by Court Ellyn
But here, among the pots and basins and ovens, she looked like a star fallen from the sky, vibrant, luminous. A faint halo radiated from her skin, lighting up the stairwell. How sad her eyes, staring past him into the darkness of the cellar. That, at least, was the same. But this time, he knew, it was he who made her sad. “The dragon sent you?” His voice shook in his own ears. He cleared his throat, raised his chin.
She looked at him, and he imagined he saw adoration in her eyes, or compassion, then realized it was probably just pity. “Rashén is only a messenger,” she said.
“As you must be. I doubt the Mother let you return for idle chat.” How dare they? They conspired against him, besieged him, ambushed him at all hours. “Say what you came to say and be gone. I have things to do.” He was generous to grant her even that. He should be walking away, stuffing his ears, but to sit with her, to gaze at her.
“You gave faithful service to my sister for so many centuries,” she said, her smile tender. “Was it because she reminded you of me?”
He turned away, hugged one knee to his chest like a sulky boy. “Maybe. In the beginning. I don’t remember anymore.”
“Yes, you lost your sense of purpose a long time ago.”
“How would you know?” he bit, though she was right. Standing watch day after day, over a lady whom no one dared threaten, had dulled his mind, his passions. Out of necessity, he had stopped remembering the past, stopped imagining the future, and took refuge in the grind of now, now, now. In truth, the day Kieryn Dathiel arrived in Linndun was the first time in decades, maybe centuries, that Lothiar had felt anything at all. He grit his teeth. “You weren’t there. You fled. You abandoned us all.”
Day and night he had nursed her, waiting for her to recover, to admit her need for him, but she didn’t. Amanthia had mourned the dead, and no longer acknowledged the living. Her grandson had murdered her lover and their avedra son, then tore down the white stones and shattered her temple. But long before that, before the war swept west over the mountains and north from the desert, Lothiar had visited her every spring, wooing her, hoping. Endlessly hoping.
“What else do you remember?” she asked.
“Bodies in trees. Your grandson’s ruthless horde hung the bodies of our warriors in trees. Did you know that? They lined the road. Our friends. The children of our friends. Babies!”
He hoped to rattle her, but she kept smiling at him, a sense of peace resonating from her like water from a spring. “I remember your laughter,” she said.
“My what?”
She was confused. It was Lothiar’s brother who laughed like a fool, not Lothiar himself. But when Amanthia departed, Laniel hadn’t yet been born. Still, she had to be remembering someone else.
“You weren’t always the stern, cold Captain of the Moon Guard, you know.”
During those final desperate years of peace, he had worn red stripes on his face, not blue. A Regular under Commander Tíryus. Amanthia used to trace the stripes on his cheeks with her fingers. Don’t think about that! He scurried away from her, down the steps toward the dark cellar. “Curse you! You’re wasting your breath. You will not change my mind.”
She rose, descended the steps toward him. The sorrow on her face made him angry.
“It’s too late anyway,” he said. “The Mouth of the Mother spoke. I’m damned, and if that’s the cost for freedom for our people, so be it.”
“You, a martyr, Lothiar?” She shook her head. The black waves of her hair shivered down her back. “That’s not how the cantas will sing of you.” Her hand rose to touch his face. He batted it away, then paused, startled. He’d expected something ethereal, something made of spirit and light, but his hand stung where he’d struck her, and she’d gasped in pain.
He reached out, tentative, and touched her cheek. Smooth and warm. “I thought…” Not a nightmare after all. Nor even a vision produced by that damnable dragon. She leaned into his palm, closed her eyes, and pressed her hand over his. Their fingers twined. For a moment, she was all there was. And then he remembered. He twisted her fingers until she winced. “No! It won’t work. I’ve used this ploy, Amanthia. The dragon should’ve told you that. I’m not some driveling human child whose knees go weak at the smell of a woman’s cunt. Do not visit me again, or I’ll send you back to the Mother-Father myself.”
A sob trembled in her throat. She leaned close, pressed her face to his chest. He leaned back against the wall, tried to ignore the sweetness of her hair.
A voice called. Far away.
