by Niki Florica
Elillian pressed her hand to her eyes, weary, anxious, and worn. It was her second sleepless night, although she suspected that Kyrian had been functioning upon many more before collapsing of the shepaard’s poison coursing through his veins.
When he whispered the name, she almost believed the voice was a figment of her imagination, until she glanced up to find the Robin’s eyes fixed upon the Heir, and heard again the whispered word, “Melkian . . .”
Melkian. He had spoken the name once before, when she had asked him of his eye. Elillian straightened, exchanged a meaningless glance with the Robin, and grasped Kyrian’s hand. “Kyrian?”
He did not respond, offered no indication that he had heard, his expression turning pained and his lips parting once more for the name of the creature Elillian did not know. Again and again he repeated it, moaned it, his head tossing vaguely in restless agitation, the voice escaping his lips sounding very, very small.
She looked to the Robin. “This name . . . do you know it?”
One shoulder rose and fell in indifferent response.
Kyrian fell silent, and Elillian stood to fix his Green and careless companion with the fiercest glare she could muster in her exhaustion. “If you despise him so, Robin, why do you not leave him in peace?” she demanded. “Whatever oath it was that bound you to him, you are free of it now. He has released you. Why do you stay at his side if you wish only death upon him?”
She did not imagine that she was overly threatening, garbed in the gauzy gown of the Peace Council, her hair half-suspended by the feathers that held some in place and allowed the rest to wisp wildly about her face. She had shed her silver robe onto the bench upon which she had been seated, its bell sleeves and floor-length hem very nearly as impractical as the Robin’s empty sheath.
A fraction of her mind expected him to mock her, but Rydel of Robinsdwel merely stared.
“Because,” he quietly answered, “I owe him.”
Elillian drew a bitter breath through her nostrils, grasping for a stinging retort while the Robin returned his attention to the knife in his hands and the Guilyra falls roared beyond the pavilion’s gauzy curtains. Moments passed in silence. Exasperated and indignant, she tore the feathers from her hair and allowed it to fall in tangled disharmony about her shoulders, the Robin following the scarlet plume as it fluttered to the ground with an intent, disconcerting focus.
Kyrian coughed, then fell silent, a bead of perspiration trailing his temple. The black veins of venom had retreated from across his chest to protrude in feeble tendrils from beneath his shoulder’s binding. Elillian dragged a hand across her eyes, grasped his hand, and pressed his cold fingers to her lips.
“You wish to pay your debt, Robin?” she asked when she had finished.
Rydel of Robinsdwel quirked a brow.
Elillian held out a hand. “Your shirt.”
“Do you truly think a watch upon the west border is necessary, Captain?” asked Melkian’s archer, in response to his nightly assignment. “The marauders are not likely to attack while the Storm Lord stands with us.”
Melkian’s day had been tedious, and its night watch more so, the Skies clear of all threats just as they had long been, just as they would long remain, until the alliance, or the famine, was ended. Longing for the silence and relative peace of the manor, despite the perpetual feud between its walls, he dismissed the question with a deliberate glance and began forward from where they stood, beneath Avel’s watchtower, toward the northwest quarter. “I understand your concern,” he replied with little conviction, “but dismissal of our duties as the Silver Guard would be simply another reminder that this city has fallen from strength. Difficult though it may be to coexist with the Greys, we must maintain some form of normalcy . . . for as long as we can, at least.”
His warrior cocked a brow. “You mean, for as long as we are alive.”
Melkian frowned.
“Have you seen the melsith stores, Captain? Since the Greys arrived?”
With great reluctance, he growled, “I have not had the luxury, no.”
The archer emitted a meaningful grunt. “That is unfortunate, for if you had, you would know that we cannot long survive upon the blessing of the Rosghel Cloud. Our stores are dwindling, and the people grow weaker with each passing day. Some have begun to succumb to the thirst, though these are few and limited, graciously, to the weak young and the elderly.”
Melkian glanced sharply at him.
Defensively, the warrior shrugged. “I mean no disrespect. I am simply demonstrating—”
“Melkian!”
