by Niki Florica
She felt his breath in her ear as he watched the Skies. “Yes. The cloud’s shape does not change, and it is far too dark to be a Silvership. Greys. Armed for war, no doubt.”
“But the Storm Realm’s capital lies to the west. Why does it approach from the north?”
He frowned, brow creasing. “It must be a strategy. Tasnil has been silent for far too long, and I suspect he was holding his attack until the Greys were beneath his command. This is the work of the alliance.”
Elillian exhaled and braced her right foot against the shore. “The stair,” she hissed.
His hand tightened upon her shoulder, and she imagined his warrior strength flowing into her veins from the warmth of his fingertips. “Run, and I shall follow,” he whispered. “Be swift, do not look to the Skies, and hold to the shadows as you are able. They will not likely be on guard over the wastes.”
Elillian drew a steadying breath and tensed her every limb. “When?”
Kyrian’s hand slipped from her shoulder. “Now.”
Elillian ran as if a shepaard’s breath were hot against her neck, her heart pounding as she scattered stones, fled over the shadows, leaped the shapeless debris before the entrance to the stair. Her bare feet struck the stone in a pounding rhythm; she descended the steps in leaps of three and four, slipping occasionally upon the cold rock, blind in the utter darkness. Kyrian’s footfalls echoed behind her back, and distantly she heard him calling her name between breaths, but Elillian did not slow until they had passed through the stone labyrinth into the shining Cavern of Peace.
Starlight ignited the falls in a diamond curtain, playing innocently upon the discarded Sword of Kings despite the shadow descending from above. Blood pounded in her ears, but Elillian did not pause to slow her heart. She ascended the stairs to the threshold of the cavern, where the stone floor was damp with the falls’ mist, slipped her hands beneath the cascade, and rasped the words that Guilyra had not heard in decades. Instantly, the waters obeyed, the cascade rising to a deafening, thundering roll, pounding upon the rocks beneath, exploding against the shore, sputtering and cursing in great white spray that only the deaf could ignore. Kyrian stood at her side now, Sword in hand, and his face was grave and fierce as he peered between the falls and the stone at the wakening haven of Dunbrielle.
“A warning?” he asked, eyeing the roaring torrent.
Elillian allowed herself a breath. “The first since the rise of the Usurper.”
Naiads emerged from their pearly pavilions, dressed in varying shades of blue and white, their watery eyes and skin translucent in the wash of the stars as they gathered upon the Guilihryn shore. The Council was among them, her father standing upon the brink; Elillian watched Gilvonel’s eyes rove the boiling pool, then rise to the sky above the crags. “He understands,” she said softly, swallowing her adrenaline. “My father sees the cloud.”
“Good,” Kyrian replied solemnly. “He will do what must be done.”
She glanced sharply at him, but his eyes were fixed upon the Naiads.
In silence, side by side, they watched through the opening as her father turned to address her people, a lone, blue-clad figure in the fierce spray of the Guilihryn pool. His words were lost in the thunder, but the Naiads were focused intently upon him, grave, wise, and faithful to the one whose profound discernment had long ago earned their respect. A host of blue eyes rose to the darkening sky.
Then the Naiads swarmed the shore and began to slip beneath the waves.
“What are they doing?” Elillian cried, his hand catching her before she could dart forward.
“It must be done, Elillian,” he whispered. “Ariad must not lose the Peacemakers.”
She wrenched free of his grasp and scowled into his black eyes. “We are not Dryads, Kyrian! We cannot simply vanish into our havens and abandon this world to its fate in the name of peace. This is cowardice! We belong here. We are all that remains of peace in this world!”
He grasped her shoulder and held her firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It is necessity, Elillian. I had hoped your father would see it as I do. Tasnil has chosen war. He shall seek to destroy the last of Aradin’s followers, beginning with the Naiads. This must be the reason the Greys approach from the north.” His hand tightened on her shoulder. “But Ariad cannot survive without your people, Elillian. You must protect the last of Aradin’s light in the havens that Tasnil cannot reach. You must understand.”
Her eyes stung with indignation, and she wrenched her gaze away, unable to watch the last of her people shimmer into water form and slip beneath the surface in sighs of white spray. Her father stood alone on the shore, gaze fixed on the falls behind which she waited, at the side of the Heir of Ariad, with his hand holding adamantly to her shoulder.