Amanthia stepped back and with specter-like grace drifted into the darkness of the cellar. The white gown, the light radiating from her skin, glowed a long time as she receded between the wine racks, then the darkness swallowed her. But was she truly gone?
Lothiar shook head to heel. He slid down the wall and sat heavily on the steps, watching the dark, waiting for her to return, hoping, dreading.
A cry descended from the kitchens. “Sir? Sir!” Lasharia scrambled down the steps. “Did you fall? You’re bleeding.” She inspected the wound. “Can you walk? Sir, what happened?”
Lothiar turned from the dark. “She was real. I touched her. I touched her face! She was here. She came back.”
Lasharia’s lilac eyes were enrapt. “Who, sir?”
“Amanthia.”
She squinted in confusion. “Lady Aerdria’s sister? Sir, how long have you been losing blood?”
Of course, she didn’t believe him. Lothiar clenched his teeth. Damn the dragon and Amanthia both. If they failed to drive him mad, they would make sure his commanders lost confidence in him. “I need sleep, that’s all.”
“Yes, sir. And a surgeon. I’ll help you to the infirmary.” She slung his arm around her neck and pried him off the floor.
“It’s my own fault,” he said. “I dropped the lantern and stabbed myself in the dark.” The farther Lasharia led him away from the cellar, the more ridiculous the encounter seemed. No, it couldn’t have been real. He refused to believe it. If Lasharia hadn’t come, how long would the vision have tormented him?
“What brought you?”
She grunted under his weight. “Ah, I’d forgotten. Ruvion brings news.”
Lothiar dragged her to a stop. “He’s captured Dathiel. Hasn’t he?” After the War Commander, the White Falcon, and the rest had escaped Bramor, they had gone to ground. Ruvion had been tasked with rooting them out.
“Unfortunately, no, sir.”
Stitches could wait. Ruvion’s report could not. Each step sent jolts of pain through his leg, but he pressed a palm over the wound and, leaning on Lasharia, hobbled across the castle to the Audience Chamber. The silver throne wrought with entwined falcons loomed high on the dais. Below it, Ruvion whispered with Iryan. His arrival must’ve distracted Wingfleet from his mission. Their close, urgent words and sharp gestures told Lothiar the news wasn’t good.
Nearby, Dashka listened in. Gaunt from his time spent in the pit, the avedra was always listening, watching, gaging, his expression closely guarded. If Ruvion’s news pleased him, he gave no indication. Shortly after relieving the avedra of his command, Lothiar had confiscated his armor and weapons. He wore civilian clothes now, rust-colored fustian that didn’t do his fair complexion any favors. He looked perpetually ill, which made him a hard man to judge. Lothiar wondered at his wisdom in keeping the avedra close. He had made a capable spy in the days before the Cleansing. But that sword cut two ways: while Dashka could sniff out traitors easily enough, he might also be prying into Lothiar’s thoughts.
Ruvion strode toward his captain and saluted. The brown cast to his hair and the gold flecks in his gray eyes screamed of a human somewhere in his lineage. He frowned. “Sir, you’re bleeding.”
“Thank you, I hadn’t noticed,” Lothiar snapped. “Your report, Lieutenant.”
With a cocky leer, Ruvion said, “I found them. The fugitives ran to Drenéleth.”
An unfortified hunting lodge? That sounded too good to be true. “Then what a
re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be rounding up avedrin?”
“There are complications, sir. They’re no longer there.” Ruvion cleared his throat. “They’ve relocated to Ilswythe.”
Surely Lothiar heard wrong.
“They retook it, sir.”
The words were a fist to Lothiar’s gut. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I joke about such a thing? Ask your avedra if I’m lying.”
Lothiar staggered away from Lasharia; the pain in his leg only exacerbated his anger. He kicked a gilded chair onto its side. “I was just there, Ruvion! I talked with Solandyr not a fortnight past. The gates were secure, the place guarded by a full company. The War Commander has no army. How…?”
“I can only guess, sir. I didn’t see anyone leave Drenéleth, but I heard a storm rolling over the hills, though the night was clear.”
He needed say no more.
Lothiar rounded on Dashka. “This is your fault.”
Startled, the avedra unfolded his arms, took a half-step back, prepared to flee. “Mine?”
