Lassendil watched the light fade. Aranith glowed pink in the dusk, its walls a dusky rose limestone. It had been built in tiers, rising up from a wooded plain to a turreted fortress at its crown. Aranith’s beauty, like all things built by Ennadil hands, was famed throughout Isador. From a distance, the city resembled a magnificent pink wedding cake, thrusting sky-wards from a bed of green. Lassendil tried not to think about the fate that awaited this city. A dull ache twisted somewhere between his stomach and ribcage. He was under no illusions about their ability to hold Aranith against the Morg. No army had ever breached Aranith’s walls, but then the Ennadil had never fought such a powerful enemy.
Lassendil remained there, standing on the castle wall, long after the light had faded. His keen gaze could make out the glow from the Morg’s campfires on the southern horizon. It lit up the sky like a small city. Their numbers had tripled since Mithridel had been taken.
Lassendil took a deep steadying breath and turned his back on the glowing southern sky. Then, his tall, lithe frame tense with purpose, he re-entered the fortress. Inside Aranith, the air was cool and laced with the scent of jasmine. A calming silence filled the hallways, broken only by the tinkling of numerous fountains that dotted the interior of the fortress. Aranith was built on three springs. The delicious, sparkling water fed Aranith’s fountains and made the city a place of pilgrimage. The spring water was known to have miraculous, healing powers.
Lassendil moved swiftly through the lofty hallways. Brass lanterns hung from the vaulted ceilings and long shadows played across the dusky walls. Lassendil had grown up here—his family, the House of Florin, were members of the Ennadil aristocracy—one of the four Ennadil houses residing within Aranith. Four representatives from each house made up Aranith’s Elder Council. Lassendil was not yet old enough to become a council member, although his father, two of his uncles and his maternal grandfather were, or had been, members. Out of these four men, only his father was still alive. His grandfather and his two uncles perished in the sacking of Mithridel.
Usually, Aranith’s hallways were thronged with people taking their evening stroll, but tonight Lassendil walked alone. Every able-bodied Ennadil man who had survived thus far had joined the army that camped around the base of Aranith, just inside the city walls. Later, he would join them, but first he had to make sure his sister was safely escorted from the city.
Lassendil’s pace quickened as he thought of his headstrong younger sister, Adelyis. After ten years with her nose buried in books, she had only recently finished her studies in sorcery. She was now a witch and unlike the other Ennadil wizards and witches residing in Aranith, who were staying on to fight, she was leaving. It had not been easy to convince her; Lassendil and his father had argued with her for days before she had finally, ungraciously, relented. She was now making her final preparations and would leave within the hour.
The door to Adelyis’s chamber was ajar. Even so, Lassendil knocked before entering. He found his sister with her back to him, looking out of the window. She was wearing a blue traveling cloak and her long black hair was braided down her back. Her bags sat on her bed behind her. Lassendil could tell by the set of her shoulders that Adelyis was upset.
“Adelyis . . . are you ready?”
“No,” Adelyis’s voice, low and musical, was strained, “but I had better get this over with.” She turned and looked into her brother’s face. They looked so alike, Adelyis and Lassendil Florin, tall and slim with the same fine, even features, sharp blue eyes and stubborn jaw. A little of Adelyis’s earlier anger resurfaced as she looked upon her brother.
“It is a waste sending me away like I am with child or infirm,” she said stiffly. Ice glinted in her eyes and her face hardened. “There are so few of witches and wizards left. You need me here.”
Lassendil sighed. He thought they had finished discussing this. “If your kind is scarce then that is even more reason to make sure you are kept safe,” he explained. “Someone has to preserve Ennadil magic.”
“Then one of the more experienced wizards should go,” Adelyis snapped. “You speak as if we were already defeated!”
Lassendil watched as his sister took one of her bags, shouldered it in an unladylike fashion and made for the door. Wordlessly, having exhausted all arguments but knowing despite her protests she would still be leaving, Lassendil picked up her two remaining bags and followed her.
