letting in the light. This was the room she used when visitors came who wished a little intimacy, much smaller and less forbidding than the austere Audience Room. Enjoying the smell of the rose-vines, Niara climbed into her white seat, pressed flush against the wall, a hole in the wall of flowers, and waited.
Meril entered almost immediately, dressed in blue breeches and tunic, with a green jacket embroidered with the silver stag of the Wesrains, and a crimson cape edged in wolf-fur swept behind him. He was a tall, handsome youth, smooth of cheek, with blond curly hair and bright green eyes. Upon his head he wore the crown, but as soon as he stepped within her presence he removed it, twisting it nervously in his hands.
“Come,” she said.
Wordlessly, he knelt before her. His eyes were troubled and red, as though he’d been crying. If so, she could not fault him for it. First Rian had died, then his father, the very morning after Giorn had left. And now word had come of the disaster in Feslan, and all feared that Giorn must be dead, as well. All he has left is Fria.
“You may rise,” Niara said.
Meril did not. He looked up at her with his red-rimmed eyes, and to her surprise she saw that his lips were quivering. He gathered control of himself, and his face hardened.
Her heart wrenched, and something of the mother instinct rose in her. She leaned over and touched his hair, cupped his face. “I know, dear,” she said. She had known him and his siblings all their lives, and they had known her as well, precisely as she was now, for she had not aged in all that time. It seemed like only yesterday that she had been bouncing Meril on her knee. The thought that he was saddled with such tragedy was heartbreaking. Strangely, she had never thought of Giorn as a child, even when he had been one. He had always been so grave, so mature, and he had been shooting her looks out of the corner of his eye since his early teens.
Not so, Meril. He had always seemed young, innocent, even when he was chasing girls and landing himself in trouble with Harin.
“They’re gone,” he said, and his voice was raw. “Rian, Father, even Giorn. How can it be? Tell me, Lady Niara. You’re the High Priestess of Illiana. How can the Omkar let us suffer like this? If anyone should know, it’s you.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. “The Omkarathons are weak and scattered, dear. Illiana still looks upon us with favor, and we have Her love, and Her teachings, and the Moonstone she left for us to defend ourselves with, but she cannot aid us. We are trapped with him, Meril. With Gilgaroth. We must find a way to defeat Him on our own, without recourse to the Omkar. We have the Sun and the Moon, and the Books of the Light. Those will have to be enough.”
He shook his head wretchedly, and his hands twisted the crown with new vigor, as if he wanted to rip it apart. “No,” he said. “It is not enough.” There was so much pain and anger in his voice that she winced.
“It will have to be.”
“Then we’re doomed, High Mother.” Tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them away. Fury gripped him, and his face was seized in an expression of hate. There was so much rage in his eyes she was surprised it didn’t burn up his tears. “Even now a company of Borchstogs sweeps northward, burning and razing all in their path, enslaving and raping, torturing and killing. And even more will come when the Bridge is rebuilt. My people—isn’t that funny, my people, they should be Father’s, they should be Giorn’s—but they are mine, and they’re fleeing the Borchstogs. They flee their farms and villages and seek shelter in the larger towns and cities. Soon those towns will be islands in a sea of death. I don’t know how it happened, but Vrulug has begun the Last War. That’s what the men are saying. That’s what the Borchstogs that we capture are saying, before they slit their throats and bite off their tongues to bleed out, and that’s if they go without taking my men with them. They say that we’re doomed, Mother. They say that Vrulug intends to destroy us all. And that, somehow, he has the means.”
He closed his eyes, and fell silent. Niara stared at him. Silently she said a prayer. It cannot be as bad as he says. Surely he’s exaggerating. He was young and inexperienced in war. It was possible he was simply scared.
“Be strong,” she said. “The Light will protect us.”
He snorted. “The Light! What good has it done us? You haven’t seen, High Mother. You don’t know. I’ve ridden out, taken our forces south to fight the ‘stogs. They hide from me though, slipping into the bogs and caves and deep woods.”
