by Court Ellyn
“The troops. You are to lead Windhaven’s militia to Brimlad and occupy the bridge that crosses into Leania.”
“Occupy it? Pardons, sire, don’t you mean ‘take’ it?” The bridge was neutral territory. Soldiers from both sides guarded it against incursions. The Leanians were bound to look unkindly on Kethlyn’s host seizing control of it.
Valryk blinked and his mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to know how to respond. He glanced to his right, eyes wide with uncertainty. Beyond the swirling frame, a voice as sleek as black velvet asked, “Shall I take over, Your Majesty?”
Valryk seemed to shrink with relief, and a stranger eased into the window beside him. Inside a dark hood, the stranger’s face was pale and shiny too, though not with illness. More as with moonlight. Kethlyn was reminded of the messenger who had delivered the king’s letter only a few days ago. Something about the courier had set Kethlyn’s hackles to bristling. The stranger gazing through the magic window had a friendlier mien. “Your Grace? I am Captain Lothiar, commander of His Majesty’s armies. Greetings.” Though Kethlyn had met with dignitaries from all over the world, he couldn’t place this man’s accent. It was subtle, easy. Like his smile.
“He’s mentioned you.” A year ago, when Valryk confided that he meant to replace his War Commander, Kethlyn had been deeply offended. It had taken all his self-control to keep the plan from his family. His father was war hero. Why replace him with a foreign stranger? Valryk’s explanation had been vague, at best: “For our vision of peace to succeed, we need a change of the watch.”
“Yes, I regret we have not had the opportunity to meet in person,” the captain said. “His Majesty sings your praises.”
“Is he well?” Kethlyn asked. “Sire?”
Valryk opened his mouth to reply, then turned abruptly aside.
Lothiar answered for him. “Our king is devastated by what happened at the Convention. Sorrow has made him quite ill. He’s being well looked after, I assure you.”
“What did happen at the Convention? All I hear is conjecture.”
“We’re at war, Your Grace, that’s what happened.”
Months of careful planning. How had it been undone? Valryk had known his plan carried enormous risk. What highborn would relinquish his holding without a fight? What ancestral enemy would agree to new trade agreements? Valryk had hoped the Leanians, known for their neutral stance, would help keep the peace. How had things gotten out of hand? Damn, he wished he’d been there. “Is my mother alive?”
“Yes.”
The word took the breath out of him. Part of him was deeply relieved. Part of him was horrified. “And she understands…?”
“Why you’ve been given the duchy? I believe the situation was made quite clear.”
Kethlyn nodded, though he was still unsure whether this confirmation eased his heartache. She hadn’t written. She must loathe him.
“Now, your orders, if I may, Your Grace. The situation requires a quick response. You will march first thing in the morning. Take the shortest route to Brimlad, and station yourself on the bridge. It fell to us two weeks ago, as did the city of Endhal.”
Kethlyn wanted to ask, “How?” but he kept his curiosity to himself. Good soldiers didn’t question their commanders; they did as they were told.
“The problem, Your Grace, is that the heirs of Endhal have escaped and are raising resistance. We believe they are taking refuge in Heatherton, a village five miles southeast of Endhal. You and your host are to lead an attack on this village, root out the heirs, and put them to the sword.”
At last, he couldn’t help it. Kethlyn had raised his armies under the clear understanding that they were to protect Evaronnan soil. He had also agreed that his host might be needed to put down rebellions among Aralorri nobility; replacing most of Aralorr’s highborns was bound to instigate a season of dispute. But to invade a neighbor’s territory and execute strangers? The order was too severe to keep quiet. “What authority have I over Leanian highborns?”
“These Leanians are enemies of the Black Falcon. That should be more than enough incentive for you.”
Kethlyn raised his chin. He wouldn’t let this commander think him insubordinate. “Very well.”
“Good. As for the villagers harboring the heirs, you are to capture as many as possible and secure them in Brimlad’s dungeons, to entice Queen Da’era to keep her armies at Graynor.”
“Queen Da’era?”
Lothiar glanced toward Valryk in a puzzled sort of way. “His Majesty wrote to you explaining that King Ha’el is dead, did he not?”
“Well, yes, but Ha’el has a son.”
“Who was also slain.”
