by Cat Bruno
“Give me your word that you will not seduce her!” Blaidd growled against Blaze’s face.
“I will make no such vow for I am not yours to command,” the other man winced.
The two continued to grapple, rolling along the wooden planks, sliding as the ship shifted with the tide. Neither reached for weapon, and no punches were thrown. However, neither man loosened fingers.
“I will throw you into the sea,” Blaidd warned, although he knew his words were harmless, for few were better swimmers than Blaze.
Growing angry that he could not restrain the larger man, Blaidd tore at his tunic, ripping it free. Again he attempted to hold Blaze against the planks, and, feeling his eyes darken, he welcomed the extra strength. Only then was Blaidd, his robe slipping from his shoulders, able to sit atop the bare-chested Islander.
“She is near-kin to you, but, more she is god-touched. I will not permit you to have her.”
The laughter that came from beneath him caused Blaidd to shudder. He looked as Blaze smiled up at him, sun-bleached smile shining with impunity.
“Without your Tribe-blood, you are no match for me,” the other man taunted. “But I will heed your words, Blaidd. I have no plans to woo Syrsha. In exchange, you will always give me first rights on any woman we encounter.”
Leaning back as his eyes cooled, Blaidd nodded, quickly agreeing to the offered deal.
“So be it,” he uttered, crawling off.
Blaidd rose first and offered an extended hand, which Blaze grabbed. Standing near to each other, the two appeared young once more, for their clothing was torn and tattered, and their faces flushed. Blaze combed his fingers through his wavy hair, until the full locks lay tighter against his head. Blaidd, who usually kept his head shaven, scratched at his scalp where new hair had started to grow. Both looked unsettled, yet the confrontation had been short-lived.
“Perhaps the cook has something readied now,” Blaidd sighed.
The two, friends again, climbed down narrow steps in search of the aged cook, who, they had learned, was the captain’s mother. Her food was passable, and she had a fondness for both boys, who smiled and listened to her tales when no one else would.
For the next few hours, the boys ate and sipped watered wine, waiting for the sounds of an approaching rider.
*****
Ravenfold, the childhood home of Queen Assana, was a two-day ride from the King’s City, situated near the eastern edge of the Vollaxo River. The group was only hours away, and Pietro looked about nervously, searching for the rocky cliffs that Jarek had mentioned. At his side rode a chestnut-haired woman, a Lightkeeper named Tanic. She talked to him often, and Pietro learned much of her, including her dislike of horses. Four other Lightkeepers traveled with the group, as well as ten Royal Guardsmen. Queen Assana’s sons rode with her in a silver-painted coach, although he had seen them only when they peeked out the curtained windows.
The guards paid him little heed, much to his surprise, but Assana favored him and had begun to treat him more like a healer and less like the King’s prisoner. It would still not be easy to escape as Jarek had planned, Pietro had realized. The presence of the Lightkeepers had been a surprise, one that added difficulty to their arrangement.
Beside him, the woman called out his name, rolling the sounds as if she was a court musician and not a trained mage.
“Pietro, you are a healer, but do not wear the robes of a master. By all accounts, the Queen and her sons live because of you.”
It had been many moon years since Pietro had last spent time with any woman but the queen, and his life pulse quickened beneath his bleached tunic. After several hours of chatter, the woman now seemed at ease with him. Her question was one that few would voice, yet her words were honey-sweet. In truth, Tanic was quite pretty in her youth, not unlike the women he once preferred. Cream-skinned and thin, she reminded him of his days at the Academy, where his leisure time had often been spent in taverns or with women. It was a life he no longer recognized as his own, having been confined to the Grand Palace since his capture. Yet, it was one that he often longed for, and, behind his gaze, a heated desire burned.
The woman was mage-trained, although the Lightkeepers kept much of their ways hidden, unlike the Mage-Guild. Little was known about them, yet they were praised as the defenders against the dark arts and against the Tribe. With a tic of his shoulders, Pietro struggled to find words to explain his past.