“Then that means they fear you.” He should have more spine. It was not fitting for a baron to be so given to despair. Giorn would not have acted this way.
“They fear my numbers,” he admitted, “but only until the Bridge is rebuilt. Feslan is fallen.” His voice broke, and he hung his head. “You haven’t seen, Mother. You haven’t seen what the ‘stogs have done. Little girls raped, their throats slit, left to rot in the mud like pigs. Men on poles, flayed of every inch of skin, their privates torn off, their hands and feet sawed off, and still alive.” He glared up her, and she was shocked by the violence in his eyes. “How can they be so cruel, Mother? How can the Borchstogs hate us so much?”
She held his gaze, then sank back in her chair. She took a deep breath, let it out. Perhaps Meril was not so weak after all. “I have no good answer,” she said. “Save that they serve their own dark god and hate us. We exist outside the shadow of Gilgaroth.”
He rose to his feet, began pacing back and forth. “But they are not without intelligence. They’re beings of reason, even if they choose not to use it. How can they do these things?”
“As I said, we exist outside the shadow of Gilgaroth, Meril. We are like nothing to them. Nothing. All that matters is contained within his shadow. Everything else is blasphemy and should be destroyed. Defiled.”
“Why?” He turned to stare at her.
“To show contempt for those that stand outside their sphere, to assert the mastery of Gilgaroth. Vrulug believes his god is the only worthy one, Meril, save perhaps Lorg-jilaad, Gilgaroth’s sire. The rest of the Omkar and all those who worship them are refuse that must be washed away.”
“How can I fight that? Tell me that, Mother.”
“I don’t know. But giving into them will not suffice, so you had better go out and destroy them. It’s not just our lives at stake, but our souls. If Gilgaroth claims these lands as his, our souls will be at his mercy, and he will cast them on the Fire. And it’s more than even that, Meril. It’s our whole way of life. It’s not just our civilization, but all the civilizations of the North. So you must dry your eyes and stand up.” Her voice was harsher than she’d intended, but it had the desired effect. Meril looked as if he’d been slapped.
He blinked, then nodded. “As you say, High Mother.” He lifted the crown and shoved it down on his head. She knew it would never be comfortable for him. “Will you say a prayer for me?”
She gave him a kindly smile. He deserved that much. “I will, Meril, if you will say one for me.”
That earned her a small smile in return, though it was fleeting. He turned to go. Just as he was about to slip through the entrance, he glanced back and said, “Shall we hold a funeral for Giorn? We may never find his body. If so, I would like you to preside. I feel badly enough our having parted on such terms, but . . .”
She shook her head. “I haven’t given up hope.” She heard her voice begin to crack, and said no more. He nodded and left.
When he was gone, she sagged and closed her eyes. Illiana, protect us.
She heard voices in the hall outside and recognized one as Raugst’s—Lord Raugst Wesrain now, for he had taken his wife’s family name, as was the custom in his circumstance. Presently Hiatha entered
and came before her. “Lord Raugst wants to see you, Mother.”
“And what does Lord Raugst want with the priesthood?”
Hiatha leaned forward. “It’s not the priesthood he wants, my lady.” Her eyes said exactly what she meant by this, though she did not voice the thought. “Anyway, he came with Meril, but didn’t depart with him. He says he desires an audience with you.”
“I rather think Fria might object to that.”
“He did not mention her, Mother.”
“I would think not.” Niara shook her head. Her conversation with Meril had wearied her, and she did not want to have to put up with Raugst’s latest overtures. It was obvious he desired her, and his pursuit was relentless, Fria or no. And Niara had not forgotten Giorn’s suspicions, either. She didn’t quite believe them, but just the same she always kept her guard up when around Raugst. But she was drained now, both spiritually and emotionally. “Tell him my duties prevent me from seeing him.” She pushed herself to her feet.
“What shall I tell him you’re doing?”