“Goddess’ bosom, they were assassinated, weren’t they?” Yes, that put events into clearer perspective.
The captain paused before he replied. Hesitation? Grief? The lamplight was too dim to tell. “By Fierans, yes. An attempt was made on King Valryk’s life as well, but the Falcon Guard saved him and put an end to the perpetrators. Things escalated from there.”
Valryk lowered his face into his hand and groaned.
Lothiar added, “The White Falcon himself gave the orders, of course, and we’ve dealt with him.”
What a grave mistake it had been, calling the kings together. Kethlyn regretted having supported Valryk’s idea. They should’ve known Fierans couldn’t be trusted. “So Leania won’t seek alliance with Fiera against us?”
Lothiar chuckled as if the idea were absurd. “No, no, it’s every kingdom for itself at the moment. Leanians seem to be blaming Aralorr for instigating the whole thing.”
“So who attacked Mithlan? Who captured Endhal?”
“We did, of course. My armies, under King Valryk’s command.”
So quickly? “Why those fortresses? They weren’t a threat, surely.”
“Weren’t they? You must know that Endhal docks a goodly portion of Leania’s navy, and both it and Mithlan are too close to Evaronna’s border to suit the Black Falcon. They were both a grave threat to his kingdom’s security, as these missing heirs prove. If they rally swords, there’s no telling where they’ll strike.”
Kethlyn gnawed on this awhile. Queen Da’era was only sixteen. He had met his distant cousin a couple of times, when a guest at Graynor. He’d feared that his mother meant to propose a marriage between the two of them, despite his arguments. Da’era was quiet, obedient, and in his mind, spiritless. It was possible that her commanders meant to control her and wage whatever war they wanted. “Yes, I see.”
“Sadly,” Lothiar said, “this catastrophe leaves only King Valryk and you to set the Northwest in order. It won’t be easy, but we have to start somewhere. That’s why you’re going to Endhal. Shall we discuss the rest of your orders?”
“Yes, of course, forgive me. Proceed.”
“In addition to putting an end to the uprising, you will capture as many resources as Endhal, Heatherton, and the surrounding villages have to offer.”
“Raid other towns?”
“As many as you come across. We have soldiers and people to feed, Your Grace, and better those supplies go to us than our enemies, agreed?” Lothiar didn’t give Kethlyn a chance to reply. “Send all food and livestock east to Bramoran. Make sure the escort is flying your banner, Your Grace, or I can’t vouch for its safety.” He turned toward Valryk and added in a more deferential tone, “That is, if this is amenable to His Majesty?”
Valryk lurched up in his chair. “Of course it bloody well isn’t! It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
The outburst was startling. Kethlyn reach out to console his cousin, but his hand touched the pulsing frame and he received a shock of burning cold. “Cousin, sire,” he said, shaking the sting from his fingers, “I know things fell apart, but we can make it right again.”
“No, you don’t under—!”
Lothiar quieted him with a hand to his shoulder. “Sire, please. You mustn’t get excitable.”
Valryk shrank back in the chair, eyes tight
shut, as if he feared someone might strike him.
Kethlyn stared at the captain’s large, pale hand clenching the king’s shoulder. No one in his right mind would take such liberties with the Black Falcon, but Valryk didn’t shake him off.
“I think we’re finished,” Lothiar said. “His Majesty needs rest, and you have your orders. Good luck, Your Grace. We will contact you soon.”
Kethlyn heard the slosh of water. The glowing frame and the vision of Valryk’s distraught face dissipated.
~~~~
Iryan Wingfleet funneled the marsh water back into the nozzle of the leather bag. The burns on the side of his face looked red and raw. The thin flesh that scarred his cheekbone cracked like a dry lakebed when his expression changed, not that Iryan was fond of effusive expression. Kieryn Dathiel’s lightning whips had cost him most of an ear as well. He still had to pack cotton into the hole to prevent fluid from leaking into it. He cast Valryk a scathing, ice-eyed glare, then retreated across the parlor with the basin and water skin, as far from the human as he could get.
Lothiar squeezed the king’s shoulder until Valryk whimpered and tried to squirm away. “You were doing so well. I would hate to send Paggon to lay waste to your cousin’s lands. But that’s what will happen if the duke decides to think on his own.”
