It had never occurred to him that not everyone could say the same.
Azra reached the shelf just after Josen did, and bent to help Eroh up behind her. For that first moment, she was fine.
And then she looked up.
Josen heard her inhale sharply, saw her eyes widen. Her body went stiff, save for one trembling arm that groped blindly for the spear at her back, as if she meant to somehow fight off the emptiness above. Eroh cried out and yanked free of her grip; he shook his hand like she’d hurt him. The boy signed something to her, but she wasn’t looking anywhere except skyward.
Verik was with her in an instant. From behind, he threw a forearm across her face; with his other hand he spun her around and drew her head against his chest. She moved then, wrapped her arms around him like a convulsion, still shaking violently. Tez and Iktin moved to either side of the girl with their hands on their weapons, as if they thought Josen might take advantage of her vulnerability.
“What’s wrong?” Josen asked. “Is she alright?”
Verik looked at him over Azra’s shoulder. “Never seen sky,” was all he said.
Never seen sky. Josen couldn’t even begin to imagine that. He’d travelled a long way with Zerill and Verik, and he’d seen them both above the mist—neither had reacted like this. From what he understood, though, they’d both had plenty of chances to get used to it. Only now did he realize that they might be the exception, not the rule. God Above, how many of them live all their lives without ever leaving the Swamp?
“Can I… is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
Verik just shook his head.
Josen would have let them be if he could. Being the responsible one wasn’t something he was particularly comfortable with, and he wasn’t eager to reach the top himself. Rudol was waiting for him up there, and the last time they’d seen each other, it had gone about as badly as it could have. The image of his brother turning away into the dark flashed unbidden through his memory, and those last words: If I see you again, I’ll kill you myself. He didn’t want to put that promise to the test.
Whatever I did to make you hate me so much, Rudol, I’m sorry for it. If I could quit right here and leave you alone, I would. But I can’t. He’d come too far to let everyone down now. The only way left to him was upward, and for this leg of the climb, speed was essential.
“It’s just that we need to hurry,” Josen said, though neither Verik nor Azra gave any sign that they were listening. “The others will be at the Mad Duke’s Gate soon, if they aren’t already.”
The next cliff rose beside the first of three gates along the Queensroad. Dark and distance would do much to hide their small party, but even so there was a chance that a guard looking in the right direction at the right time might catch sight of movement. If they were captured, Josen would be taken to the Keep, but the swamplings would stand the cliff—assuming all of them weren’t picked off the mountainside with wingbows first. He didn’t want that on his conscience.
And he had promised Shona he would do as she said. For once.
Walking through the gates, she’d said, would be too great a risk for a lost prince and a boy with Windwalker’s eyes. They would only be recognized, and taken to Rudol—which Josen had thought was exactly the point, but apparently how and when and where mattered a great deal. So they’d come up with another way. While Shona and Morne’s knights drew attention at the gate, Josen and the swamplings would sneak up the cliffs surrounding the road. The mountainside there climbed toward the farming flats in a series of staggered faces rather than one long rise—still too sheer to be scaled conventionally, but Verik’s deepcraft made it possible. Not by any means easy, but possible. Shona and Morne would easily beat them to the city proper by road, and by the time Josen and Eroh reached the farming flats, Morne would have men waiting there to smuggle them to the Stormhall.
If everything goes as planned. If we don’t miss our distraction at the gate.
So, though he hated doing it, Josen made himself interrupt the swamplings once more. “I know it’s mostly my fault we’re moving so slowly, but… we can’t stop here. We’ll be out of sight over the next cliff, if we just…”
He let himself trail off; Azra was already pulling away from Verik. Keeping her eyes fixed low on the mountainside, she haltingly signed something at the other swamplings, and reached for Eroh once more.
Verik nodded, and looked at Josen. “We move. She can climb.”
Azra stalked forward with a stubborn set to her jaw, leading Eroh by the hand. The rest of the swamplings followed, and Josen hurried after.
