by Niki Florica
“Killing him shall not rid you of your pain, Rydel,” said the Light.
The Robin’s teeth flashed, dark flecks swimming in his eyes. “Yes,” he hissed, clutching his head as if to rid himself of the inescapable voice. “Yes, it shall.”
He stood unsteadily, still clutching his one remaining knife, and the Light looked on in aching grief, knowing already the choice that had been made, and the road of suffering and madness into which this life would turn as a result. So foolish, so blind, were these suffering, wandering mortals. What pain they would spare themselves if only they would listen. What suffering and heartache they would avoid were they not so determined to choose the path of greatest pain and harshest awakening. Why would they not simply listen?
From the far northern haven of Dunbrielle, the Heir of Ariad was pleading. Begging another Heir, a worthier Sword-bearer. Requesting forgiveness. Pleading for the Robin’s life.
Rydel of Robinsdwel stumbled to his feet on the bank of the shepaard’s carcass. Knife in hand, hatred burning, he began northward along the bank, following the Silver’s trail, livid with determination to kill the tormentor of his soul before it tore him apart, as if it would bring an end to the darkness rather than strengthen its hold over his heart.
The Light’s tears flowed all the fiercer, for Rydel’s losing battle, for Kyrian’s despair.
So foolish . . . so blind were these mortals he loved.
If only, if only, they would listen.
Sixteen
Dunbrielle had endured in perfect peace since the dawn of time, an ethereal scattering of pearl pavilions and time-smoothed river stones, splayed in the shadow of the great black cliffs that marked the edge of the wastes. In the crook of the cliff and the Nelduith, Ariad’s northernmost point, the river-Naiads dwelt peacefully as the wisest of Ariad’s wise. Many a trial had taken place before the Council of Peace, most before Elillian’s lifetime and before the lifetime of her father, resolved only by the sagacity and judgment bestowed upon her people by Aradin.
The Council had changed little over ages, and changed infinitely all at once. A river, though never abrim with the same waters twice, was always and evermore constant, always and evermore the same river. So it was with the Council, an unending flow of the wise and discerning, to be readily replaced when the stream of time bore mortal souls to the sea of Aradin’s country.
Such, at least, was the proverb in Dunbrielle.
Elillian was the youngest in Dunbrielle’s history to gain a position upon the Council. Her father, whose timeless face concealed his years, was the second. The Council had been hesitant to grant him his position; it was, after all, a common belief that experience was the greatest source of wisdom. Gilvonel had proven otherwise. As healer of Dunbrielle he had gained the respect of the people through his profound thoughtfulness and compassionate heart, which he had passed, with the healer’s position, onto Elillian when promoted to the Council.
It had been his vote to grant the healer a place of judgment as well.
She always felt small when marching in procession with the Council, the last in the line, and by far the least. Arlyl the Tongue led, followed closely by Surrith the Eye; Ranril the Hand marched languidly in step with her father, the Ear, and Elillian formed the rearguard as the last, nameless member. Nameless, because she had not yet found her place among them. Last, because she had not yet earned it.
The morning sun painted the pavilions golden, casting shadows upon the stone paths, glowing in the faces of the pale Naiads that emerged from their dwellings to witness the passing of the Council. Elillian followed her father’s steps over the winding river stones, blinking in the light of dawn as it rose over the forest to set Dunbrielle aflame where it lay, nestled upon the eastern shore. In accordance with her elders, she was garbed in pale blue and robed with a silver cloak in tribute to the Skyads. A girdle of willow branches paid homage to the Dryads, while three feathers of red, blue, and ebony danced in her woven hair on behalf of the three clans of the birdfolk.
The Naiads recognized no authority save Aradin, but though they did not bow at the passing of the Council, their expressions were grave with respect and with faith in the wise ones chosen to guide them. Elillian did not look at them. She met no crystal eyes, knowing the thought that hummed between them, in whispers behind her back.
She had drawn blood upon the Nelduith’s bank.
She had protected the Skyad.
