Camarei XI
The Village
On the road without Valkil and Ahlaha, the quartet kept to themselves. Malquin no longer guided the youths in training, Aioni spoke only to Warrior, and Erona ignored Shavyn’s attempts at conversation.
The landscape changed to rolling hills dotted with acovet. At the first river outside of the desert, they washed and drank until they felt like new. From there, Erona guided them towards her village. Memories lingered on recognizable stones where she had stopped with her mother and Mir, resting despite their fear of the therill.
Winding through a valley, Erona turned a rocky corner and saw the vast area that her people farmed. A river snaked through yellow grains and green grasses, glittering in the fading light of the setting White Star. On its banks, several dozen huts remained. Nobody moved among them.
Erona sprinted the rest of the way, the others shouting after her. The wind whipped at her hair and buffeted her cheeks. Her legs ached and each breath became difficult to draw but still she ran.
She found the village abandoned, the fires long dead. Inside her hut, a strip of cloth with words scrawled in dye read, “Find us where we draw stones.”
When the others caught up, Erona met them with a smile. “They’ve gone into the quarry. There are caves there.”
The least out of breath, Aioni was first to respond. “They must have had good reason to leave.”
“I suppose the therill must have continued its attacks,” Malquin said.
“Where is the quarry?” Aioni asked.
Erona led the way. Around one hill and over the next, they found the quarry, a short and shallow valley full of boulders. On many of the stones, a symbol had been drawn, and when Erona ran her finger over one, it came off red on her fingertip. “Is this blood?”
“That symbol,” Malquin said. “It’s the one Valkil drew.”
Erona scrambled over the rocks to the cave entrance, hidden by a canvas plastered with mud the same red shade as the quarry walls. She pushed the canvas aside, then reeled back from the smell. The White Star’s light didn’t penetrate deep inside but she caught a glimpse of pale, severed limbs and splattered blood.
Malquin glanced inside as Erona vomited, then came to her side. “By the stars,” he whispered, placing a hand on Erona’s back. “I’m so sorry..”
“Gut up,” Aioni said. “The therill may be watching. We need to build defenses.”
Erona pushed Malquin away as she straightened up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Aioni’s right.”
“There is always a moment to mourn,” Malquin said. “Take your time.”
“No,” Erona said. “I knew this might be all I had to come back to. When we kill the therill, I’ll do my mourning, but not until then.”
They returned to the village. Breaking apart the huts, they used the wood and canvas to construct a circular fence with jagged wooden shards around the firepit. Aioni stood apart from the others as they worked, her eyes on the horizon. She said nothing until Malquin called to her to say their defenses were complete. Then she came to the fireside with a sigh. “The White Star will not be up much longer. We will be more vulnerable in the relative darkness of the Red Star.”
“If they’re waiting until then,” Malquin said, “it would give us time to make traps to warn of their coming.”
“I’ve trained under the Red Star,” Shavyn said. “But Valkil would say that we can’t assume our enemies have the same weaknesses we do. If they can see better under the Red Star than we can, they gain an advantage. Given the nature of our enemy, we must retain all possible advantage.”
“Valkil would have wanted to hunt the therill at once,” Malquin said. “He would have spared no time for building defenses or traps. Do you not think of these as advantages?”
“He thought pressure was the highest advantage,” Shavyn said. “To push your opponent at all times. To be constantly on the move. He would say that building these defenses only gives our enemy the opportunity to plan their attack.”
“We will hunt them,” Aioni said. “Don’t you worry. Warrior and I will find their trail if there is one to be found. Then we can decide if we pursue the therill or wait for it here.”
“We waited for them,” Erona said. “We never went after them, not as long as I was here. They picked us apart.”
“I refuse to believe these defenses were a waste of time,” Malquin said. “Valkil is reckless. That he survived all those battles doesn’t make him right. It makes him lucky.”
Warrior brought a dead adroden to Aioni and she took it from his mouth. “Warbug is right. Let’s eat and then discuss our tactics on full bellies.”