Finally, he muttered, “I was a half-moon year away from earning my Master’s Robes when King Delwin found me.”
Only half was true, he knew, but there were others too near for him to explain further.
Unsatisfied with his reply, she said, “I had heard that you are his prisoner. Yet you ride as a free man, and I have not once seen the Queen’s Guards shackle you.”
Again, he stumbled in reply. “For over fifteen moon years, I have been the King’s loyal servant and healer. As reward, he grants me some freedoms.”
Unable to look at her as he spoke, Pietro did not see the doubt cross her face. But her next words told him as much.
“You are kin to him as well, I know, and a finer healer than many in Rexterra. Whatever past crime you committed must certainly be forgiven by now. We might become friends, Pietro, for I am to be with the Queen for the next few moon years.”
Beneath his loose pants, Pietro stirred. Her voice hummed with unspoken suggestions, and he had not been with a woman since his Healer Journey. When Tanic brought her horse nearer, he almost cried aloud. None of the guards appeared concerned as the yellow-robed woman placed her hand on his, their mounts nearly atop one another.
“Tell me more about yourself so that I might know my new friend.”
His body warmed, until his hand felt aflame. When he tried to pull it free, her fingers rubbed against his. Again he looked about hastily to see if any watched.
Breathing quickly, he answered, “I am a distant cousin to the King, yet I was sent to the Healer’s Academy when I was a boy of twelve. I came to enjoy my time there and learned the ways of the healing arts. As healers we take vows, you see, and it was those vows that led me to become prisoner.”
No one listened, so he added, “Chief among our vows, and the one we must never break, is to do no harm. I intervened when the King’s Guardsmen would have killed in front of me.”
“You speak of the woman named Caryss,” she breathed, quietly, as if she knew the name to be a cursed one.
With blazing cheeks, he nodded.
Louder, she told him, “I do not blame you for that choice, Pietro, for our vows are what binds us to the side of the light. In truth, I much admire that you tried to save her, despite her association with the Tribe. I would hear more of this woman for we have many hours yet in the saddle, and her tale must be an interesting one.”
He did not want to talk of Bronwen, as she was called during her time at the Academy, yet Tanic’s voice was smooth and her body close. Pietro’s life pulse thumped hard as his silence broke.
“She was as fine of a healer as any and well-respected by the masters. There was never a hint or rumor of her involvement with the Tribe, nor did any know that she was with child.” After a pause, he added, “Tanic, you must understand that I am King Delwin’s prisoner still and must take caution in what I say.”
His last words were mumbled, and Pietro was surprised that he had admitted such at all. Yet it was as if he could not contain his thoughts when she was so near.
“If we are to be friends and more, Pietro, then you must learn to trust me. Here,” she sang, “Let me take your hand again.”
When he did not protest, she grasped his hand, and his fingers throbbed in unison with her own.
In a soft whisper, she explained, “There is a ward about us, so that the Queen’s men cannot hear what we discuss. I am here as a Lightkeeper and not as the King’s spy. What more do you know of Caryss? And of her babe.”
She had not lied, for there was a dull humming around them, and Pietro
recognized the signs of a warding.
“I never saw the babe,” he confessed, unable to heed his words. “But I watched the Crow slice Caryss’s neck and will never forget how he threw her to the ground. I know not what you have heard, but Caryss never once harmed King Herrin.”
“How do you know that to be true?” she asked.
Before he could stop himself, Pietro rambled, “There was a boy with Herrin and Caryss and the others. On our ride back to the King’s City, he told me as much.”
“Who was the boy? Is he Tribe?” she pressed.
“An orphan, but not Tribe. King Delwin permitted him to join the Royal Army after his capture.”
He watched her brow furrow as she stated, “I did not know there was another on the field that day.”
When Pietro said nothing, suddenly embarrassed that he had revealed so much, Tanic suggested, “There is much that we can teach each other. And the Lightkeepers have need of a healer, for we have none. When we return to the King’s City, I will inquire about buying your freedom.”
