In truth, though, no one knew if Gerod was dying or not. The only word from the Keep was that he still lived—his condition was a mystery. That was part of what had brought so many to Skysreach today, really. In the absence of any real information, it was no surprise that people would look to the Convocation for answers.
It hadn’t yet been a turn since the disastrous anointment ceremony. As soon as the winds had resumed after Aryll’s Rest, the high chastor had arranged for the guests at the coronation to join him at the High Eyrie for a special service—ostensibly to pray for Gerod’s health, but Shona didn’t believe that for a moment. Not after what Edmon Dasson had told her. Who were the men Benedern and Castar brought here before the ceremony? And why do they want the rest of us here now? I don’t think all this is just to reveal some secret bird. It definitely isn’t about Gerod’s recovery. Benedern probably spends most nights praying for the opposite.
“Shona.” Eian touched her shoulder and she turned to face him. “It’s starting shortly. Best sit down.”
He was right; chastors were moving up and down the aisles between pews to make sure everyone was seated. She gestured Eian toward their seats in the front row. “Let’s see what Benedern has to say, then.”
The eyrie’s nest was full to the point that people had to squeeze to fit on the long benches, and many were forced to stand at the back. Shona and Eian skirted more than a few scuffles over seating—quickly mediated by nearby chastors—as they navigated the crowd. Most of the lowborn men and women who had attended the coronation were there, as well as anyone else who’d been willing and able to travel to Skysreach on short notice—more than a thousand men and women and children in total, brought in by caravan and basket over the last turn.
More than the High Eyrie has seen in years, I’m sure. Few had refused the invitation, and she suspected that was due to curiosity at least as much as faith. Gerod’s collapse had whetted their appetite, and they weren’t ready to return to their lives while there was still more to see.
I can’t claim to be much different though, can I? When Benedern had announced the service, she’d been unable to resist the chance to investigate. Staying in the Plateaus for Rudol’s sake had been folly on her part anyway—she hadn’t seen him since the coronation ceremony. He’d been cloistered away at his father’s bedside for days, and Carissa refused to so much as carry a message to him on Shona’s behalf. At least he has someone, annoying as she is. He shouldn’t be alone with this—he always was more fragile than he lets on.
The front row of pews was reserved for the highborn who had answered Benedern’s invitation: Finegrove and Perce, Harthey and Dasson, and a cavalcade of counts and countesses. The Aryllias’ staunchest allies—the Terenes and the Theos, both kin to the royal family by marriage—had remained in the Plateaus with the ailing king, and Shona suspected that was exactly where Castar wanted them. Her parents sat at the end of a pew beside Anden Perce of Orimscourt and his wife. Shona smiled at Duke Perce and slipped into place at her father’s right side; Eian eased himself down beside her.
“We thought you might be sneaking into Benedern’s chambers,” Grantley Falloway whispered, and Shona knew by the lines on his brow that he didn’t mean it entirely in jest.
“Perhaps later.” Shona smiled to show she wasn’t serious and clasped her father’s hand, hoping to calm him. He’d been uneasy since the failed coronation—enough so that he’d insisted on accompanying her to Skysreach when she’d tried to convince him to return home. He worries too much over me when he should be taking care of himself. “I know how to be discreet, Father. I’ll only dig as deep as I need to.”
“That is exactly what worries me. If you find the hole has no bottom, what is there to stop you from falling?”
“Castar wouldn’t dare hurt me.” Just like he wouldn’t dare hurt Josen? I have no idea what Lenoden Castar would dare anymore. But there were at least a few reasons to believe she was safe for the time being. “Whatever his plans are, they aren’t far enough along yet to get away with that, not above the mist. And he still wants my hand.”
Her father sighed. “People do unpredictable things in times like these. An ill wind is blowing, and I have felt its chill before. Confusion, anger, fear… it was the same before the rebellion.” He squeezed her hand, and his eyes seemed to lose their focus. “I won’t let them take you from me again, Shona.”