“I am not a coward, Kyrian,” she whispered. Her voice shook, and she hated herself for it.
She did not look to him, but his voice was warm and smiling as he replied, “Of course not, Elillian. Of course you are not. You are a warrior among Peacemakers—bane of beasts, spiller of shepaard’s blood. You walk the wilds alone by moonlight with naught but a knife and a warrior’s heart.”
Her nose prickled. “I cannot draw it without closing my eyes.”
In answer, he tipped her chin. “And in this you are not alone, I assure you.”
Guilyra sputtered with the arrival of her father, and Kyrian’s hand slipped away as Gilvonel stepped into the cavern. “The Naiads return to the sea, Elillian,” he said gravely, blue eyes framed by loose, flaxen hair. “We must depart, while time remains.”
She stared at him, numb and deeply, fiercely angry. “I will not abandon Dunbrielle.”
“Please, Elillian.” Kyrian’s voice.
She scorched him with a glare. “I am a healer. As long as you remain in Dunbrielle, so shall I.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the effort was hollow. “I am not remaining in Dunbrielle.” He turned to Gilvonel with a question in his eyes. “I do not suppose you have brought them?”
Gilvonel reached beneath his robes to withdraw the white sky-cloak, cleaned of blood, the Robin’s slice repaired and complete with the shining clasp. With it were Kyrian’s belt and leather bracers, and new black silks. “Provisions are within,” he explained. “There was time enough for little else, I fear.”
Kyrian accepted them and offered solemn thanks. “I am in your debt, my lord.”
“It is just payment for our sin at your expense. I wish to you Aradin’s blessing, the strength of kings, and all the good fortune that remains within this world.”
Kyrian’s jaw clenched, and he looked suddenly paler. “I still need a guide.”
“You have one.” A familiar voice from the shadows. The Robin was pale in the light of the falls as he directed his words to Kyrian. “We are far north and have lost time, but if we begin upon the western shore, I believe I can find a path to the skyladder before it leaves the Lands.”
Kyrian was speechless, but if Gilvonel was at all surprised by the Robin’s appearance, he gave no sign. Elillian felt herself leading the silent entourage through the rightmost opening of the falls, over the stepping stones that were seldom crossed to the western shore that was seldom walked. She was numb, empty, falling, into a nameless dark abyss with every thought that she was soon to abandon the shores of Ariad upon the very brink of its darkest hour.
The forest was darker upon the western shore, but one great willow stood in the shade of the pines, and it was beneath its weeping boughs that the Heir of Ariad gazed last upon Dunbrielle. There was not time enough for ceremony, not while the dark cloud drew near, but Gilvonel spoke, likely words of encouragement and strength that Elillian did not hear, her gaze locked upon the dark-haired Skyad in a Robin’s garb standing in the shadow of the willow.
Gilvonel and the Robin stepped aside. Elillian wished to speak but all the words lying unuttered between them were buried somewhere, beyond reach, and she could think of nothing to say. His black eyes studied her, shining
with something she could not have begun to unravel, and suddenly, before she could doubt herself, she had placed the black-hilted knife in his palm and closed his fingers about the hilt.
His gaze fell to it, brow knotting in confusion. “Elillian—”
“A gift,” she silenced him, “that you may never be defenceless in the perils of your quest.”
“It is yours.”
“I shall have no need of it in the Azure Sea.”
Kyrian of the Rain Realm regarded her in silence for a moment, his dark gaze piercing her like twin daggers, missing nothing, and when at last he winked and straightened Elillian knew that all hope of deceiving him was lost. She was not cunning, and he was not ignorant. It had been ridiculous to expect that he would not see her scheme as easily as he had seen the threat in the Skies.
He frowned, but his face shone with something akin to pride. “You are a fool, but a brave one, Elillian of Dunbrielle. You may yet have need of it.”
Elillian dismissed the knife with a wave of her hand. “It is a gift.”
The Robin was waiting in the shade beneath the trees as her father stood upon the shore and stared at the darkening sky. “We must go, Heir,” he said plainly. “The shadow is nigh upon us.”