The pavilions with their golden spires and pearly columns fell behind as the Council approached the bank of the Guilihryn—the pool of the Great Falls. The thundering cascade, father of the lesser trickles that streamed along the cliffs, was aflame in the light of the sun, liquid fire crashing into a cauldron of ember and spray. They walked over the muddy bank in tribute to the earth-gnomes, then stepped, in graceful succession, onto the polished stones once laid by the stworfs, over the waters and directly beneath the falls. The sparkling curtain of crystal water thundered in her ears as Elillian passed beneath, cherishing the moment in which the world fell away and the falls streamed over her upturned face, filling her lungs, clearer than any breath of morning air. She felt herself shimmer into river-form for a single, crystal moment, then return to herself as she passed through and into the cavern of the Council.
Then silence.
The thunder of the falls dulled into a distant whisper in the cavern, sunlight streaming through the curtain to play in the cave’s shadows. Veins of violet crystal ran along the walls and through the worn stone floors, dripping in glittering, frozen spires from the ceiling high above. Beautiful, as always, but Elillian had walked the cavern many a sunlit dawn and moonlit night, and the beauty of the Council’s judgment hall no longer stole her breath as it once had. Perhaps she was growing immune.
Five polished stones were arranged before the entrance, facing the shadows within, and in practised succession the members of the Naiad Council seated themselves in their ordained order, Elillian and her father upon the two rightmost seats. She glared into the dark of the cavern with the warmth of the sun through the falls upon her back, glared until her vision was a black smudge of nothingness and she felt her father’s eyes upon her, questioning and shrewd. For hours, it seemed, she had avoided his questions and hidden from his all-seeing eyes. She had not spoken to him since returning from the prisoner’s pavilion.
She had not spoken to anyone.
She could still feel his hand upon her wrist, holding her there, forcing her to meet his coal-black eyes and listen to the remorse so heavy in his tone as he had pleaded her forgiveness, begged her understanding. There had been fingerprints pressed into her skin when she had left, the ashen skin of her right hand that he had held in gentle reverence as she had cleaned his gruesome wound. It is not so cold now, he had said, as his thumb had run over her knuckles and the faintest of smiles had tweaked his lips. She could still feel the heat of his hand. His eyes were burned into her memory.
Coming to herself in the dancing light of the cavern, Elillian sneered at her own distraction and dug her fingernails into her pale wrist until it ached, reminding herself of the numbness in her hand and the cruel power that had dealt it. Reminding herself of his lies and his treachery, of the hollow deception to which Kyrian of the Rain Realm so stubbornly held, despite the fact that it held no merit, despite the fact that he was deceiving no one, despite the fact that his words were betrayed by the truth scrawled blatantly across his open, honest face. He said she had fainted. He, who had praised her warrior heart.
The blade of hurt drove deeper, deeper into her chest.
Elillian glared into the empty dark and braced a disaffected heart.
When the falls sputtered behind her she did not turn to the sound but listened—rigid—to the ragged cough that could belong only to the one creature in Dunbrielle whom waters could choke and cage. She heard his footfalls, heavy and uneven, as he approached the Council, then watched from the corner of her vision as he was guided between the centre seats and down the s
tair to the inner cavern, the place of the accused. His hands were bound behind his back; she could see the raw flesh of his wrists beneath the cords and wondered with a stutter of her treacherous heart who had so cruelly tied them. Leaning heavily upon the Naiad guiding him, he came to stand at the cavern’s centre, sunlight dancing through the falls to light his face—ashen grey. Elillian had stormed from his prison long before she could have healed him, which she had refused to regret even as guilt had clawed, all night, at her heart. Even as she had viciously fought to expel him from her mind.
She regretted it now.
His features were grey and glistening, and the hasty binding he had tied about his right shoulder was blackened with new blood, but his eyes were dark and fiercely determined as he nodded his thanks to the Naiad and met the stares of the Council with a warrior’s strength.
“You did not heal him,” her father observed through the roar in her ears.