He isn’t talking about me anymore. Shona couldn’t imagine she resembled her aunt very much—Queen Shona had been a great beauty, it was said—but just the name was enough, sometimes. Her father had lost a sister and a son and a wife; those were the memories his mind slipped back to most often.
She glanced around surreptitiously to make certain that no one was listening. The surrounding chatter was enough to mask their voices, and Perce seemed engaged in conversation with his wife. Safe enough, but still… Over her father’s shoulder, Shona and her mother exchanged worried glances.
Vera laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “No one has taken her, dear,” she said softly. “Your daughter”—she placed a gentle emphasis on that word—“has always been with you.”
The duke shook his head slowly; Shona could see him fighting against the fog. “I… I know that. I was supposed to… I am supposed to protect her, is what I mean.”
“You always have, Father.” Shona kissed his rough-skinned cheek. “And you will for a long time yet. I’m not going anywhere.”
Confusion lingered on his face—she hated that look, that shadow across the light in his eyes—but he smiled and patted her arm. “Yes, well… see that you don’t.”
Eian cleared his throat. The sound made Shona start in her seat. She’d nearly forgotten about him in her concern over her father. He nodded toward the dais at the nest’s center. “Time to learn why we’re here, I think.”
A fat chastor with three eagle feathers hanging from his neck stood atop the dais, and just as Shona looked up, he raised his hand, directing the audience to rise. It took a few moments for the whole of the nest to oblige, but soon everyone was standing ready for the service to begin.
“The Sky God is within us always.” The chastor began the standard call-and-response that opened all sermons; the words were so familiar that Shona barely heard them. Her lips moved when the time came to respond, but she couldn’t discern the sound of her own voice amid all the others. Only when she sat down again after the final “Auna Celyn” did she focus her attention once more—it was time for Benedern to show himself.
The high chastor emerged onto the dais from below, and Shona could feel every gaze in the nest fasten to the man instantly. There was no Godspire looming overhead here; the High Eyrie’s ninth tier was the highest point of the Sky God’s Sword, and standing atop the dais, Benedern looked like a mountaintop unto himself. Wide-shouldered and barrel chested, he towered above his audience in a way few men could. He would have been impressive even without the robe of eagle’s feathers and the Crown of Eyes upon his brow—but they certainly didn’t hurt.
Turning a slow circle, Benedern cast his eyes over every face in the crowd, letting his silence draw them in further. Finally, he spoke. “I have prayed for King Gerod.” His voice carried over the nest, deep and rich, puntuated by another long silence. And then, “I have prayed for his soul, through years of illness and decline, for I knew he would not pray himself—Aryllia’s scions have long since put aside the Word of the Wind in their lives. Many of you, I do not doubt, have prayed just as fervently as I have. From the First Queen and on through the centuries, we have placed our lives and our futures in the hands of Aryllian kings and queens. Their blessings are our blessings, their strengths our strengths. How could we do else but give them our prayers?”
The audience was quiet but rapt—looking over her shoulder, Shona saw more than a few heads nodding in agreement.
“But as much as we have prayed for our kings and our queens, it was not enough.” A murmur ran through the pews at that; few sermons focused on what
prayer couldn’t accomplish, and certainly not sermons from the high chastor himself.
“It was not enough, because we are judged, each of us, by the quality of our own soul, not by the quantity of those who pray for us. Because the right to judge belongs to the Lord of Eagles, and him alone, as it ever has. During Aryll’s Rest he sat in judgement atop the Godspire, and he saw fit to strike King Gerod low before our eyes. Now our king lies at the threshold of his next life, his eldest son a traitor, his heir uncrowned. And we are left to ask, why did this happen? What brought this sentence upon them?”
Benedern paused once more for effect; his enthralled audience seemed to collectively lean toward him. “Would that I had a different answer for you, but there is only one truth.” His voice rose with each word, growing into a declaration like a clap of thunder:
“Our kings have lost their way!”
