by Niki Florica
Where are they, Skyad? his voice rang in Kyrian’s ears, shouted beneath the dripping of blood and the ragged breaths of a madman. Where are the Rains? You are Silvers, are you not?
Kyrian’s hand clenched over the hilt of the Sword as he turned away, as he skirted the Robin and paused before the bridge, eyeing its crumbling form while his mind drifted far, far away.
He had asked the same question once. To Melkian. We are Silvers, are we not? Who shall save this dying world if we ourselves refuse to try? He remembered he had shouted it. Why had it always ended in shouting?
The stoic Captain Melkian had shouted back, he recalled, slamming his bow onto the cookery table and roaring, “Enough, Kyrian! You know what fate awaits those who defy Tasnil’s decree. You know he shall kill you just as he has all of the others!”
“Perhaps not,” Kyrian had retorted.
“Oh, for all the Skies.”
“Listen to me, Melkian. We are the rainkeepers, entrusted with Ariad’s fate, its future. Aradin himself bestowed this purpose upon us—you know this. It is our duty to fulfill it, whatever the risk!”
Melkian shook his head, fist clenching upon the table. “Aradin would not will us to sacrifice our lives for nothing. I cannot leave Rosghel unprotected, Kyrian. I cannot abandon this city to the Usurper.”
Kyrian folded his arms and fixed him with a defiant glare. “I never asked it of you.”
His guardian’s grey eyes stretched, then hardened. “No.”
“It is not your decision.”
“Yes, it is. Have you forgotten? I am not merely your guardian, I am your captain. I am your commander, and I forbid it. You shall not place your life at risk for the sake of a suicide quest.”
“Suicide?” Kyrian’s voice chipped with indignation. “The world is dying, Melkian!”
“We are all dying!” he exploded in return, startling Kyrian with the intensity of his glare, the strain of his weary voice. “But I cannot lose you. Do you hear me? I cannot lose you as well!”
Kyrian blinked, and the memory dissolved. Like a dream.
He stood upon the riverbank, gripping the Sword of Kings and clenching his teeth so firmly sparks of pain were bursting in his skull. Before his eyes swam the face of his guardian, white and wide-eyed with earnest, begging him to see the truth, begging him to stay not as a captain, a commander, but as simply himself. As Melkian.
Kyrian had made a vow that day, to honour Tasnil’s law. To stand at Melkian’s side and watch the kingdom wither, to care first for his people, for Rosghel above all else, no matter how fiercely it burned him.
“The third moon is rising,” said the Robin, vaguely. “Rosghel shall not await you forever.”
Kyrian glanced at him, swallowed, struggled to return to the present. The Robin’s eyes were mirrors, revealing nothing, his scarred forearms pressed tightly to his chest as he stood motionless. Waiting.
Wrenching his eyes from the empty white face, Kyrian stepped onto the bridge.
Rydel watched him go, watched his black boots leave the riverbank and anchor him to the decaying bridge, shrouded in Nelduith mist. The silver sky-cloak upon his shoulders melded ethereally with the river-breath, until his tousled black head seemed to float—disembodied—above the fog. He walked tentatively, untrusting of the crumbling stone. The bridge would not fail him, Rydel darkly thought, but fortunately, the Nelduith was far more treacherous.
His mind was set, his decision firmly made. He did not allow himself to think as he withdrew one knife, as he untucked one shaking hand from beneath his arm and held it to the glittering point.
The blade bit shallowly, drawing a scarlet line across his palm, but he scarcely felt the sting. Almost instantly, warm blood seeped through the skin, pooling in the hollow of his hand. It was darker than he remembered it. He hoped it would be enough.
The Skyad had all but vanished into the mist, but his dark head could still be seen, above the churning wake. The Nelduith was tranquil this night, for what had the mighty flow to fear? Ariad was free of enemies, its peoples too intent upon their own survival to war over bounty and borders. Rydel knew it had surged restless for many long years, knew its thirst for a quarry after so long an age of silence. A drop of blood would surely be sufficient to send it into a lusting, surging frenzy of wrath, against which no creature could stand and survive.
Yes, a drop. A drop would be enough.