Her words fell heavy across his and he cried, “Queen Assana will not let me go!” Despite the ward, Pietro glanced hurriedly around, fearing that the Lightkeeper’s words would be heard.
With a smile that told of other things, Tanic laughed, “My brother tells be often how convincing I can be when I desire something. Think on my offer, healer. I promise that you will be safe under my watch.”
When her hand left his and reached for her reins, Pietro fell against the neck of his mount, its coarse main sticking to his lips as he hung there. Already he began to forget his admissions, yet he worried that he had confessed too much. His arms around the horse’s neck, he searched the horizon for the cliffs.
As Tanic quieted, he saw the jagged outline of black crags, no more than an hour’s ride east. The Lightkeeper’s words echoed loudly in his ears as his horse trotted on, and Pietro did not know whether to cry aloud in celebration or resignation.
*****
“He plans to join the girl within a few moons, Conri.”
“They are surprisingly close for having never met each other,” the High Lord stated.
The two were seated fireside, near yellow-tipped flames that leaped from blackened logs. Both held etched goblets filled with a garnet-colored wine. Conall looked to his brother, whose own gaze was lost to the fitful, flittering flames. The High Lord was often distant when talk turned to news of his daughter, a girl he had not seen in flesh since she was a babe. It was not by choice that Conri could not visit, but rather by dictate, for they both knew that their father still watched.
And waited.
Tigorra had gifted them with runes, ones that the fennidi had promised would keep Nox from hearing what they discussed. But it was only here, in the small study in an isolated wing of the large manse, that the two brothers talked of their children. The fennidi queen, Ohdra, had sent Tigorra to assist Nahla many moon years before, but the small woman had decided to stay and had called for her son, Langor, to join her.
It had been strange at first to have the fennidi about, but Conall had come to value his time in conversation with both. And, more, it deepened Ohdra’s vow to defend the Wolves and to back Syrsha upon her return. The High Lord had agreed, and, over the moon years, fennidi had come and gone, especially during the time spent in battle with the Crows, for the North had become starved of resources under the tight restrictions of King Delwin.
Nox had allowed his children to clash without much intervention, although he was not pleased that Conri would not speak on where the girl had gone. For moon years, Conri had ordered strikes on Crow, and although some of their own kin were killed, the Crows suffered more. Many had been killed before Nox commanded Conri to cease.
Conall knew with certainty that while his brother had agreed, it was only a temporary action. The fight would not end until all Crows were killed and the Rexterran King slaughtered for his role in Caryss’s death. His brother waited, too, for his daughter to return home and have the vengeance that he long ago had promised. The Crow High Lord’s death would be hers alone.
Yet none, not even Nox, had prepared to have Rexterra enter the battlefield so soon. Delwin, with less than a moon year as king, had surprised them by waiting so few moons after his brother’s death to strike. He, too, had a death to avenge, but, unlike the Tribe, he would no longer wait to attack.
“The Queen has been sent to her childhood home,” Conall informed his brother as his wine glistened ebony against the firelight.
When Conri did not respond, he further explained, “It is named Ravenfold, and, by all reports, it is ringed with stone walls and enforced with atraglacia.”
Conri glanced at him with darkening eyes, as Conall knew he would at mention of the black-ice.
“You think he readies to attack,” Conri snarled.
“Aye. With his wife and children safe, he will send his army north. Eirrannia will be his first target. They are weak and hungry, yet still defiant. No tariffs have been paid in nearly three moon years if you recall.”
“They owe Rexterra nothing!” the High Lord bellowed. In his hands, the wine now shined blood-red.
Since Caryss had died, Conri cared little for Eirrannia, although Conall often reminded him that his daughter considered the North her home. Conri would defend Eirrannia, Conall guessed, although he would not sacrifice the Tribelands to do so.
“We must decide our course of action soon, brother,” Conall warned, keeping his words taut and unaffected.
“He will tighten our chains, Conall, and permit us to do little,” Conri growled, his voice low and their father unnamed, despite the rune’s protection.