They grilled the adroden over the fire and ate in silence. Erona took one bite and then set her meal aside. Memories of her life in the village played before her eyes and she thought of those dead in the quarry cave. A whine from Warrior broke her reverie. The varrucat sat beside Aioni, his ears perked and tail flapping back and forth.
“Aioni,” Erona said, getting the attention of the others. “What’s wrong with Warrior?”
Aioni put her hand on the varrucat’s head and Warrior lost interest in whatever he had heard. “Nothing,” Aioni said. “He gets distracted sometimes. He’ll let us know if there’s something to fear.”
As if on cue, Warrior growled. When they followed his gaze, they saw what he did; a distant figure standing alone in the grain fields, watching them.
Malquin drew his blade and Aioni took out her bow. Together, they stared back at the motionless figure. Malquin raised his hand over his head and called out, “Hello!”
“Is that wise?” Shavyn asked.
“If it isn’t man, we’ll know soon enough,” Aioni said, fretting an arrow.
“How far do you think it is?” Malquin asked.
Aioni bit her lip as she looked down the arrow at her target. “At the edge of my range.”
“Then it knows your range,” Shavyn said.
Malquin waved his hand over his head again. The figure didn’t move.
“What do we do?” Erona asked.
“It’s drawing us out,” Shavyn said. “It knows we’ll have to come investigate.”
“We’re not leaving this circle,” Malquin said. “We built these fences for a reason.”
Warrior suddenly bolted for the fields. Aioni went first to the circle’s edge, calling after him, but when the varrucat didn’t slow, she went after him. Malquin cursed and held the youths back. “Hold the line,” he told them. “Don’t forget yourselves.”
Aioni stopped at the edge of the field where Warrior had disappeared into high grain. She drew back an arrow. “Say something,” she called to the figure. “Give me a reason not to let this go.”
Still the figure didn’t move. The moment drew on, increasingly tense. Finally, Aioni called back, “Mal?”
“Get back here,” he said. “Leave Warrior be.”
From somewhere deep in the grain, the varrucat yelped and suddenly went silent. Aioni screamed his name but there was no response. Furious, she centered herself and took aim before releasing the bowstring. Erona lost sight of the arrow but a moment later, the figure shuddered and went down.
Something behind Erona coughed. She turned as Malquin and Shavyn did, her heart pounding as if to escape her chest.
A dozen soldiers stood within the perimeter of their fence, dressed in spiked armor that gave them the appearance of therill. They even wore helmets with iron likenesses of therill; the long jaws and round eyes. One of them stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, and Malquin charged him with a cry.
Erona watched, jaw agape, as each moment played out slow and dreamlike. The soldier blocked Malquin's attack with his armored forearm and then struck Malquin in the chest, sending him rolling. Shavyn went next but the soldier leapt back from his blade and then struck him across the face. The Ducal guard went down and was still.
The soldier stepped closer to Erona. She brought up her sword but the soldier k
nocked it out of her hands. With a whimper, she shut her eyes and awaited death.
Skor-Adal XI
The Nightstorm
Out of necessity, the caliphs remained among the shacks where the Praether had attacked them. All of them had been wounded and several needed time to heal or die.
Aelida stood guard most often, looking out for Zor thralls and the Praether's return. The Praether had raked her back with its claws and slashed her chest but the cuts had stopped bleeding. The recruits had died, shivering and wailing for the aid of gods who did not come. Zethyr and Meon were not far behind them; they shuddered under their blankets and struggled for each breath. Arvad could no longer stand, one leg torn open to the bone, but he retained his faculties. Slither had taken the Praether's strike to the face, leaving her disfigured underneath the swaths of cloth wrapped around her head.
They had laid Krudah beside Zethyr and Meon. His arm was tightly wrapped in the torn cloth of his own uniform and was not expected to heal. The wounds to his chest had clotted. It seemed that he would survive, if only he would swallow the food and water that Aelida and Arvad tried to give him.
"His body lives," Aelida told Arvad, "but his mind is considering surrender."