“I’m sorry.” Valryk’s voice quivered. He tried to press himself into the divan and disappear. “The pain. My feet. The balm’s worn off. It’s making me delirious. I didn’t mean to say anything.” Linen bandages swaddled the Black Falcon’s feet, from his ankles to the tips of his toes. Inside, new burns oozed, making wet spots on the linen. The minty scent of silverthorn wafted up Lothiar’s nose.
“Poor boy. We can’t have that. We’ll get you some more balm. And the wine, as I promised.” He pinched Valryk’s jaw in his fingers, forcing him to look up and meet his eye. “But you must be more careful.”
Valryk nodded frantically. “I will. I promise.”
Lothiar smiled and let him go. In the shadows draping the walls lurked a shape as ominous as a boulder perched on a cliff. Lothiar spoke to it. “Paggon, His Majesty is wounded. Carry him back to his cell.”
The ogre detached from the parlor wall and lumbered into the lamplight. Scars latticed his tusks and crisscrossed his face and chest, scars won in countless battles, not only against dwarves, but against other ogres. How many times had Paggon Ironfist fought as Lothiar’s champion, to convince chieftains of other clans to join their cause? In the last twenty years, he had grown old. The scraggly braid atop his head had turned iron-gray, and his muzzle sagged toward jowliness. Yet none of his grandsons had bested him. He still ruled the Storm Mount clan with a fierce grip.
The ogre’s heavy brow drew down over small red eyes, revealing his confusion. “Yes, Cap, dis naeni wound him. You say to.”
The notion of an ogre hinting that Lothiar was stupid and forgetful coaxed laughter from him. “Get going. I’ll bring the wine shortly.”
Paggon’s skillet-sized hands lifted Valryk gently off the divan. The king made not a sound, only clenched his eyes shut. He had learned not to struggle or complain. This afternoon, when he expressed his revulsion at the ogre’s proximity, Lothiar had made him walk all the way from the prison tower on those blistered feet.
“Why do you put up with cowards like him?” Iryan asked as soon as Valryk was gone.
“He’s not as cowardly as some. He thought himself quite brave when he gave me permission to poison his father. We won’t need him much longer. The duke will keep things off balance in the west. Humans will have a harder time uniting when they can’t trust their neighbors. Once that’s accomplished, well, the Black Falcon’s voice will become a useless drone.”
That may or may not have provided Iryan with consolation. Hard to tell anything past that habitually suspicious glower of his.
“Come,” Lothiar invited, starting for the corridor, “we will discuss your orders on the way to the wine cellar. One mustn’t keep a king waiting.”
Iryan’s lip curled, but not with humor. Didn’t the bastard ever crack a smile?
Silent were the halls of Bramor these days. Barely a handful of humans were left inside the walls, and those stayed out of sight until called upon. The naenion whom Lothiar permitted inside on business were too few for the castle to feel populated. No one cared to light lamps along the corridors. Unless windows permitted light, the rooms and grand archways remained dark. The place wouldn’t feel lonely for long, however. Iryan’s mission would change that. “Your wounds are healing nicely,” Lothiar told him, giving the burns a sideways glance. “You’ve begun preparing for your journey to Linndun?”
“Yes, sir. And spoken with Korax Elfbane. He’s almost in position.”
“Good. As soon as his regiment draws away the dranithion, you ought to be able to reach Linndun’s walls without much trouble. You know what you’re to say?”
“Yessir, I’ve heard you say it plenty of times. I’ll use your words.”
Lothiar nodded. “Don’t delay. Get going.”
Iryan hammered a fist to his chest and marched off into the long dark corridor. Once captain of the Dranithion Uthiel, the Guardians of the Southern Wood, Wingfleet had fought more than his share of ogre war bands. Living among clans of naenion—and leading them—made him nervous. He preferred to lead an army of Elarion any day. Shortly after joining Lothiar, he’d said, “You know, sir, all it will take is one na’in realizing they outnumber us two hundred to one.”
Lothiar had wanted to plant his knuckles in Iryan’s careless mouth. “Don’t tell them that.” The sooner this war was over, the sooner he could order one clan to slay the other and sleep easier.
If the dragon ever let him sleep again.