“If you had captured Dathiel and his apprentice when they were here—” He stopped himself. Rein it in. Keep your head. He imagined the silver dragon chuckling at him. “Dashka, get the basin.” The avedra hurried out, determined to please, grateful to escape further blame.
Surely even Kieryn Dathiel would have a difficult time ousting two companies of naenion from Ilswythe. Shortly after the Red Axe ogres had secured the holy site, Lothiar sent more than half the clan south to help their Broke Blade cousins smash through Tírandon’s gates. Either Solandyr had been overconfident in his victory and let his remaining company grow lax, or Lothiar had acted prematurely in moving Red Axe south. “I’ll send them back. See if Dathiel can defeat twice as many at once.”
“He’s not alone anymore, sir,” Ruvion said. Lothiar glared a question at him, prompting him to spill the details. “Ilswythe is manned by dwarves. They weren’t short on sentries from what I saw, and several hundred highlanders poured out of Drenéleth to join them.”
“The highlanders are fodder,” Lothiar spat. “But dwarves? Shit. From where? We decimated the Drakhan clans.”
“They fly Thyrvael’s banner.”
Yes, of course. Because the Thyrvael dwarves were close allies to the Black Falcon and the Sons of Ilswythe, Lothiar had avoided turning his ogres loose on them, to avoid raising suspicion. At least their leading warriors had died here with their human friends.
“Maybe we should send Dragon Claw or Storm Mount as well,” Lasharia said. “They can attack Ilswythe’s gates as early as tomorrow afternoon.”
Those two clans, under Fogrim Dwarf-Eater and Paggon Ironfist, filled the half-mile stretch of Bramor’s Green and trod it to foul brown mud. Maintaining a large number of ogres inside the walls ensured Bramor remained in Lothiar’s possession, and Lothiar never traveled without a heavily armored contingent from one clan or the other. “And leave Bramor unguarded? No.”
Lasharia dared argue. “Sir, if Dathiel decimated a full company of ogres, two won’t tax him much, not with dwarves fighting alongside him. Send Dragon Claw to aid Red Axe.”
And while Lothiar’s protection marched north, Dathiel could sweep south to attack Bramor. He considered a long while before deciding his caution resulted from fear. Besides, his ogres were bored. Bored ogres made for a dangerous situation. They had been brawling more frequently. Lothiar tried to keep them busy scouting the roads, raiding farms and villages, and toting supplies to Bramor’s granaries. But it wasn’t enough. He was fortunate they hadn’t turned on him in frustration. “You’re right, Lasharia. Fogrim will enjoy himself. He can make himself a whole wardrobe out of dwarf skins.” Some years ago, the young chieftain had fashioned a helm from the skull of a dwarf named Bordic Broadhammer. The champion’s luxurious coppery beard cloaked Fogrim’s shoulders like a mane.
Lothiar turned to his scout. “Ruvion, get your arse back out there. Keep your eye on Dathiel, his apprentice, and his niece. They can’t be on guard all the time. Shadow them. The moment their eyes are shut, grab one of them. Don’t come back until you capture someone who matters.”
Ruvion saluted and sauntered from the Audience Chamber.
“Iryan, you should be well on your way to Avidanyth. As soon as I get Red Axe marching north, I’ll contact Korax and order him to attack now instead of waiting for your arrival.”
“Why the change in schedule, sir?” Wingfleet asked. His frown pulled at his lightning-scarred cheek.
“When we retake Ilswythe, the humans and dwarves will flush from cover like rats. Where will Dathiel run? To Avidanyth. He always has. That’s why you must do everything in your power to convince our people to join us. Aerdria won’t cooperate, you can bet on that, but if we can win the people, the Wood, our Wood will no longer be a refuge for Kieryn Dathiel. The backdoor he’s used all his life will be locked against him.” He laid a hand on Wingfleet’s shoulder. “I know words aren’t your strong suit. You’re not the most diplomatic sort, but try. Woo them. Win them.”
“I will, sir.” He looked anything but confident. “If I fail?”
“Then you’re going to need barrels and barrels of lamp oil.”