The river spat softly; the Skyad glanced back at him. Holding his eyes, Rydel turned his palm over and allowed a pool of his warm, dark blood to pour into the waters of the Naiads.
Kyrian did not know the river lore. He did not know the mystery that shrouded this Nelduith, nor the truth of the wild life that pulsed, surged within it. He did not know what power lay beneath this mist. But he knew then, in that roaring, raging moment, that Rydel of Robinsdwel did.
Something snapped in his chest as he watched the green eyes, as he watched the creature’s dark, dark blood pour into the frothy flow and knew somehow, simply knew that the meaning it held was for him. For his death. He felt the stone bridge creak beneath his weight, the mist roiling frantically about him; he attempted to run for the riverbank but it was too late, far too late. The Nelduith was erupting.
An explosion of spray and surge blasted the breath from his chest, sweeping his feet from beneath him, tearing at his limbs with astounding power. The bridge rose up to meet him and water filled his lungs; blind with adrenaline and foam and spray he flailed for a handhold and gasped thanks to Aradin when his fingers locked upon something solid: a broken fragment of the Caralim bridge.
Water pummelled him upon all sides, dragging him southward in its flow but he held fast, gripping the jagged stone, slick with mist, fighting for breath as foam filled his mouth and forced its way down his throat. He could not see, could not breathe. The Nelduith raged and foamed, drowning the world in whiteness, his sky-cloak an anchor clasped at his neck, dragging him, forcing him down. He gasped, coughed, clawed for a handhold in the stone.
This river was going to kill him.
The Robin was a smudge upon the edge of his vision. He fought to ignore it, fought to cling to the broken fragment, fought to see, fought to breathe, fought to form a coherent prayer while panic drummed in his chest with every pint of water filling his lungs. The world was seeking to drown him, to smother him, to overwhelm him with its blinding spray, surging wake, battering current and he could do nothing but cough and pray and cling, cling to his anchor of stone . . .
“Skyad!” The voice pierced the roar from another world, muted and distorted and distant. Kyrian opened his eyes. Black hair was plastered over his eyes but through the strands he saw the hand. The white, shaking, lean hand stained red by dripping blood. The hand attached to a scarred, sinewy arm and a reaching shoulder and wide, impossibly wide green eyes. “Skyad!” the Robin shouted again.
Kyrian choked. His grasp slipped; he dug his nails into the stone and felt them break. It was a ploy, a ruse, another treachery. The creature had tried to kill him. He was still trying to kill him.
“Skyad!”
He looked again, through the fog, the roar, and the pounding river. The water pushed him beneath; he clawed to the surface and pressed his face to the stone, ignoring the hand. The Robin leaned to him, half-stretched over the riverbank, his russet hair soaked and clinging to his face. He looked frantic, almost panicked, so starkly different from the ruthless, faceless shadow he had been a moment before, as different as light and darkness, living and dead. His bloody hand reached closer, closer, shaking more fiercely even than before. “Take it, Skyad! Quickly! Now!”
Kyrian choked, spluttered Nelduith, felt the water wrap him in wild claws. He reached.
The Robin’s hand was a claw on his, tight about his wrist the moment their flesh met. Kyrian felt his lean, wiry muscles brace, then strain, saw rather than heard a grunt of effort slip through the creature’s bloodless lips. His fingernails bit Kyrian’s wrists but he did not care; the river was tearing a
t him like a shepaard’s brutal talons, the Sword straining against its leather binding. His boot struck the bank and he fought to hold his ground as the Robin strained and heaved, green moccasins biting into the soft mud along the shore, cuffed shirtsleeves soaked to his arms.
One foot, then another—slowly, slowly climbing the bank. The Robin’s grasp was sure, unwavering, his eyes feverishly bright as the Nelduith gathered all of its mighty strength with a deafening, savage roar.
There was no time, not a moment to think.
The river raged, the foam descended in a roaring wall, and Kyrian knew nothing more.
Salienne tossed her braid over one shoulder and jammed a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear before folding her arms over her chest again, a shield against the chilled sky wind. Her expression was bitter, her disposition more so. Standing static for the night’s first hours seemed an utter waste of time.