They made their way down to the great courtyard that lay behind the gates leading down to Aranith’s second tier. The stables were located here, although most of the stalls were empty. The horses were with the soldiers guarding the city walls. A small company waited for Adelyis in the center of the courtyard. Adelyis’s maid, Eryn, sat, stone-faced upon a stocky grey pony. Lassendil’s friend, Miradel, stood holding his and Adelyis’s horse, and behind him two young soldiers, Ladril and Gannadil waited on horseback. Shadows partly obscured their faces but their keen eyes glinted in the dim light.
“My Lady.” Miradel relieved Adelyis of her bags and tied them to the back of her saddle.
Adelyis turned to face her brother, and Lassendil could see the grief in her eyes.
“What if this is the last time we will see each other dear brother?” Her voice shook as she spoke.
Lassendil stepped forward and clasped her in a fierce hug. “Such thoughts will do you no good. Now it is you who speaks as if all hope is lost!”
Adelyis brushed her tears away and pulled back, turning to her father who had stepped out of the shadows behind Lassendil. Padrell Florin was an older, more tempered version of his son. His long dark hair, flecked with grey, was tied back from his careworn face. His eyes were dark and hollowed in contrast to his pale skin.
Padrell reached out and stroked his daughter’s wet face. “Late is the hour of your departure Adelyis,” he said gently. “There will be Morg scouts nearby. When you leave Aranith, ride directly north, as fast and as far as you can. Do not slow your pace until you reach the highlands. Cross into the City States of Orin at Mirren’s border, rather than Serranguard’s. You will find more friends there.”
“Yes father,” Adelyis replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Padrell Florin sighed then, suddenly seeming every day of his sixty-eight years. Being Ennadil, he was youthful in appearance, and usually he appeared no older than forty. However, tonight, sorrow sapped him of his vitality. He looked weary, as if he had said good-bye too many times during his life.
“I know you wish to stay,” he said finally. “I know you think it is wrong to leave but I need to know you are safe. Please humor me Adelyis.”
Adelyis blinked back fresh tears and hugged her father briefly and violently, before turning from him and mounting her horse. Her mount was a fine-limbed bay mare with an inquisitive face. Miradel passed Adelyis her staff before he swung up onto his horse. Behind them, the heavy wooden gates were rumbling open.
“Look after my sister,” Lassendil said to his friend, “and yourself too Miradel.”
Miradel nodded, and out of the corner of his eye, Lassendil saw Adelyis bristle. She never liked it when he acted too protective of her, even now when he could do nothing else for her.
Behind the company, the gates yawned open. Adelyis looked down at her father and brother, the last of her family, and felt a crushing sadness stop her breath for a moment. She suddenly felt spoiled and immature for having spent the last few days arguing with them instead of appreciating the remaining time they had together. The war had swept down on Aranith with terrifying swiftness and now time had run out.
“Go now.” Padrell Florin slapped the mare’s rounded rump and sent his daughter on her way. “And know our love travels with you.”
The company turned in unison and clip clopped briskly across the courtyard. Padrell and Lassendil watched the horses pass through the gate and disappear into the darkness before the gates rolled shut behind them.
The two men stood in the empty courtyard for a while after that, list
ening as the hoof-beats disappeared and the silence returned. Finally, Padrell stirred. He turned and studied his son’s pale face. Wordlessly, he put an arm around Lassendil’s shoulders and steered him away from the gates. Together, they walked across the shadowed courtyard, their boots crunching on the gravel, before they disappeared inside the fortress. Around them, Aranith prepared itself for war.
***
By the time the sun rose into a colorless sky, Adelyis and her companions were already many leagues from Aranith. They rode close to the coast, where a briny sea tang laced the crisp morning air, and across rolling grasslands, dotted with stunted vegetation and clumps of trees. Granite boulders studded the desolate landscape. They passed no villages or travelers during their ride north.
Adelyis did not feel comfortable riding across such exposed terrain. She would have preferred the protective shade of woodland, even if it meant they traveled slower. They rode at a brisk canter with Miradel in the lead, although he would periodically ride ahead or drop back to make sure they were not being followed. Adelyis’s maid rode silently alongside her mistress while Ladril and Gannadil brought up the rear.