~~~~
The hour candle burned low, and pieces moved. The board would look very different by morning. Lothiar tried to stay awake. He didn’t want to face the dragon. But the poppy wine that the human surgeon had given him for the pain put up a fight. It eased through his veins, weighed down his limbs and his eyelids. Maybe it would help him sleep too deeply for him to hear the dragon’s whispers. Yes, Goddess, please. He surrendered.
Silver light bloomed around him. It made not a sound, nor did it move, yet he perceived it taunting him. He couldn’t turn away. It pressed close, so close, so cold, so heavy, like a stone on his chest, barely letting him draw breath. “We tried,” it said, the voice enormous, though scarcely more audible than a whisper.
“He is what he is,” said a woman. The dragon’s silver light surrounded her, hid her from sight. “Possess or destroy. It was always his way.”
A sigh like a storm escaped the silver light, washed over Lothiar in waves. He longed to hide, but his arms wouldn’t move.
“He leaves us no option but to play the game his way,” said the dragon. “Come, lady, we have armies to raise.”
~~~~
7
Up close, the trees were uglier than Carah had anticipated. She had ridden past Avidan Wood several times on her way to Windhaven to visit her mother, usually in the winter when snow softened the clawing branches. She would stare out the carriage window, delighted by the shadows under the trees, hoping for glimpses of ghosts or strange floating lights. Now that she knew what monsters lurked within those shadowed depth, she found the Wood and her fear of it far less romantic. The ancient andyr trees towered toward the sky; mad, maze-like branches snagged the fog that rose off the river and tossed it over their shoulders like a shawl over a crooked back. Broad leaves withered black with rot, and the silence emanating from the canopy sent a shiver up her nape. Even the morning sun that blushed on the tumor-warted bark failed to cast the place in a fairer light.
“The Wood is diseased, Uncle Thorn. How can you stand to live here?”
He chuckled, nudged the gray gelding with his heels and said, “Follow me.”
Their late start from Ilswythe put them half a day behind. Thorn had hoped to reach the Wood by sundown yesterday. But when dusk approached, they were still some fifteen miles from the sheltering eaves. Better wait till morning, he’d said. Traveling a forest at night wasn’t safe for horses or men.
Sleeping under the night sky might have enchanted Carah once, but now it reminded her of the flight from Bramoran. The damp, musty smells. The crackles and shuffles of something moving past in the dark. And just as he had on that panicked flight, Thorn didn’t permit a campfire. He’d collected stones from the riverbank and warmed them with heat ignited between his palms and laid them under
Carah’s pallet. Though the stones kept her warm, her memories kept her wide awake.
So had thoughts of Rhian. Had he planned to tell her that he had an Elaran lover? Carah feared not. Surely he regarded her as more than a plaything. Was she merely a distraction while Rhian was away from this other woman?
She didn’t have the guts to ask. All day, Rhian had ridden well ahead of her and Thorn, and come nightfall, he wasn’t ready to forgive Thorn for his snide remark. He avoided Carah’s eye and spoke to no one. Veil Sight revealed Zephyr hovering near his shoulder, but he ignored the fairy, too.
Without any instruction from Carah, Záradel followed Thorn eagerly into the forest, happy to return home. Past the first line of trees, Záradel’s ears laid back and she shook her head. Then Carah felt it, too. A vibrating hum tickled deep inside her ears, made the hairs on her forearms rise.
“Now what do you think?” asked Thorn.
Carah stared wide-eyed at a forest transformed. Swaths of morning sunlight fell golden on trees as straight and broad as castle towers. The twisted tumors and leaf-blight were gone. The highest branches snatched at the bellies of clouds. Lush carpets of moss and fern spread out over their roots. Flowers bloomed on the tendrils of coiling vines. Cool, still air clung to Carah’s cheek like the slow, patient breath of an ancient sage.
“Aye, that’s likely the face I made when I first saw it,” Thorn said, smiling at his niece. “You, Rhian?”
It was too late to extricate the blade with which he’d stabbed his apprentice, however. Rhian let him know that he was still in a foul mood. “Me? I was shoeless and dying of cold when I first came here. Then I was shot for my trouble, so sure I didn’t give a shit about no trees.”