Despite the now-familiar pain in his side, he jogged past the others and fell in beside Azra and Eroh. “I’m sorry,” he said between heavy breaths. “If I rushed you, that is. I… I can’t guess what you’re going through, but it must be very strange.”
Eroh looked up at Josen with curious golden eyes, but the swampling girl just stared rigidly at the ground ahead and didn’t answer. That was nothing new. Azra hadn’t strayed far from Josen’s side over the last several days—he suspected she’d promised Zerill to look after him—but she also hadn’t said a word to him. And he got the impression that it wasn’t just because she was uncomfortable speaking aloud.
It might have bothered him once, but just then it made him smile. “You look just like Zerill when you’re trying to ignore me,” he said. “It must be in your blood.” It was a jest, but the girl really did look like Zerill must have at that age. No one had actually told him that the two were related, but it wasn’t hard to guess. She’s too old to be Zerill’s daughter, but maybe a cousin, or a niece… And suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore. He knew little about Zerill’s family, save for one thing: she’d had a sister. Lord of Eagles, did I kill this girl’s mother?
Azra gave him a glance that was somewhere between interest and irritation, and then increased her pace to put distance between them, pulling Eroh with her. At some point Josen’s feet had stopped moving; he just stared as she walked away. From the back, all he could see was a barely-grown girl dragging along a boy not far from her own age. A child playing at motherhood. She was raised in the Swamp, he had to remind himself. She’s probably more of an adult than I am.
Tez and Iktin passed him where he stood; both kept their eyes down, but neither had reacted the way Azra had to the sight of the sky—perhaps they’d been sent because they’d seen it before. Neither of them spared him a glance. Verik, though, stopped at Josen’s side, and traced the path from his eyes to Azra’s back.
“Better she… not know,” he said quietly. “For you and for her.” It was hard to read those dark eyes, but Josen thought—or could imagine—that there was compassion there. Whether it was for him or Azra was harder to tell.
“So she is who I think she is?” Josen asked.
Verik didn’t answer for a moment, and when he did he only said, “No time.” He gently nudged Josen forward, and then walked on ahead.
Josen followed. It was the only thing he could do, really. Whatever he’d done and whoever the girl was, standing there like a fool wouldn’t fix anything. The stone shelf beneath his feet sloped upward gently at first, and then more severely. Ahead, where it became too steep to climb easily, the others waited for Verik to take the lead once more; the only way forward now was the handholds only he could make.
Just where the mountain steepened too much for Josen to continue without clambering on his hands and knees, the Mad Duke’s Gate rose into view on his right. Part of it, at least. The wall was set only a short distance into the mouth of the pass, and the far corner of the ramparts peeked around the cliff’s edge. He couldn’t see much but a suggestion of grey stone against the shadow of the mountain; the only light was a dim ambient glow from somewhere beyond sight. At this hour, any watchman will have a lantern. I’ll see that before they see me. That was some comfort. Some, but not enough to rid him of the feeling that someone had to be watching.
The gate was named—not formally, but Josen
had never heard it called anything else—for Duke Warrell Orim, the last of the Windwalker Orim’s line. He had tried to invade the Plateaus with a paltry army some two hundred years ago, only to be defeated where the gate now stood. And if things go badly here, we might not make it much higher than he did. The stories said that when he’d seen the Royal Swords slaughtering his men, Duke Orim had thrown himself from the mountain in despair. History called the duke mad, but Josen wasn’t so sure. He’d already lost Eian, and that had been hard enough—if he’d had to watch thousands die in his name, he imagined the fall might start to look very tempting.