Kyrian’s eyes remained upon Elillian as he stepped away, shadows reaching to engulf him, closing their dark talons about his starlit face. She heard his voice, warning her of the danger of Greys, the necessity of remaining within the cavern until she was certain the threat was passed, but Elillian was only partly aware of it. She was committing his eyes to memory.
The last act of the Heir in Dunbrielle was to carve a single rune into the bark of the willow, before casting her a glance that held far more meaning than words could tell, and vanishing into the shadows as if he had never been.
Twenty
And the heart of Pharaoh was hardened . . .
-Exodus 9:35A
Thunderfoot blasted through the ivory doors and stormed into the throne room, ignoring the sputtering protests of the guards posted at the entrance. His vision was blurred with wrath, mind reeling with the message brought to him in the dark of midnight by one of the few Grey warriors still loyal to his command, after three wretched days of waiting, watching, and biding his time. The messenger had offered valiantly to accompany him to the throne room, if only to confirm the claim, but Thunderfoot had refused. There was no sense in wasting a loyal warrior upon the edge of Tasnil’s sword.
Two silver-cloaked guards were removing a prone Skyad from the room when Thunderfoot crossed the threshold, trailing blood from an open wound in the wretch’s shoulder. The sight almost caused him to stumble, transporting him for the blink of an eye to another time, another throne room, another realm, another master. For a moment the guards were cloaked in grey, veins of black running spidery threads through the floor beneath their feet as they bore their fallen comrade from a cruel master’s domain. Thunderfoot was young again, and weak. Not a lord, but an apprentice.
A tear traced the wounded warrior’s cheek to pool with his blood upon the shining throne room floor, and for an instant his eyes were not blue but grey, his skin not fair but scarred by battle.
Thunderfoot startled to awareness before the memory could drag him into his haunted past, willing himself to breathe again, forcing his hands to still.
Weak, pathetic, sentimental Silvers. The world would not crumble with the death of another.
The pale giant shimmered into visibility before the closed doors of the citadel balcony, sword held low, stained with blood, back turned to Thunderfoot as the Silvers and their fallen brother vanished from the room. The doors swung closed with a resounding impact, then faded to silence. The calm before the storm.
“You no longer trouble yourself with killing them, I see,” Thunderfoot remarked, watching a drop of blood trace the giant’s notched blade. “You realize that they are worthless to you maimed?”
“On the contrary, Thunderfoot,” the Usurper replied, white cloak hanging heavy and still, like a shroud. “Death is convenient. But it teaches nothing. Creatures do not learn from the justice they do not see. Subtle exterminations, disappearances without explanation . . . such examples are wasted upon the ignorant.” He lifted his blade and examined it in the blue lantern light, allowing Thunderfoot a view of chiselled features, sunken eyes, and a scarred jaw that many had once deemed handsome. “But maiming them, Thunderfoot, scarring them . . . it is an eternal brand to all who look upon them. The mark of the price of rebellion.”
Thunderfoot crossed his arms. “I have found loyalty to be more effective than fear.”
“Loyalty,” Tasnil scoffed. “What do you know of it? You cannot truly believe that the Storm Realm honours you, Grey.”
“You doubt the allegiance of my people?”
“To you, yes. I have no doubt of their allegiance to me.”
Thunderfoot’s vision blurred red.
“They are not loyal to you, Storm Lord,” Tasnil continued, “but to power.” He turned, met Thunderfoot’s eyes with a milky blue gaze overshadowed by flickering darkness. “Driven by lust for power, for victory . . . I find it quite admirable. Not loyal, for loyalty is a weakness. No, they are ruthless.”
“I know,” Thunderfoot growled through gritted teeth. “Have you forgotten? They are mine.”
Tasnil inhaled a chuckling breath, sheathing his blade with a wide, sweeping arc. “So possessive, Thunderfoot. But you misunderstand me. It is simply the dawn of a new era. The Storm Realm has abandoned its lord, in favour of its king.”
Thunderfoot’s jaw flexed at the demotion of his power, at the title that belonged only to One, upon which no worm-hearted Usurper could ever lay claim. Fleetingly he considered speaking the name, if only to see the reptile’s reaction when faced with the truth of his insignificance, of his weakness, of his insanity. But wisdom overshadowed impulsion for the moment. Thunderfoot had not gained dominion of the Storm Realm without first mastering patience.