The voice sliced the night from the shadows to the east, weighted with a note of urgency but held low, to a conspiratorial hiss. Salienne stood in the shade of the granary, her lips pressed thin in an indomitable frown, eyes lit faintly by the glow of the blue-fire torch flickering in the granary door. For a moment he simply stared at her, surprised to hear her address him by name after so long an exile of silence, but the urgency in the creases that marred her forehead warned of a far more pivotal phenomenon. He crossed the avenue to her, his archer following wordlessly. “What is it?”
Salienne’s dark braid was in disarray, long tendrils curling about her face after pulling free of their unforgiving tie. She was wearing her sky-cloak’s hood, a strong indication that the threat from which she had come had required her to escape unseen, and only then did she lift a hand to toss it onto her shoulders. “I come from the harbour,” she reported. “A fleet of Greyclouds has left Rosghel with a host of Grey warriors armed and aboard. We tried to keep them but they overpowered us. One of our warriors was wounded in the fight. Stabbed, by a Grey blade.” Her gaze darkened. “He is yet alive, but the Greys escaped. I was sent from the northeast tower to inform you.”
Her laconic address was evidence enough that she would have chosen otherwise. His archer spat a curse as Melkian frowned at her, his mind whirling into motion as the information churned in a thousand meanings, all of them feeble and groundless. A warrior wounded. “Which warrior?”
“Cayd,” was the brusque reply, which settled like a stone in Melkian’s chest.
Cayd, the sick young soldier to whom he had relinquished his melsith ration.
He drew a ragged breath, raised a hand to his brows. “The entire fleet has departed?”
She scowled. “I said as much, did I not?”
Oh, Skies ablaze. His archer mused aloud, “I do not understand. If the Storm Lord wished to escape the alliance, he would never flee by darkness in the dead of night. His pride would not allow it.”
Salienne displayed neither agreement nor dissension, but intently watched Melkian’s face. “What shall I tell the regiment?” she urged, impatient. “We must ready the ships and pursue at once.”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed, and the archer turned to regard him in vague surprise. “No,” Melkian repeated, “we cannot give chase. The Grey fleet has departed, but Thunderfoot is not among them. This I know with certainty, just as I know he is not one to flee his obligations. Nothing can be done now.”
Salienne growled, “What do you propose, then, Captain?”
“I propose,” he replied levelly, meeting her glare with his own, “that the Storm Lord has given the order for such a departure . . . Or else, he is yet unaware of it.”
He felt the heat of Salienne’s disgust as he dismissed them with a nod and resigned himself to the bitter truth that he would not be returning to the manor that night. With the brisk spring of purpose in his stride he traversed the rue once more, thoughts mulling with the news of the armed Grey fleet, of the valiant, suffering warrior whose blood the Greys had spilled, who was so weak, so very weak already . . .
He wrenched his thoughts from the path of pain before it could bear him to the shadows of the past, to the age of heartache and desperate prayers and a little, brave half-blood with the strength of a thousand kings. Thunderfoot, he reminded himself, schooling his rampant mind.
The tavern emerged gradually from t
he mist, shining its proud blue lantern into the heavy cloak of night, and inwardly he envisioned himself donning the armour of a captain, if only to conceal the fracturing heart of a creature whose King had forgotten him long ago. A creature who had been left behind. He paused before the tavern entrance and listened for a moment to the stillness beyond the door. Then, with a grudging breath, Captain Melkian stepped over the threshold and braced himself for an audience with the Storm Lord.
The sole presence in the blue-lit chamber sat in the gloomy corner, one arm draped over the spine of his booth, the other resting idly upon the vacant table before him. When Melkian entered, squinting in the dimness, the languid position remained unchanged, but the eyes shining from the cold, dauntless face glittered with calculating interest. “Captain,” greeted Thunderfoot, with an appraising glance.
Melkian nodded. “My lord.”
“Have you come to celebrate the acquittal of your fugitive?”
Melkian met his eyes flatly and braced his fraying patience as he crossed the room.
“Ah.” The Storm Lord’s lips quirked. “Not in a celebratory disposition, I see.”
“I come with tidings from the harbour, my lord. It is my hope that you may answer for the actions of your warriors there this night.”
“Captain, I spend a great deal of time answering for the deeds of my warriors. Forgive me if I do not express the utmost urgency for whatever it is that so concerns you. Please—” he gestured to a chair—“sit.”