They had resigned themselves to remaining among the shacks that had lured them into the Praether's trap and their own splattered blood drying in the dirt, but the coming of a nightstorm forced them to reconsider. Under the dim light of the Red Star, an approaching nightstorm could be hard to see on the horizon, and it was nearly upon them by the time they realized it. Arvad was the first to hear its wailing call, often likened to the cry of a grieving widow, and Aelida confirmed his suspicions. The world to the west seemed swallowed up by darkness, the distant pinpricks of stars in the sky gone.
Aelida sat beside Arvad and Slither. "The nightstorm will be here shortly. We should go."
"How can we?" Arvad asked. "Only the two of you can walk."
"I could drag Krudah along behind me," Aelida said. "Slither could take Meon or Zethyr. That way we would only have to leave one of them behind."
"Ay, and which should that be?" Slither asked, partly muted by the bandages around her face. "Who decides who comes and who dies?"
"We've made difficult decisions like this before," Aelida said. "Zethyr and Meon knew they might give their lives on this mission. They fought bravely and will find themselves in Skor's halls when they wake."
"I would go with them," Arvad said. "I couldn't keep up with you. Not with my leg like this." He thought a moment. "Meon seems to be faring better than Zethyr. Take her. I'll stay behind with Zethyr. Perhaps we can take shelter in the shacks and wait out the storm."
"Nah," Slither said. "Better to leave Zee-child and Tongueless behind. They're not awake. Won't even know what comes for them. Better to go that way than open-eyed and thinking like you would, Arvad."
"The nightstorms aren't so bad," Arvad said.
"Have you ever been inside one?" Aelida asked.
"No, but I've spoken to survivors. There are worse things in this world than being caught up in the sweeping dark."
"Which survivors you been talking to, boy?" Slither asked. "Those I know be broken. Haunted."
"Not all of them," Arvad said. "Some emerge from the storm as they were before. I've heard it said the nightstorms are merely the places in the world that the gods can't see into."
"Aye, and what manner of critters do you think live there?" Slither asked. "Hiding from the eyes of the gods? Only the most terrible things be that desperate."
"I don't know what the nightstorms are," Aelida said, "but I believe the gods can see all things at all times. Skor has no limits."
Arvad shrugged. "I hope you're right. My mind is made up. I'll stay behind with the others and take shelter inside. Once the nightstorm is over and the wounded are better, we'll come after you."
"We're stronger together," Aelida said. "Even against whatever spirits might haunt the nightstorm. We'll all stay."
"We should get the general to safety at least," Arvad said.
"Nah," Slither said. "He'd want to be here with us. Even if it's the end. This is how he'd want to go."
☆ ☆ ☆
The shack had only one door, held shut with a stonewood bolt. All around it, the gaps glowed with the dull crimson of the Red Star's light. The caliphs had no fire and no light inside, and so they watched as the door's halo dimmed, heralding the nightstorm's coming. The wailing they had heard in the distance grew in volume and pitch until its piercing whine deafened them, drowning out all other sound. Darkness became complete, such that the caliphs discerned no difference with their eyes open or closed.
Arvad tried to sleep but the wailing proved too loud. It droned on incessantly, modulated like the anguished cry of a strange god who never needed to take a breath to replenish its air and could go on screaming until the end of the world. There was no wind or rain like a typical, physical storm. The shack walls did not shake. Arvad did not feel cold, though he shivered.
As time passed and the storm made no sign that it would soon be gone, Arvad began to understand how it might break down the mind. There was no sensation but sound, and even within that sense there was only the one wail. His mind searched for anything else and found nothing. Arvad couldn't think about his companions or his quest; the sound stole his focus and held it captive.
When anxiety threatened to destroy him, he desperately felt the surrounding area for his pack and found it nearby. The rough feel of canvas was a welcome sensory change from the storm's wailing monotony. He withdrew his flintrocks and set about making a fire to stave off the black. He began carefully, worried about what he might accidentally hit in the darkness, but with each failed attempt at making fire, he struck harder. It seemed impossible that he could hit the flintrocks together with such force and not even see so much as a spark. His heart raced ever faster in his chest as the inexplicable fear of the dark and the endless wail grew. He needed to see the spark to know that the world still existed as he knew it.