They stopped mid-morning in a pine thicket and ate a hurried breakfast. Adelyis and her maid, unused to riding, were already stiff and saddle sore. Adelyis surreptitiously rubbed her behind and wondered how she was going to get back on side-saddle without squealing in pain.
It was pleasant in the pine thicket and they drank honeyed ale and ate bread, fruit and cheese. Pine resin perfumed the air and the ground beneath them was a springy bed of dry pine needles. However, it was unnaturally silent. No bird-song or rustling of small animals in the undergrowth disturbed them. Adelyis looked around in concern, her body suddenly tense, before she caught Miradel’s gaze.
“Something’s wrong,” she warned him. “What is it?”
Miradel got to his feet and started packing their food and drink away. His movements were unhurried but deft. “We’re being followed,” he told his companions calmly. “I thought I sensed something an hour ago but they were too far away for me to be sure. There aren’t many of them, and they’re still at least an hour behind us, but their presence radiates out from them. The birds and animals here use their silence as a warning.”
“Well then, we should heed it.” Adelyis got to her feet and brushed crumbs off her skirt.
They remounted, aching muscles and fatigue forgotten, and pushed their horses northwards at a brisker pace. It would have been easier and faster to head towards the coast and take the coastal North-South Highway. The Highway would bring them to Mirren in about four days, if they rode hard, but taking the Highway was too risky. There were many refugees traveling on that road—and the Morg would be patrolling it.
The coolness of the morning dissipated under the burning sun as it climbed higher into the sky. By midday, they were roasting in their traveling cloaks. The heat drained them and their horses of energy.
For the first time Adelyis admitted to herself that she had not taken the soft option in agreeing to ride north. Her father and Lassendil would face their enemy face to face, whereas she was forced to flee into the wilderness, hunted down like a rabbit.
They rode hard all day, stopping only briefly for lunch. Gradually, the landscape changed from shrubby, rock-studded grasslands to gently curving hills, which grew higher as the day progressed. They were entering the southern edge of the Arden Highlands. Scattered thickets merged into thick forest and although they were no longer exposed, the trees slowed them down. It would also be easier to track them in the forest, despite that Miradel had done his best to leave a confusing trail behind them.
As the day drew to a close, Adelyis had to cling to the pommel of her saddle to keep herself from toppling off side-ways. Muscles she did not even know existed, burned and ached. She had no idea how she was going to be able to ride, let alone mount, tomorrow. Eryn rode beside her, tight-lipped and pale; discomfort etched on every line of her young face.
The shadows lengthened and the day’s heat waned. The horses stumbled in exhaustion. They had pushed them as far as they dared. When Miradel finally halted his horse in a small clearing, Adelyis nearly cried in relief. The day had passed with little conversation, but they were now all so exhausted that their minds could not focus on anything other than food, water and rest.
Adelyis climbed down from her horse and staggered slightly. In an instant, Miradel was there, steadying her elbow. She gave him a weak smile in thanks, and their gazes held for a few moments. Adelyis had always suspected that Miradel, her brother’s oldest friend, was secretly infatuated with her, and the look in his eyes now only confirmed her suspicions. Miradel was certainly attractive, with intelligent dark eyes and a serious manner, and Adelyis had noticed the speed with which he had agreed to escort her north. She was pleased Miradel was with her—she had always liked him—but he knew as well as she did that it was forbidden for an Ennadil witch or wizard to form romantic attachments.
Turning away from Miradel, Adelyis walked stiffly over to the far edge of the clearing and splashed water on her face. Overhead, the light had almost faded. The sky was indigo, smudged with streaks of rose. Adelyis was relieved to hear the sounds of animals rustling in the undergrowth and the evening chorus of birdcalls. They had outrun the Morg for the time being at least. She rejoined the others, eased herself down onto the ground next to the silent Eryn and stretched her legs out.
“We cannot risk a fire tonight,” Miradel explained as he handed out dry bread, cheese and bitter plums, “so dinner will be cold.”