Moonfire painted blue the Usurper’s colourless hair as he clasped his hands behind his back, rings glittering on his fingers. “But surely you do not come to my chambers at moonfall to speak of allegiances, Thunderfoot. What so concerns you that cannot be discussed in daylight?”
Bile was sour in his throat, his vision clouded with wrath, and for a moment Thunderfoot could not remember his reason for coming. His hand rested upon his sword’s hilt, trembling; he could hear the ring of the sheath and the whisper of air and iron, could almost feel the resistance of bone and flesh against the tip of the blade. It would have been simple. So very, very simple. A single thrust and the world restored. Thunderfoot’s fingers curled about the cool metal.
It would not, after all, be the first time.
A gust of wind rattled against the glass of the citadel, and suddenly he felt the strength drain from his limbs as if an invisible foe had syphoned all defiance from his heart. His hand slipped from his sword, the wind chilling him beneath his cloak like an icy dagger, sent from the realm beyond the grave. It demanded the last of his will simply to remain upon his feet.
Clenching trembling fingers into fists, Thunderfoot cursed this city and the memories that haunted it, telling himself that the One was dead. Knowing he was not. “Ariad is under attack,” he managed, at last. “A fleet of Greys approaches from the Black Wastes, armed for war.”
Tasnil drew a silver dagger and twirled it in his fingers. “Yes?”
“I gave no command for such an attack.”
“No, you did not. Is this all, Thunderfoot?”
Thunderfoot’s jaw clenched so fiercely he was certain he heard it creak. “They are beneath my authority, Tasnil!”
“Thunderfoot,” the tyrant sighed, in painful exasperation, “have you heard nothing? They are mine. You yourself swore to me our alliance, and in so doing have relinquished control of the Storm Realm to your king.”
“I swore to deliver my people from starvation! Where is the melsith that was promised?”
“Melsith?” At last, Tasnil whirled to face Thunderfoot fully, face spectral, eyes milky, the white scar prominent by lantern light. “Thunderfoot, you shall see our terms fulfilled when this war is won. Until that moment, you, Storm Lord—and all of your forces—are mine.”
Thunderfoot glared, speechless with rage, and when again the Usurper turned away—silent dismissal—he was struck by his own blind lunacy as he turned from the throne room in a deflated, defeated mockery of his entrance. A slave of wicked masters, bound by his oath, weakened by his own cowardice. By all the accursed Skies, was he destined for an eternity in the shadow of tyrants?
Despising this city, despising himself, Thunderfoot stormed from the throne room, grinding his teeth against his wrath, resigning himself to his master’s command. Patience, he reminded himself, was his advantage. His weapon. It had served him well once, and would do so again.
Burying his wrath, Thunderfoot allowed his mind to settle into a cold, ruthless calm.
It would not, after all, be the first time.
Kyrian walked with one hand upon the hilt of Elillian’s knife and the other raised against the onslaught of branches following in the wake of his guide. Already he had come dangerously near to losing an eye, courtesy of a pine bough that had—with suspicious accuracy—grazed his lashes, and, behind a locked jaw and flaring nostrils, he was beginning to suspect the Robin of aiming them. The moons that had been clear upon the riverbank were overshadowed now by the Storm fleet, though the Skies ahead and southward remained clear, lit by a spattering of stars. He suspected third moonfall was near, but beneath the suffocating forest canopy he could not be certain. He walked in silence, attempting and failing to muffle his footfalls, each step echoing mercilessly through the darkness as he followed the trail of slashing branches that were the only indication of the Robin’s presence.
The forest upon the west shore of the river was unlike the North Wood of the Robins and the Adamun that lay upon the eastern bank. It was darker, heavier, burdened with an oppressive silence that was unnatural after the song of the Nelduith and the whisper of the wind through the North Wood’s dying leaves. There stood not a single oak, beech, vivlin nor birch beneath the dusky shade—the Jardenith Forest, Finefeather in the tongue of Men, was a sea of time-bowed pines. The undergrowth was impossibly dense, and the branches of the pines reached low to the forest floor, each armed with barbed needles that clung to Kyrian’s tunic like cirrus cloud.