“Anything. Just make sure it’s something that would take awhile.” She departed the solar from the side entrance. Immediately she missed the warmth and the smell of flowers.
Hiatha hurried to keep up. “Where are you going, Mother?”
“For a ride. I cannot stand being here any longer, cannot stand for people to see me like this. Fresh air will do me good.”
“Would you like some company?”
Niara smiled gently and touched Hiatha’s arm. “Not just now, sister. Perhaps another day.”
Hiatha blushed and moved off to attend to Niara’s instructions.
Niara, grateful for the solitude, entered the stables, where the priestesses’ horses were kept. There she brushed and saddled Lissia, her beautiful white mare. When she was ready, she swung astride and departed the temple grounds, clattering down the wide, tree-lined avenues and past the bustling University of Hiarn, said to be one of the finest in the Crescent. The sun was bright and warm overhead, and the rhythmic beat of Lissia’s hooves on the cobbles soothed Niara’s nerves.
She passed the great, tiered Fountain of Aryl, whose crystal clear waters spewed water high overhead to catch the twinkling light. Niara felt a fine spray just lightly mist her face and smiled. It had been at the base of that fountain that King Greggory Wesrain had pledged his love to the Countess Aryl Hassoway, earning Count Hassoway’s eternal hate and starting a series of events that would lead to the attempted uprising immortalized in The Ballad of a Winter Morn.
Several times Niara fancied that she was being watched, and once or twice she turned to see a dark shape slipping into an alley. She shook her head and told herself she was imagining things. At last she swept under the East Arch, passing through the great gray wall that encircled the city, then rode past the farms and the farmers, finally entering the Forest of Sinestra—so named after a beloved baroness of ancient times who had taken many sojourns through these woods after her lord husband had died. Legend said her ghost lingered here, till calling out for him. The trees stretched tall and fair, and soft yellow sunlight filtered through. A gentle breeze whispered, ruffling the boughs. Birds sang and called to each other overhead.
Here, at last, Niara breathed easy. She dismounted and let Lissia wander.
The babbling of water drew her, and he came to a silky stream with clear running water over a bed of soft round silver stones. Niara knelt along the grassy banks and stared at her own reflection. A sad woman looked back at her, a woman who had lost a true love she could not even openly name.
Might there be some hope? Perhaps Giorn had survived yet. Someone had stolen the Moonstone from Vrulug’s trap. Despite what she had told Meril, she could not allow herself to believe it, could not allow herself any false hopes. But I will not preside over his funeral. Yes, that I refuse to do.
She sighed and leaned back, forcing her gaze to take in the beauty about her. Yet it had been in these woods, far to the east, that Harin Wesrain had died. Even now the villagers were calling the knoll where he been shot Harinmont. A statue of him was being erected under the dying Tree of Kings in his memory. That place was far away, however. These woods were soft, peaceful, unspoiled.
And yet . . .
She frowned. There was a strangeness here, a taint.
She strained her senses, but she could not tell what it could be. By the sudden shiver that coursed up her spine, she knew tell it was coming closer. By the moment. The forest seemed to grow dark around her, and the fragrance of the blossoms faded, turned sour.
A sound behind her. Rustling grass.
She spun.
Raugst—Lord Raugst—emerged from the undergrowth, wearing his hunting clothes, black on brown, with black boots and a gray cloak.
She felt a sinking feeling inside her but did not know why. “Raugst,” she said, rising.
He bowed. “Niara.”
She tried to contain the sudden swell of fear that ran through her. She wanted only to back away, to flee like the fox before the hound. Instead, she gazed at him levelly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
He lifted his eyebrows. At the same time, he stepped forward. “Me?”
“You were following me.”
“Not I.” Another step.
“Then one of your pack.” Immediately after assuming his new position as Captain of the Castle Guard, he had begun appointing his own men. They followed him about and followed his orders unquestioningly. Niara had heard rumors that no one knew them. They must come from the south, some said, from the border. His old friends, they said.