Now people were roaring in support or dismay—more the former than the latter, if Shona was any judge—and many surged to their feet, clapping hands and shaking fists. What are you up to, Benedern? When Gerod hears about this… But she didn’t know if Gerod would live to hear about it. Is this all there is to their plan? Some religious uprising? Even if Gerod dies, half the Peaks will support Rudol out of habit alone. Castar wouldn’t risk everything for even odds at best, would he?
Benedern let them bellow and roil for a time, and then raised his hands. “You must not let anger and fear rule you now. There is hope still. My intent is not to condemn, but to provide counsel.” The crowd quieted with surprising obedience at the sound of his voice. The man had presence, there was no denying that.
“Since Kaleb, Aryllian kings have eschewed the spiritual for the physical, sought favor below rather than Above. They have shunned the guidance of the Convocation, the Sky God’s voice in this corrupt world. If you require proof, look no further than King Gerod, who ended two holy Windwalker lines, against the advisement of all who cherish the Word! Our rulers wander blind through the mist, and when a guide is lost, so too are those who follow him!”
Another long pause, letting the fearful whispers in the crowd grow, and then, “But that which is lost can be found again. Though we have gone astray, the path to the Above remains ever open. We only need a new guide to show us the way.” Benedern turned toward the stairs that led up to the dais from below. “And in our time of need, the Sky God has sent us that guide.”
A breathless, anticipatory silence descended over the audience. Shona heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Who is it? One of those guests they were speaking of at the coronation feast? It can’t be Castar; he’s not stupid enough to try to pass himself off as some kind of prophet.
But it was Lenoden Castar; she recognized that black hair and closely cropped beard the moment they poked into view over the edge of the dais. Maybe he is that stupid. No, they must have some reason for this, but what? She wasn’t alone in her confusion—the murmurs in the pews behind her told her that much. And then she noticed that Castar’s shoulder was stooped, his hand extended low. Holding something. Or someone.
He isn’t alone.
A brown-robed boy emerged from the steps, gripping Castar’s hand. Upon his right shoulder perched a bird with feathers of brown and gold, curiously placid before so many people. The bird craned its head toward the sky, preened its feathers briefly, and flapped its wings once, but made no effort to escape. Is this the bird Dasson told me about? It looked like an eagle to her—oddly small, no bigger than a crow, but that only made it a runt, not an undiscovered species.
Castar turned the boy toward the far side of the circle first, and Shona didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was black-haired and smooth-cheeked—no more than twelve or thirteen, by her estimation. Even from behind, she could see the cloth he wore wrapped over his eyes. Dasson said one of them was blind, but I thought it was the man, not the child.
“Not long ago, Duke Castar brought this boy to me,” said Benedern. “An orphan boy who went unnoticed on the streets of Goldstone until the day he stepped in front of the duke’s carriage. An orphan boy”—as Benedern spoke, Castar deftly untied the boy’s blindfold and let it fall—“and the greatest miracle since the very Rising of the Nine Peaks!”
From around the dais, Shona heard gasps, cries of “Auna Celyn!” and “By the Above!”; the sound of dozens of people rising to their feet at once.
Shona strained to see, but Castar was leading the boy and his bird through a slow turn around the dais; only a portion of his profile was visible from where she stood. Each new person who saw his face had much the same reaction: gasped prayers, faces raised to the sky, fingers touched to foreheads, even tears.
Then the boy turned just enough, and she saw what they had seen, and even before she knew what she was doing she felt herself rise, felt her own fingers touch the center of her forehead. From somewhere nearby she heard a voice reciting a passage from the Word of the Wind in hushed, awe-filled tones. It had to be Eian—she didn’t know anyone else who had memorized the words.
“…and he will bear the eagle’s eyes, as those before him…”
Shona had never considered herself terribly pious, but she’d been raised on the legends of the Windwalkers—everyone had. Any virtue she’d ever needed to learn could be found in those tales, from Orim’s cleverness to Elica’s courage to Terene’s eternal dedication. Stories of Aryllia and Carris and even Dalleon were as much a part of her as her own name; they colored her every childhood memory, inspired or informed so much of what she thought and did even now. So it wasn’t piety that made her stand when she saw the boy’s face. It was pure wonder, like she’d only ever felt as a child. She simply couldn’t help herself, once she’d seen those eyes.