Melkian complied, and Thunderfoot evaluated him coldly. “Drink?”
“No. It is forbidden for the Silver Guard to indulge in the wasting of melsith.”
“By whose decree?”
A sour breath. “Mine.”
The Storm Lord’s signet ring gleamed upon his hand as he offered an approving nod. “And for that, I commend you. It may interest you to know that I do not frequent this establishment for its ale.”
“No?” Melkian inserted dispassionately.
Sensing his incredulity, Thunderfoot’s brows knotted. “Whether or not you choose to believe it, Captain, I, too, have made sacrifices for the sake of my people. If you must know, I have not tasted of strong drink for four years.”
“How very honourable, my lord.”
“One does what one must. We as leaders are obligated to sacrifice ourselves for those we are sworn to protect. In this manner, you and I are not so very different.”
Melkian chose to ignore the last words and folded his hands instead upon the table. “If you do not come for its wine, why is it that my warriors report you nightly within these walls, my lord?”
Thunderfoot smiled grimly. “You have been watching me. Good. You are not so changed as I had feared. The truth, Captain, is that in my years of service I have learned that the choicest place to find information is the place where even the wisest will allow their guards to fall.”
“Information.” Melkian’s gaze roved the empty room. “It does not appear to be overly effective.”
Thunderfoot’s eyes followed his own with stony acknowledgment. “Well,” he answered at last, with the slightest arrogance, “my reputation precedes me, it seems.”
This dance of verbal thrust and parry was tiring, and impatiently Melkian decided to abandon all pretence and wrench their focus to the matter at hand. “My lord,” he said suddenly, firmly, “I have learned that a fleet of Greyclouds has departed from the harbour with a host of armed Grey warriors aboard. As captain of this city it is in my interest to know who authorized this departure, and why.”
At this abrupt transition, Thunderfoot’s visage hardened to its former frigid intensity, creases bridging his nostrils and the corners of his downturned lips. “My warriors? You are certain?”
“One of your Greys has severely wounded a Silver of mine. My informant is not one to exaggerate.”
Thunderfoot’s jaw clenched and he stood abruptly, nostrils flaring in distaste. “How unfortunate,” he growled, “that your Silver was not killed, and the score between us settled once and for all.”
Melkian swallowed the venom upon his tongue and clenched his knotted hands until they ached. “You confess it, then. The order was yours?”
“No.” His grey bulk casting a broad shadow upon the tavern wall, Thunderfoot skirted the table and traversed the chamber in three strides, his movements taut with sudden wrath that Melkian sensed was not meant for him. “No, Captain,” the Storm Lord repeated, “I gave no such order.”
Melkian approached with the wariness of a hunter to a slumbering beast. “Then—”
“You are certain the warriors were mine? And upon my vessels?”
“Certain, my lord.”
Thunderfoot cursed. The tavern door creaked as lord and captain stepped over the threshold in succession, Thunderfoot bathed blue in the light of the wind-tossed lantern. He turned his back upon Melkian and strode for the harbour, sky-cloak billowing in his wake, slicing grey gashes in the starlit mist. Melkian watched his departure in alarm and warily called, “My lord!”
“This is not your concern, Captain,” came the dark reply. “You may return to your empty mansion.”
Melkian’s jaw snapped taut, and he felt all diplomacy evaporate. “What will you do, Thunderfoot?”
Perhaps it was the hard edge in his tone, or more likely his use of the name, but the grey-cloaked warrior halted then, abruptly, in the centre of the moonlit avenue. He turned, enough to display the profile of his stone-hard face against the wash of the lanterns, and when he spoke his voice was low, dripping with warning and wrath.
“I intend, Captain Melkian, to do nothing at all. Nothing but watch, and bide my time.”
Nineteen
. . . and he returned to the land of Egypt: and Moses took the rod of God in his hand.
-Exodus 4:20B
Rydel stared into the twilight sky and dragged a hand over his face. Dunbrielle lay quiet, watery lanterns flickering in each pearlescent pavilion as the Naiads awaited dawn in silence. Were it not for the soft voices from beyond the pavilion curtains, he would have thought the haven to be an abandoned shell, a ghost village in the shadow of the Black Wastes. But his Robin senses were sharp this night, and little evaded his notice.