Then he burned himself, not on the flintrocks themselves but the fire they had lit on the scattered remains of shrubs that littered the floor. Arvad's eyes were open and yet he saw nothing, and the flame had no heat that he could feel, though the burning pain was real enough. Manic, he stamped out the invisible fire. Once sure it was gone, he put the flintrocks away and resigned himself to whatever fate the nightstorm would bring.
Someone moved past him in the darkness. He tried to catch hold but it pushed his hands away. Then it was gone. He blindly searched the surrounding area with outstretched hands but found nothing.
Arvad noticed the moment the volume of the nightstorm's wail began to diminish. It had become his entire world and any subtle change stood out stark like a star in the night sky. He wanted to feel relief but instead felt a new kind of anxiety. The nightstorm had erased everything to such a degree that he no longer felt sure that the world he remembered had ever been real. He felt that the light might return and show him a world he no longer recognized, if the light returned at all.
Yet when the crimson halo around the door began to shine, blazing like an inferno even at its dimmest, it illuminated the world that he remembered; his wounded companions remained at one end of the shack and Aelida lay near them, curled with her head in her hands.
Only Slither was gone.
Mourisiel XI
The Majordomo
Music played in the Harivaz eastern ballroom where the Mourisiel court danced and dined by the light of a hundred chandeliers. On a dais, Prince Vakara sat in the center throne with his siblings at his sides, servants and guards behind and beside them. Pasala chewed her fingernails and stared at the floor, and Amdara toyed with a loose thread at the end of his sleeve, but Vakara looked out over the revelers with a grim scowl.
From the corner of the room, Torye picked at a cheese plate and watched the royal siblings. She smiled at those who passed with all the courtesy she could muster but avoided conversation unti
l Fiskahn approached her.
"You're looking lovely," he said, focused on the table overflowing with fruits and cheeses.
"I am not known to wear dresses." Gesturing to her leather Oathen uniform, she said, "It is not the first time I've been to one of these balls dressed like this."
"It's been some time since you've been to one of these at all," Fiskahn said. "Did you have any trouble?"
"No, of course not. My father's name still carries weight. Do they ever give you trouble? You haven't been Pasala's sexual tutor in years now."
"True," Fiskahn said around an epil slice in his cheek. "Others in my position are turned away. I like to think they keep me around for my quick wit and charming company. If I am honest with myself, however, I think they have forgotten about me so entirely that it doesn't even occur to them to let the guards know I am not to be permitted entry. I'll take advantage as long as I can."
"Nobody would blame you." Torye turned so she stood just beside him, though they continued to look away from one another. "Your friend in the guard has everything prepared?"
"Yes. It should be any moment now."
Torye paused. "I risk my life for Theina's. If our little plot doesn't work out, be sure to let Aris know that. See that Razhier is cared for."
"Of course," Fiskahn said. "You have my word."
The old man wandered back into the crowds, and Torye made her way toward a side door. She waited for Fiskahn to begin his drunken distraction on the opposite side of the room, calling for everyone’s attention so he could toast the Crown Prince, before she went through the door and locked it behind her. The halls beyond were conspicuously empty. Torye listened for the heavy footsteps of guards in adjacent halls but heard nothing over the wind whistling through the drafty stones. She passed through the cold halls, past winter white windows and fraying tapestries, without seeing a soul.
At the foot of a staircase leading up to the royal bedchambers, she paused and looked back the way she had come. Despite rumors of the Mourisiel family's diminishing wealth and the thinning of the guard, it struck her as odd that so much of the palace seemed abandoned. Her hunter's caution told her to go back. It wasn't too late to return to the ballroom and escape without drawing attention.
White Star Phase: Book One of the Ascendants Chronicle Page 17