The Skies were ever-clear, the night wind cold and sharp, but she was alone, and in this she found solace. It was growing increasingly difficult to abide within the walls of Melkian’s manor, particularly when she knew he was present, both of them skulking about in the shadows like fools, dancing to avoid one another whenever their paths in the manor’s wide corridors crossed. It was maddening, to say the least, but Salienne was unrelenting. As long as the sting of betrayal lingered, so, too, would the frost between them.
Needless to say, she had been grateful for a respite.
Salienne’s heart sank when the silver-cloaked figure appeared at her side, fidgeting and fawning, eyeing her with equal reverence and fear as he saluted halfheartedly, watery eyes gleaming in the starlight.
“My lady,” he said softly. His hands fell to his sides.
Her sneer was very nearly involuntary. “Berdon.”
He settled into place at her side upon the Siguri parapet, turned to the open Skies as if to keep watch, though she felt his eyes darting constantly to her, stealing timid glances. Skies, did he think she did not see it? The first pulses of a migraine began to form between her temples. Salienne refused to look at him.
“Thunderfoot has abandoned the hunt,” Berdon remarked, shifting his feet.
Salienne radiated neutrality. “So I have heard.”
“I am glad.” His small, glassy eyes shifted to her again, seeking her approval. “I wish no ill fate upon Kyrian, and I am truly sorry for your loss.”
A vein beneath her eye hiccupped. “Yes,” Salienne returned coldly, “your remorse was especially evident in your sprint to report him to the Storm Lord.”
His pale brows knotted, lips parting, then closing again.
Salienne warmed with predatory triumph.
Berdon drew a breath. “Surely you understand, Salienne, that I did only what duty demanded of me. I bore the report to Melkian, not to the Storm Lord. I suspected you would wish your guardian to be among the first to know. I mean what I say. I wish no ill upon Kyrian.”
“You have only ever brought ill upon him, Berdon of Rosghel.”
He shrank at her side, whispered, “That is not fair.”
“Is it not? I seem to recall a time in which you were the greatest enemy he had—the mighty opponent so cowardly you chose battles with a child three hands shy your equal.”
“He did not exactly refuse my challenges,” he replied, almost whiningly.
“Of course not.” She cast him a glare of purest contempt. “Kyrian was not a coward.”
Berdon deflated, sagging at her side, and for a moment Salienne felt a twinge of guilt pierce her heart, with the knowledge that any other maiden would have succumbed long ago, if not to his charms, then to his persistence. But Salienne was not like any other maiden. She could not afford to be.
Standing upon the parapet with her eyes fixed stubbornly upon the distant Skies, she did not move when Berdon of Rosghel saluted despondently and vanished into the tower stairwell.
Kyrian grasped the damp earth of the riverbank in one fist and drew himself onto the shore, coughing and heaving river water from his lungs, gasping for beautiful breath. His chest ached; he could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears and feel it in his chest, thundering bruises against his ribs. His ears were still filled with the roar of the river, the wrathful, vengeful rage of the ageless, faceless Nelduith.
He sagged against the bank, pressed his face to the mud.
Skies ablaze, it was good to be alive.
He lay there, eyes closed to the world, drawing breath after breath after ragged breath until the awakening of some inner instinct drew his attention to the fact that he was alone.
His head snapped erect, skull pounding like a war drum.
What had become of the Robin?
The light of the night shone rhythmically upon the ever-shifting surface of the Nelduith, pooling upon the riverbank, glistening in the Skies, and in the silence there was no sound nor sight to indicate a Green anywhere beneath the surface. Frantically Kyrian searched the embankment for any sign—a green-hilted knife, a scarlet feather, but found nothing.
Nothing.
Wrenching the curses from his mind he clutched his head between his hands and fought to think, fought to find some escape from the living nightmare into which he had walked. His heart pounded a deafening rhythm in his chest, his blood cold with fear and despair and the guilt of a life lost upon his own account. He swallowed, willed himself to breathe, forced his eyes to rove the Nelduith for a glimpse of the Robin’s rusty curls or vivid, emerald eyes.