Eryn made a sour face as she eyed her simple meal. Watching her, Adelyis felt a stab of irritation. Padrell Florin had insisted his daughter brought a maid along, as all noble women traditionally did when traveling. Eryn had not been her choice—the girl was sullen—and it would have been better to have sent her with the other refugees. However, her father, a stickler for protocol, would not have agreed to it.
The companions ate in silence while the horses, their heads hung low in exhaustion, had a dinner of oats from their nosebags. The horses had been hobbled to prevent them from wandering off during the night. Ladril and Gannadil spoke together in low voices while they ate, while Adelyis, Eryn and Miradel concentrated on their dinner, too hungry to make conversation. Adelyis’s gaze scanned the clearing as she ate. They would not be able to rest here for long—even if they had lost the Morg for the moment, their pursuers would pick up their trail soon enough.
After dinner, Eryn spread out their sleeping mats under the boughs of an ancient oak on the fringes of the clearing. Ladril and Gannadil laid out their sleeping mats nearby while Miradel took the first watch.
Adelyis stretched herself out on the ground and wrapped her cloak around her. Immediately, thoughts of her father and brother crowded her mind. Her father had never recovered from his wife’s suicide a decade earlier. Adelyis had never been close to her mother; Raynis Florin was a beautiful and highly intelligent woman but she had always remained aloof from her children. She had been melancholy as a girl but as the years passed her depression deepened, despite her husband’s efforts to please her. One day Raynis had retired to her chamber early and drank a bottle of poison. It was Padrell who found her, hours later, face down on the flagstone floor near her bed with the bottle clutched in her hand. Padrell Florin had never fully recovered from Raynis’s death. Guilt plagued him that he was somehow to blame; that he should have been able to make his wife happy and lift her out of depression—and ten years on he still blamed himself.
Two months after her mother’s death Adelyis had decided to apprentice herself to become a witch. She left Aranith and traveled south to train at the Mystic Council in Mithridel. Lassendil coped with his mother’s suicide by falling deeply in love with a young woman called Violyda, who was as fair and melancholy as his mother had been. It had been impossible to please her but Lassendil appeared not to notice. Like his father before him he believed he could change her. When Violyda was killed in
a hunting accident six years earlier, Lassendil’s grief had been so extreme Adelyis had worried for his sanity. Since then, there had been no other woman for Lassendil. He had become a lot harder than the impulsive, naïve brother she had grown up with.
Adelyis hated abandoning her father and brother in Aranith—and she would have cried had she not been so bone weary. It was a relief when the fog of exhaustion dragged her down and sleep finally claimed her.
When she awoke, it was the early hours of the morning. It was a moonless night and a black veil hid the forest. Adelyis rolled over onto her back and gazed up at the carpet of stars overhead. To her left, she saw Miradel’s outline, stretched out next to her, his breathing deep and even. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she became aware of a figure, either Ladril or Gannadil, sitting a few feet away keeping watch. I must get up now, she told herself. I must wake everyone up and force them onwards—we cannot linger here. However, her limbs were heavy and sleep pulled her down into its clutches.
When Adelyis awoke again it was nearing dawn. She crawled over to where Miradel was keeping watch and sat down next to him. “You should have woken me,” she whispered. “We have stayed here too long.”
“You were sleeping so soundly,” Miradel smiled, “I did not want to wake you.”
Adelyis looked at Miradel’s handsome face. His eyes were hollowed and there were dark smudges under them. She felt guilty at not taking a watch so he could rest a little.
“Come on then,” he said with a yawn. “Let’s get the others up.”
Miradel got to his feet and Adelyis stretched her stiff limbs. Then, as the remnants of sleep cleared from her brain, she felt a tickle of alarm flutter at the back of her skull.
The clearing was deathly silent—where was the dawn chorus? Adelyis reached out and grabbed Miradel’s arm. His eyes widened as he too realized what the silence meant. Tiredness had dulled his usually sharp senses and Miradel swore under his breath, moving quickly to wake the others while Adelyis sat frozen, staring into the shadows.
The Children of Isador Page 3