If I jumped, Shona would kill me, though. He didn’t doubt she’d find a way. She’d changed a great deal since he’d known her best, and even more so over the turns he’d missed in the Swamp. The shy girl he’d known when they were young was stronger now, more confident, harder—but he’d seen all of that before. What he hadn’t expected was the ruthless practicality she’d shown in letting the swamplings take Eian. It had been difficult for her—he didn’t doubt that—but she’d let it happen all the same. And maybe she was right to. She’s always been better than me at doing what’s necessary. He didn’t like it, but what he liked hadn’t mattered very much for a long while.
He looked up at Azra, helping Eroh up the slope above—risking everything for this chance, just like Zerill. They were what mattered now. If ruthlessness was what it took to help them, he would have to learn to live with it. He’d brought enough pain on that family for one lifetime. No matter how much he wanted a way out of this, they deserved something better. They live. Whatever happens here, they have to live. And there’s a better chance of that if we make the farming flats before morning. Once the sun rose, it would be near impossible to climb unseen. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his side, he struggled up the rapidly steepening slope. Come on. I can go faster than this. I have to.
A short distance ahead, where the slope met the cliff, Tez and Iktin had found a small ledge to stand on, and had begun to tie their harnesses. Azra stood nearby, waiting to lift Eroh into place on Tez’s back. Verik was already some fifteen feet up, leaving a series of indentations for the others to use. Iktin glanced down at Josen and made an impatient gesture with his hand.
Josen waved him on. “This one isn’t very high,” he said. “I can climb it. Take Eroh. We’ll move faster if he’s the only one you have to carry.” He struggled, panting, onto the narrow ledge, and pushed himself to his feet.
Iktin shrugged and turned so that Tez and Azra could lift Eroh’s legs through the loops of the harness on his back. When that was done, Tez looped a line around herself and offered an end to Josen. He tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t move until he tied the other end around his waist. Well, better a safety line than the harness. At least no one’s bearing my weight. When Tez had checked his knot, she started up the cliff, and he followed behind.
And they did move faster. Iktin carried Eroh’s lesser weight easily, and Tez climbed like a boggard without the boy slowing her down, hardly even using Verik’s handholds. Josen was still the slowest by far. He still couldn’t put much weight on his bad arm, but it was strong enough now to at least steady him when he needed it. The holes Verik left were as good as a ladder, and with his legs doing most of the work, he was able to keep a faster pace than Iktin could have carrying him, if only just.
He just wished it didn’t hurt so badly.
Every time he put any strain on his left arm, it felt like someone was stabbing a fistful of icicles into his side. He hadn’t made it ten feet up before he had to rest, gulping painful breaths into his injured lung. He looked up at the cliff-face, towering another forty feet over his head. There were a dozen more as high or higher between him and the Plateaus. Between him and Rudol, and a reunion he would have gladly leapt from the mountain to avoid, if so much hadn’t depended on it.
“You’d better keep their attention, Shona,” he muttered. “This is going to take a while.”
Rudol
Rudol awoke to the sound of knocking.
Sweat drenched his underclothes—the dream he’d woken from hadn’t been a pleasant one. He’d been standing the cliff, surrounded by the jeering faces of lowborn who had come to watch him fall. Josen alone had presided from the judges’ pavilion, dressed in Storm Knight grey with a great bleeding wound in his left side; he’d worn Aryllia’s Crown of blue glass on his brow, and his seat had been the Throne of Air. “You’ve been judged and found wanting, little brother,” he’d said, and the crowd had cheered the words.
And then, just as Rudol had begun to teeter over the cliff’s edge, the sound at the door had roused him. He should have been worried at what might merit the disturbance at this hour—another riot, more protesters at the gates, the final summons to his father’s bedside—but just then waking was a relief.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and took his tinderbox from the bedside table. His fingers were still clumsy from sleep and the flint scraped painfully along his thumb; he muttered a curse under his breath, then struck the flint again, and finally a third time before he managed to catch the char cloth and light a nearby candle.
Carissa stirred beside him, and blinked bleary eyes at the candle-light. “What is it, dear?” She sat up, clutching the blankets against her bare chest.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see to it.”