He continued on toward the wine cellar alone. The silence resonating in the castle was as effective as a lullaby. He longed for sleep. Each night, Lothiar snatched only a few winks before the dragon came prowling. The bold silver light, the accusatory glare from those slit, silver eyes, the deliberate silence in that fanged mouth seemed to paralyze Lothiar in a half-lucid state. He told himself he was just dreaming, and dreams defied reason: Rashén Varél, in his true form, was too big to fit inside Lothiar’s bedchamber, yet the dragon crouched under the ceiling, wings tucked against his back, long sinuous neck arching over the bed and coiling back again. He appeared more ethereal than flesh, there but not, half-seen through the haze of sleep. And sometimes he wasn’t alone. Sometimes a woman stood with him. Hair like the fall of night. Sad, sad eyes. Amanthia.
Forcing Lothiar to dream of her was the cruelest ploy of all.
Bramor’s wine cellar stretched out under much of the old keep. Dust settled on the racks and bottles, and the darkness filled the cellar like memories. It pressed so close that Lothiar’s lantern had trouble pushing it back. An age before he’d been born, humans and Elarion both buried their dead in deep places like this. The avedra woman ruined that when her naenion decided they had a taste for moldering flesh. Perhaps this wine cellar had once been one of those ancient tombs. The lantern’s feeble flame winked off glass bottles, turning them into rows upon rows of eyes. The scrape of Lothiar’s boots on the stone floor shook the silence like a profanity. Softer, he told himself and slunk into a lighter step.
He walked along the first row of racks, where the youngest and cheapest wine was stored. The king wouldn’t care about the quality of vintage, so long as it numbed his pain. Lothiar picked up a bottle, any bottle, then started deeper into the dark. He’d enjoy a fine old ruby-brown with his own supper.
A breath moved past his ear. “Azhdyr…”
His boots scuffed to a stop. He lifted the lantern higher. The shadows scurried back, swung side to side. When Lothiar saw no one, he snarled, “Damn you, dragon. I’m awake, don’t you see? You can’t trouble me.”
He took a couple more steps, then stopped again. Sharp Elaran ears picked up the patter of pink mice feet and something else. A sound softer still. Though Lothiar had to be m
istaken, he swore it was a woman’s whimper.
Yes, there it was again, a sigh edging toward a sob.
He set aside the bottle and reached for the dagger on his belt. It was possible that a human had hidden in Bramor’s tunnels to escape being expelled from the city. Whoever lurked down here would wish she had fled with her people.
Lothiar stalked between the racks, his step softer than those of the mice. The woman’s crying rose clearly out of the dark now. Whoever she was, she wasn’t afraid of the approaching lantern, nor of the one who carried it. He rounded the far end of the rack, and on the dim edge of the light she sat on the cold floor with her knees drawn to her chest and her face lowered. A radiant white gown pooled around her, and hair like a fall of night cascaded over one shoulder and trailed in the dust. She raised her face and spoke his name.
Lothiar dropped the lantern. The glass shattered, the flame went out, and he ran.
Her voice trailed him through the dark, prickling the back of his neck. He careened into wine racks. Bottles crashed around his feet. Pain bit into his thigh, and he remembered he held a dagger. He tossed it away and empty hands guided him up one row, then the next. A pale lighted square showed him the doorway out.
He staggered into the light, breath burning in his throat. Blood bloomed down his pants leg. He tested the wound, decided it needed stitches, and glared back into the dark. “Fucking idiot,” he hissed. Damn near kill yourself over an apparition. The dragon was playing tricks with his mind, that’s all. Amanthia was long gone, passed into the Light a thousand years ago. No one ever returned from the Light. Did they?
Forget the wine. Valryk could go without, for all he cared. Lothiar limped up the steps to the kitchens, cursing himself for acting like a child afraid of bogeymen. At the top he nearly ran into her.
“Lothiar?” she said.
With a cry, he scuttled back. His heel landed on emptiness, and he tumbled halfway down the steps before he caught himself. The hem of her white gown rippled down after him. “No, no, no, you’re not real!” he bellowed and squeezed his eyes shut—like that coward Valryk had done when he feared Lothiar would strike him. He opened his eyes, determined, and found Amanthia seated a few steps above him. He had forgotten the details of her face. He remembered her ill with grief, sallow and withering, her lavender eyes staring at nothing like two dead stones.