Golden eyes, shining in the sunlight like polished coins.
Eagle’s eyes, the same as the bird perched upon his shoulder.
Windwalker’s eyes.
But something gnawed around the edges of that awe, eating away at it from the outside in. Where did he come from? He just “went unnoticed” in Goldstone for a decade? How could anyone have missed his eyes? No, Benedern’s story wasn’t quite right, and something else was off, too—something she felt but couldn’t quite grasp. Something about those eyes.
Too big. It wasn’t by much, hard to even tell for certain at a distance, but that was it. His eyes are too big.
And then she knew exactly what had happened to Josen.
Lenoden
As much as Lenoden disliked altering his plans, he had to admit it was satisfying to watch the congregation react to Eroh. The way they cried and prayed and touched their foreheads, they might as well have been looking at Aryllia herself. It was even better than he had hoped for.
Still, having his hand forced so early was an annoyance. Gerod couldn’t have waited a few cycles to die? Not that the king was dead yet, but his sources said that it was only a matter of days. Lenoden had anticipated more time to consolidate his influence, make appropriate alliances—but circumstances had changed. He couldn’t give Rudol time to find his footing as king, and the opportunity to reveal Eroh for the first time to the same audience that had just witnessed Gerod coughing up blood beneath the Godspire on Aryll’s Rest was simply too perfect to waste.
The timing did complicate matters, though. It hadn’t been near long enough for memories to fade and suspicions dull. Looking out over the histrionics of the crowd, he wondered how many of them would take the time to think this over later, to consider how convenient it was for this boy to have appeared to him just when the Aryllias were at their weakest. The eyes would distract many of them, at least—they would see the last Windwalker and need nothing more, never question it further. Many, but will it be enough?
There were some he had no doubts about, of course: Edmon Dasson, standing at the foot of the dais and straining his arms toward the boy in a fit of pathetic adulation; young Yurrell Finegrove of Sunhome, watching with a hungry look in his eye, no doubt imagining the reflected glory Eroh might cas
t upon him. So many of the dukes were so simple to control—they just needed the right incentives.
And then there was Shona.
When he’d spoken to her at the coronation feast, he’d still believed he had cycles left to spare. His offer was the best she’d receive, and she was smart enough to know it—if sentiment didn’t get in the way. If she’d had time to get over the loss of her precious prince. Now, though… if anyone was going to question the timing of Eroh’s appearance, it was her. She’ll see things others won’t, especially things that might prove Josen innocent. Which would be acceptable—not ideal, but acceptable—if everything went well. He didn’t need her if things went exactly as planned.
The problem was if they didn’t.
If it came to war and he didn’t have Greenwall’s fields, he would lose. Goldstone could pay to feed all nine duchies if the food was there for the buying, but an army couldn’t eat gold and iron. All of Sunhome’s oranges and Orimscourt’s grapes and the Seastair’s fish would last a few wind-cycles at most. And when their families began to starve, Lenoden’s men would quickly rediscover their loyalty to the Aryllias, and he would be thrown from the cliffs as a traitor. That was unacceptable.
“There is no misinterpreting this sign.” Benedern’s voice boomed painfully loud so near to Lenoden’s ears. “The Word of the Wind tells us that the last Windwalker will come when he is needed most. ‘To a true and just king, he will show the path to salvation.’ That time is now. But where is that king?”
Lenoden found himself searching for Shona among the faces at the front of the pews. He needed to see her, assess her reaction with his own eyes. If she was against him, she could cause a great many problems beyond just refusing his proposal.
“I had intended to reveal Eroh”—Benedern clasped the boy’s left shoulder in one big hand—“to King Gerod privately, after the coronation, but now that I have seen the judgement of the Lord of Eagles, I am compelled to change my course. I cannot let the last Windwalker fall into the hands of those who would use him for political gain. I must know that the king truly wishes to walk in the Sky God’s light.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 36