Whoever it was knocked again, loudly.
“Enough!” Rudol shouted at the door. “Let me dress. I’m coming.”
He grabbed his trousers from where they hung over the back of a nearby chair, yanked them past his ankles and up to his waist, and strode toward the door as he pulled his blue and gold tunic over his head. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered—he didn’t much care if some servant or guardsman saw him in his underclothes—but the sweat-spots from his dream were signs of weakness he preferred to cover up. A king should never appear weak before his subjects. He’d heard his father give that advice to Josen more than once. It had never been intended for Rudol, but now that he was Gerod’s heir, he meant to follow it.
He strode quickly through the receiving chamber outside his bedroom and pulled the hallway door open, expecting to see a footman or the like. Instead, Cer Byron Ephred stood waiting in the dim, wavering gaslight that lit the Keep’s halls at night. A man dressed in the blue-on-black uniform of the city guard stood beside him, just a little bit behind.
Something bad then. A potential threat. Cer Byron wouldn’t come for less. Rudol had expected as much, after the recent riots and word of rebellion from Greenwall, but still it was hardly welcome. He frowned. “What is it?”
“Best if you hear it from the source, Prince Rudol.” Cer Byron nodded at the guardsman.
“I’m… I’m sorry to disturb, Y—Your Highness,” the guard said. “The captain sent me. I didn’t… we weren’t certain what to…”
Carissa clasped Rudol’s shoulder from behind; apparently she hadn’t been satisfied to stay in bed. She’d wrapped herself in a simple night-robe. “No one is going to punish you for bearing a message,” she said to the stammering guardsman. “Calm down and tell us what’s happened.”
The man bobbed his head up and down. “Of course, my lady, of course. There is a… a situation at the Mad Duke’s Gate.”
Rudol didn’t need anything more; there was only one thing it could be. “Shona’s come, hasn’t she?” He felt more relieved than he probably should have—Duke Castar’s accusations against Shona were serious, and he didn’t relish getting in the middle of that argument. But he hadn’t liked thinking of what might happen to her in the Swamp.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the guardsman said. “Lady Shona and the knights who fled Greenwall. They’re outside the gate, but they won’t surrender their weapons. Lady Shona insists on speaking with you, and the captain thought… everyone knows you’re old friends, and he didn’t want to—”
“He didn’t want to take them by force.” Rudol nodded. “Your ca
ptain was right to be cautious. Take me there immediately.”
Carissa’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Are you sure that’s wise, dear? To let her set the terms of her arrival, after what happened in Greenwall? You must be her king now, not her friend.”
Rudol valued Carissa’s viewpoint, but that was irksome. He didn’t need this guardsman spreading word that his wife openly questioned his judgement. Or does it bother you because she’s right, little brother? You always did have a blind spot for Shona.
He clenched his fists tight. “The decision is made!” he said, too loudly. He regretted it at once.
But Carissa didn’t flinch at his tone. “Yes, my dear. I’m sorry. You know best.” She stroked her hand softly down his arm. “Let me come with you. I’ll only take a moment to change into something more suitable.”
He would just as soon have gone without her, but he knew that she didn’t like him to be alone with Shona. It even flattered him somewhat, to think that a woman so lovely could feel any jealousy at all over him. He nodded, but before he could say anything, he heard a door creak open farther down the hall, and turned to look.
“Oh dear,” Carissa said. “We’ve woken you.”
Rudol bowed his head. “I apologize, Your Eminence. A matter has arisen that I must attend to.”
“So I heard,” said Ulman Benedern. “If you mean to meet with these traitors, Prince Rudol, I’m afraid I must insist on joining you.”
Shona
Shona stood at the foot of the Mad Duke’s Gate with a hundred Knights of the Storm, waiting for an answer. The watch-captain had sent a man for Rudol a half-hour ago, but no word had yet come back from the Aryllian Keep.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 65