Elillian watched Kyrian of the Rain Realm gaze stone-faced into the air above her head, and felt every bitter thought, every barb in her stinging pride melt into liquid guilt and pool at her feet. Her eyes lingered long upon him, too long to evade his notice, burning into his face and the beads of sweat on his brow as he peeled his shoulders back in a stubborn grasp at dignity, and fixed his eyes upon some point on the ceiling. He was wearing the sky-cloak she had returned to him. One eye shone duller than the other.
Her father’s remark seared itself into her mind as Arlyl stood to address the gathering, and Elillian of Dunbrielle the unhealing healer fought to remember how to breathe.
“Council of Peace,” the Naiad elder proclaimed in the Skyad tongue, his silver hair swaying with the cold cavern breeze as he spoke, “we are gathered for the judgment of this Skyad, proclaimed guilty of tainting the Nelduith with evil and manipulating a member of our Council, Elillian of Dunbrielle.”
Elillian’s cheeks flared, but her father’s tense hand upon her knee advised silence. She looked to Kyrian, standing upon the lower floor, but his eyes remained fixed upon the speaker and if he heard the false accusation, he gave no sign.
“Skyad,” Arlyl drew on, “who are you, and will you confess to the crimes of which you are accused?”
He blinked rapidly, as if to clear his vision, expression empty. “I am Kyrian of the Rain Realm, and I have indeed tainted your Nelduith, but if you were to hear the testimony of your lady you would find I have manipulated nothing and no one.”
Ranril frowned, but it was Arlyl the Tongue who spoke his sharp thoughts. “Kyrian of the Rain Realm, you confess that by your hand the Nelduith has been tainted?”
“I do. I killed a shepaard upon the bank, for the protection of your lady and myself.”
“And how is it,” asked Gilvonel, unexpectedly, “that my daughter has come to be beneath your protection?”
Elillian startled at her father’s voice, and turned to find his blue eyes gleaming, his attention fixed upon the Skyad as he ignored the disapproving glances of the Council. The Ear’s place was to listen, not to speak. Displeasure swirled through the dank air.
Ignorant to Gilvonel’s transgression, Kyrian answered, “It is simple, my lord. She refused to return to the river—” Elillian’s fists clenched—“for the strength of warriors runs within her veins. By her hand the creature’s blood was shed, and it was in honour of her valiance that I fought to protect her. Forgive me for the tainting of your waters, but its death was justice.”
Arlyl turned a diplomatic gaze to Elillian. “You will confirm this creature’s claim?”
She had promised herself she would not speak for him, that she would not honour his deception with a word of confirmation, that he was unworthy of the kindness, of the faith, that she had given him so blindly, so naively already. He was staring at his feet, jaw tight, posture miserable.
She studied her hands. “He speaks the truth.”
“Treachery!” Ranril exclaimed, rising to glare in utter distaste down upon Elillian. “Council, our lady has been deceived by the smooth tongue of the accused. Her testimony is empty, for it is clear that she favours the creature in blind faith, bewitched by Skyad treachery.”
Kyrian’s eyes snapped to him. “I have bewitched no one.”
“Your words are venom, Skyad,” came the frigid response. “I have dwelt far too long beneath the oppression of a Skyad tyrant to trust in the words of a Silver in such dark days as these. Your deceptions do not sway me.” He turned to the Council. “This traitor is deserving of death!”
For all of her feigned indifference, Elillian’s blood flamed. “He has committed no crime!”
“He is a Skyad. His blood alone is worthy of a traitor’s penalty.”
Her fists clenched at her sides and Elillian prepared to pierce the corrupted creature with the daggers of her fury, when suddenly her father’s hand rested upon her shoulder, steady and stern and warning. “Silence, Elillian,” he muttered, before turning to her rival. “This warrior must be questioned before our judgment is made, Ranril. This is custom.”
The Naiad’s pale features soured in distaste, but he promptly seated himself and fixed his glare once more upon Kyrian. Arlyl remained standing. “Kyrian of the Rain Realm,” he resumed, “you are aware, perhaps, that the Naiads were present during your attempt to cross Caralim?”
Kyrian’s expression flickered in surprise. He still refused to look at her.