Nothing, nothing, nothing . . .
In a sudden surge of anger, Kyrian kicked the stony bank with a drowned black boot and cursed the pride, the weakness that had driven him onto the crossing against every blaring instinct. “Robin!” he roared to the night, upon some desperate, groundless hope. “Robin, you cannot abandon me here!” He collapsed to his knees, numb, the silence of the night mocking him as he shouted his despair, his anger, his guilt to the bitter blackness. “Curse you, wretched Green! You cannot abandon me now!”
Hope draining from his heart like blood from a wound, Kyrian knelt upon the bank, bowed his head, and buried his face in mud-soiled hands. He could not rid himself of the image of Rydel of Robinsdwel—the memory of his skeletal hands, locked upon Kyrian’s wrists, pulling and pulling and never releasing, even when the river had taken them both. The memory of his dark blood, slickening their hands. The memory of the panic and the horror and the pain in his green, green pleading eyes.
He was sick, Kyrian realized. Sick with something dark and frenzied that seized him in madness one moment and released him to terror the next. His hatred was inhuman, his hauntedness spectral. He was mad. He was sick. He was dying.
He was dead.
A sudden gasp of the Nelduith drew his gaze to the shore, where a spray of white waters was exploding from the surface in a shower of shimmering foam. He flinched, half-expecting another Nelduith assault—until the foam crystallized into a pale, slender figure.
A maiden, gowned in pearlescent blue.
For a moment he stared into the Naiad’s clear eyes. Surprised, perplexed, vaguely fascinated, too numb to think, his mind snagged firmly upon his guide as he whispered, “Have you seen him? The Robin?”
The maiden’s eyes were wide, aglow with something frantic and frightened and wild. She thrust her hands at him, as if to drive him away, blond hair whipping in her face with a sudden sour wind.
“You must leave this place,” she hissed, in perfect Skyad. “Leave, while you can. Death is coming.”
Fourteen
Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock. And the shepherds came and drove them away: but Moses stood up and helped them . . .
-Exodus 2:16–17A
His eyes were dark as onyx stones, gleaming from a pale face half-coated in mud. He was staring at her, filth encrusted to his lashes. Staring, and not moving. Why in Guilyra’s name was he not moving?
Elillian wondered if
she had misspoken. The Skyad speech had not crossed her tongue in many long years; perhaps she had forgotten more than she had first thought. Perhaps he could not understand her pronunciation through the dialect of the Naiads, or perhaps the Nelduith had damaged his mind, or perhaps he did not speak in the Skyad tongue at all . . .
“Death, my lady?” he said suddenly, softly. His gaze dipped to her bare feet. “I do not understand.”
“Listen to me, Skyad.” She spoke before he could finish his thought, before he could hold her there, upon the bank of the Nelduith with a knife in her sash and a Skyad—a Skyad—standing in the flesh before her eyes. She was committing treason. She was committing treason. By the moons, the Peace Council would have her imprisoned for eternity. “A shepaard haunts these shores each night upon the rising of the third moon. It approaches even now from the east; its wind is upon us already. If it finds you here, it shall kill you and drink of your blood upon this very bank. No one shall come to your aid.”
He stared at her, expression unreadable. He wore a black leather tunic embossed with a silver insignia over dark silks, still sopping with Nelduith waters. A sky-cloak rested upon his shoulders, just as Elillian had so often imagined from her father’s tales of the wild, fierce race that dwelt in the Skies and killed without thought—the savage race whose battle upon the Bloodmours had made the heavens rain red with Skyad blood. She swallowed, felt the knife in her belt bite into her spine. Prayed that he would not give her reason to draw it, even as she willed herself to turn away, to disappear, to leave.
The Skyad came to himself, his eyes darting to the bank, to the river, one hand rising to a slender silver chain tucked into his collar. “Robin . . . ,” she heard him whisper. His attention snapped to her. “The Robin. There was a Robin. The river claimed him with me. What became of him?”
Elillian felt the air grow hot with his sudden, burning intensity, like a flame blazed to life from dormant coals. She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Do you not hear me, Skyad? You must leave this place, now, before the shepaard—”