“The girl will have little reason to return if she has no lands to rule,” Conall countered.
His brother’s pale face flushed and his eyes flashed. “You think that I do not understand how trapped the Wolves have become? He wants her for his own and cares naught if all of Cordisia is burned to the ground, leaving only rock and rubble in its place. He will let Rexterra and Eirrannia war, for they will be weakened when he is ready to strike. He plays a similar game as the Rexterran king.”
The High Lord’s declaration was grave, but truthful.
“The Crows will answer his call. The Bears will have little choice but to follow. But what of the Wolves, Conri? If we disobey, we stand to lose everything.”
This was not a new conversation, for the two had debated the same for moon years and longer. Without Nox, they would be nothing, little more than mortals, powerless and disabled.
Soon, Conri would have to choose between his father and his daughter. Between what the Tribe once was and what the Tribe would become.
Nearly thirty moon years before, the High Lord had heeded Nox’s command, killing Caryss’s parents before bringing her to safety. Ten moon years later, he obeyed again, and Syrsha was born of that order. But much had changed; the death of Caryss had affected the High Lord more than he had believed. His daughter had, as her mother had wished, not been raised to fear the dark god. Syrsha was Tribe, but she was more.
Conall did not doubt the choice his brother would make.
“Then we must not lose,” the High Lord whispered before throwing the goblet into the crackling flames.
Rising from his chair, Conri called, “Have Tigorra call for Ohdra. Together, we will visit Ursono”
His words were crisp, clipped and demanding. For his brother to visit the High Lord of the Bears was rare. However, Conri’s next words came as no surprise.
“It is time for Syrsha to come home.”
*****
12
Remembering Jarek’s promise that a body similar to Pietro’s size and coloring would already be in place at the base of the Shallach’s Cliffs, the healer began to fret. Once the Queen’s men looked, they would find the bloodied body. He had forgotten to ask from where the body would come or who would place it there, and, as he neared the jagged cliffs, his life pulse thumped unevenly against his robe.
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At his side rode the Lightkeeper, Tanic. For nearly an hour, he unsuccessfully pondered how he might escape the woman. With her so near, he could not strike his horse without notice. Jarek had instructed him to veer from the group, although he had offered little more than suggestion on how to do so. In a pouch at his waist, hidden and bound, was a sprig of dried yew, the scent of which would send his mount into a fit. He had figured such a ploy as his best chance to convince those who watched.
Yet Tanic kept so close that he could not reach for the plant.
“I can see the towering turrets of Ravenfold just there!” she suddenly exclaimed, pointing toward the northwestern horizon.
When Pietro looked, he, too could see the outline of the top edges of the slate and stone castle. The group would soon turn west and arrive within the hour. His fingers shook as he untied the leather strings around the edge of his pouch. Once opened, he reached into the bag, yet hesitated and did not grab the yew leaves.
“How long does the Queen plan to stay?” Tanic interrupted.
“I know not,” he retorted, twisting in his saddle to try to pull his horse far from the woman.
His words sounded strained and lined with annoyance, yet the Lightkeeper acted as if she had not noticed.
“Last night, I watched as her guards searched for something in one of the carts. There were at least a dozen wooden trunks! I think she intends to stay at Ravenfold for more than a visit.”
With each word that Tanic spoke, the cliffs grew closer. Ahead, the Queen’s Guard led the group west, angling away from the rocky ledges. Soon, Pietro would lose the chance to get near the cliffs. With a quick glance toward Tanic, he pulled at his mount.
As it started to trot away, Tanic called out, “Pietro, the lead scout has turned inland. Take heed before you get lost!”
He closed his eyes quickly, as if he could rid himself of the woman. Slowing his horse, he thought on his options, the first being to kick at the mount until it ran fast from the group. He feared that the Lightkeeper would follow in an attempt to save him. Or she would cry out in alarm and alert the Royal Guardsmen that he fled. Moments, later, Pietro realized that his only hope rested on Tanic becoming distracted enough that he could ride off without her immediate notice.