He stood outside the small pavilion wherein the Heir slept. His new tunic and knife were mild discomforts upon the edge of his consciousness, too stiff and unsoiled for his preference, but Rydel’s worn shirtsleeves would no longer have suited him were he to don them now. They were, he knew, better suited to one much taller and broader, and besides, were rather unattractively stained with Skyad blood. A small loss. One he would manage without complaint.
This much, at the least, he owed to the Heir.
Three days in Dunbrielle had passed with little event since Kyrian of the Rain Realm had slipped from consciousness, and the pavilion had become the sole reality of Rydel’s waking hours. The Naiad healer had done all within her power to bind the wound and withdraw the poison, but after bearing the Heir to the pavilion—and providing a relatively clean replacement for the bloodied Rosghel uniform—Rydel’s presence had swiftly become unnecessary. At a loss and weary of the war between hatred and guilt he had submitted himself to the errands of the Naiad and a long, restless vigil at the Heir’s side. She spoke little to him and he spoke less, but he found that when she looked at him it was with a warm blend of distrust and pity that he somehow despised and craved all at once.
Sinking to the lowest stair of the pavilion entrance, Rydel rested his elbows upon his knees and stared at the moons. He was weary of thinking, after three days of torment, and for the first time in many a long night he found himself able to drift in his thoughts, far from his own mind, his own identity, and into the starlit sky. Escaping himself seldom occurred so easily, and he allowed himself to slip from his awareness and into the night, into the whisper of the river and the breath of the wind and the distant song of the stars. Away from the raging war tearing his mind and heart to shreds.
He was scarc
ely aware of the passing of time, but when again he returned to himself the third moon was falling from its summit and the night was black and deep. Rydel roused himself reluctantly and stood, dispelling the thoughtful haze from his vision and his mind, turning to ascend the brief stair to the pavilion entrance. He parted the veil and stepped inside, eyes drifting to the bed and robes whereupon the Heir of Ariad lay.
He stiffened, senses sharpening as his mind struggled to reconcile the sight before his eyes.
The robes were a tangled heap, cast haphazardly aside with the frustration of one weary of rest; each pale lantern burned low, gleaming upon the pavilion walls. The careless heap of cloth that had once been a Skyad tunic lay still upon the pearlescent floor, torn and bloodied—irreparable—alongside the Heir’s belt and leather bracers. But the mud-encrusted black boots and the long-forgotten bowl of meagre stew had disappeared from their places at the lamplit bedside.
Rydel of Robinsdwel cursed in bird-speech.
The Heir of Ariad was awake.
The cliffs along Ariad’s north border were steep, sheer, and black. To the untrained eye they were unbroken, and in starlight they formed great walls of pure darkness with the light of Dunbrielle sparkling at their base and the crystal falls shining as they fell from their heights to the pool of Guilihryn. Above the cliffs, on the summit of the walls, were the barren Black Wastes, where dwelt the earth-gnomes and the ogres of the mountains, creatures seen only in shadow and rarely within Ariad’s borders. The land was deemed treacherous, made darker by its position beyond Ariad’s edge, and no Naiad but one had dared to ascend the cliffs to the wastes in many a watchful year.
Like a blue-clad star Elillian had slipped from the pavilion and weaved the paths of Dunbrielle to arrive before the falls of Guilyra in the first watch. She had slipped beneath the crystal cascade and into the cavern, where the Sword of Kings lay still upon the cold stone floor, and bloodstains marked the path Rydel of Robinsdwel had strode with ashen-faced Kyrian of the Rain Realm stumbling at his side. Beyond the floor of the accused the cavern wound onward into the cliffs, in black passages and caves few in Dunbrielle’s history had learned to navigate, save Elillian. She needed no lantern to guide her steps in the labyrinth, for after countless nights of wandering the dark, the stone was familiar as the Nelduith itself, unchanging, silent, and heavy with time. As always she had found the hidden stair effortlessly, and as always the spiral steps had borne her upward, through the heart of the stone, to the summit of the cliffs, the edge of Ariad, and the border of the Black Wastes.