“The Naiads are watchful of all happenings upon the eastern shore,” Arlyl continued, “and it has been long since any creature has dared to attempt the crossing, since the bridge was destroyed by the Nelduith. It is uncommon for the river to bear foreigners upstream, but it seems the Nelduith thinks you different than most.” He frowned. “It was your blood, I assume, that frenzied the Nelduith?”
“Yes.”
“Lying,” remarked Surrith, the Eye, whose keen vision and shrewd mind had not missed the flicker of consternation that had crossed Kyrian’s face a moment before he had spoken.
Arlyl disregarded it. “What brought you to the crossing, Silver?”
Gilvonel leaned forward, raptly attentive.
Kyrian’s lips twitched on one side. “A desire to cross, my lord.”
She was determined to cling to her bitterness, determined to despise this creature and his charismatic charm, but at the impertinence in his tone she could not help but glance sharply up at him. His black eyes were upon her, dark and grave, but vaguely mischievous as he stood, hands bound, tunic black with blood. Were it not for his deathly pallor and the graveness of his expression she would have thought he was mocking them, her father and the Council, but it seemed that she alone could see the laughter buried in his face. Laughter, and guilt, and a silent plea for forgiveness.
She frowned at him, indignant, and his eyes slid to Arlyl.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he was saying, drawing her from unwanted thoughts of breathless smiles, solemn vows, and battles by moonlight, “but I have met few creatures within these Lands and I am hesitant to misplace my trust.”
“Your trust?” Ranril exclaimed from his stone at her father’s side. “Your insolence grows tiresome, Skyad. You, as the enemy of Ariad, are the one whose faith stands in question.”
Kyrian’s tone chilled. “Again, I beg your forgiveness, but I was not aware that Tasnil’s title as the enemy of Ariad had been extended to the entire Skyad race.”
Ranril sneered. “All servants of Tasnil are enemies of the kingdom.”
“Then in this we are agreed. But it seems this kingdom has forgotten that it is the Skyads who are the chosen of Aradin, and Tasnil the Usurper who is Ariad’s enemy.”
The air within the cavern chilled as the weight of the words fell heavily upon the Naiad Council and lingered with the whisper of the falls. Elillian’s cheek quirked in grudging satisfaction as Ranril’s lips pressed, robbed of refute, and her father’s eyes glowed with approval.
He was the first to recover his voice, and Elillian recognized the weight of respect in his
tone as it followed the dying murmurs of Kyrian’s challenge. “You speak the truth, Skyad,” he said gravely, “and if I may speak from my own heart I confess that this kingdom has indeed forgotten the truth. The world is divided. Tasnil’s reign has spawned fear in the heart of the Green Lands, a fear toward the Skies and the people that keep them. This fear has deepened with Tasnil’s silence, and bred a prejudice, a hatred, that spreads like poison through all that was once true to peace. I see you have already been the victim of such prejudice even before this trial.”
Uncertainty wavered like a storm-tossed flame in Kyrian’s eyes. He answered truthfully. “I have.”
“Then tell me, Kyrian of the Rain Realm, as one who believes still in the virtue of the Skies, what is your business in the Green Lands?”
Perhaps it was not the Ear’s place to speak, but all of the Council was listening. Kyrian’s lips parted and he drew a breath, as if preparing to speak, preparing to reveal the truth that Elillian, despite herself, starved to hear. Though the sun shone through the falls in crystal hues upon his face, his features were sickly, and Elillian prayed for his cooperation if only that she might then loose his bonds and tend his wounds as she should have long ago. Liar and traitor or not.
His eyes collided with hers and she felt all thoughts flee her mind. The truth, Kyrian, she implored him, forgetting herself. In the Nelduith’s name, trust us.
His face pinched, and for a moment she wondered if he had read her thoughts. But then his expression changed, and suddenly Elillian was certain she could read his. She knew then, somehow, even before his jaw clenched and his eyes fell and his words died in his throat. She knew with perfect certainty that he would not speak.
You would not believe the truth.