He did not answer. His eyes fastened on her even as he stepped toward her. She could smell him now. A strange musk rose from him. She felt a heaviness fall over her.
He reached out a hand and traced her cheek. His finger was rough, but warm. She stared up at him dumbly, trying to shrug off that heaviness. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, and she felt small in his shadow. She was tall herself, and not many men could make her feel small.
“What . . . ?” She blinked.
“Niara . . .”
He bent his head. His lips neared hers. She felt the desire to close her eyes and part her lips.
She slapped him and stumbled back. She shook her head, clearing it.
“I don’t . . .” Feeling something dark cross her soul, she looked up at him. “You aren’t . . . no, it can’t be . . .” Could Giorn have been right? Surely it was the only explanation for the fog that had stolen over her.
“Don’t fight me,” he said, taking another step forward.
She moved back. Part of her thought, No, don’t run from him. He will chase you down. But she did not want to be close to him again. He was powerful, and he had chosen to exert that power now, here, away from prying eyes. Why?
Backing away, gasping for air, she stared at him, and he matched her gaze unblinkingly. An undeniable power radiated off of him. She could feel it on the air. It was then that she knew with absolute certainty that Giorn had indeed been right.
Once again, he stepped forward.
Once again, she stepped back, but this time her foothold gave way. She pinwheeled her arms—too late—and fell backward into the cold, gurgling stream. Raugst laughed above her. The coldness shocked her back to herself. I cannot let him know that I’ve caught on to what he is.
She stood up from the stream, feeling her wet dress hanging about her like a weight, knowing she looked pitiful, ridiculous.
“Just leave me alone.”
She brushed past him. He paused for a moment, then walked beside her. She loathed his presence. He was an abomination. She wanted to flinch away but had to hide it. She kept her eyes straight ahead. Where was Lissia? She must leave. Must warn Meril.
Raugst grabbed her arm. “I must have you, Niara.”
Again she felt a heaviness fall over her. This time she used her own power and threw it off.
“Never.”
Raugst’s eyes widened. “The rumors are true, then.�
� His voice was ragged. “You are of the Light-born.” He snorted, a sort of laugh—wryly amused at something. “I’ve fallen under the spell of a Light-born . . .”
“Unhand me.”
Surprisingly, he did. Staring down at her, evidently seeing the disgust in her face, he said, “You know.” He did not make it a question.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her heart crashed against her ribs.
Turning away, she stalked through the forest, dripping water as she went. She whistled, calling for Lissia. The mare did not come. Where—?
From somewhere, the horse screamed in agony.
Niara ran toward the sound. Raugst kept pace beside her, silent as death. At last she reached a small clearing, where Lissia had been nibbling some grass, but now five great black wolves were tearing at her and the beautiful white mare was on the ground, kicking feebly, her red blood spilling across the grass.
“No!”
Niara started to run toward the mare and scatter the wolves, but a strong hand held her back.
“It’s too late,” Raugst said.
He was right. The great black wolves slavered and growled, and blood and flesh matted their whiskers. They were huge wolves, unnatural, more demon than animal. Lurum-cruvalen, Niara realized belatedly—the great wolves of the Aragst, the ones who did Vrulug’s bidding and whom legend said could change shape . . .
She wheeled on Raugst. “You did this.”
He stared at her, then to the wolves ripping at the dying mare, eating Lissia alive. “You know.” That was all he needed to say.
It was his turn to whistle. Shortly his handsome black charger appeared out of the forest, and he swung astride it. “I really must go,” he said, looking down at her sadly. “I fear for Meril. All these deaths have left him in a bad way.”
Niara was hardly listening. She looked from Raugst to the wolves. Lissia had stilled now, and the wolves were losing interest in her. They turned their gore-coated heads toward Niara. Flies buzzed about their dripping whiskers.
“No . . .”
She backed away.
The wolves approached, hunched and slavering. So, she thought. Raugst’s pack had come with him after all. Giorn, I am so sorry.