by Court Ellyn
A woman … no, a youth … moved inside the light, and the light moved with him. A silver robe cascaded to the ground. The shifting colors of an opal danced before the creature’s eyes, disguising their true nature. All this strategizing had cracked Kelyn like a nut. He’d gone mad, he was sure of it. He’d seen the light before, but only in his dreams. “I’m not asleep.” He hoped the declaration would sober him and make the hallucination go away.
The youth smiled, amused. “No, War Commander, you are awake.” The voice carried a smooth, high note, but had a deep resonance, neither male nor female. It sent ripples skittering across Kelyn’s skin. He shuddered, unable to decide if the sensation was pleasant or terrifying. As slight as the youth was, Kelyn had the impression that the Great Hall was too small for him; that in comparison, Kelyn was as miniscule and contemptible as a slug and all his noble efforts were but a trail of slime he left behind. He almost descended to a knee, but the youth regarded him with such open curiosity that Kelyn doubted kneeling was the response the youth desired. With the gracefulness of moonlight on water, he stepped onto the dais. Kelyn took two steps back.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m only Ana-Forah’s messenger.” Only? “Call me Rashén. I think your original idea was better.” The youth held out a crumpled piece of paper. Many more wads littered the dais. “Why did you decide against the bolder move? We’ve discussed this several nights. Yet still you hesitate.” Discussed? Yes, in his sleep, but Kelyn hadn’t suspected the talks with this ethereal creature had actually happened. “You know these gates will not hold. Why insist on staying?”
Was the youth angry, remonstrative, or merely curious? Kelyn could explain his campaign strategy, how he meant to send his host out from Ilswythe in spokes like a great wheel to harass Lothiar’s ogres, send them into disarray, but this was evading the heart of the matter. Kelyn dared not insult this creature with excuses. “Because leaving means giving Ilswythe back to Lothiar. How can I do that?”
Rashén tilted his head. “When you play, do you protect your rook and sacrifice your king? You are wiser than this, Son of Amanthia. In the end, a fortress is a tool, like your sword, or a warhorse that you know better than to love.”
“Ilswythe is my home. Lothiar means to tear it down.”
“And you can rebuild it, stone on stone.”
“It’s more than stone.”
“Is it? You take the spirit of this place with you. Your family, your memories. Lothiar cannot take those.”
“He will try and try again.”
“And you know you can defend them better elsewhere.” Rashén laid the rumpled paper atop the others. Kelyn didn’t need to look at it to know which discarded plan it detailed.
“Tírandon.”
“It was built for this day,” Rashén said. “Leshan was wise. His gentle soul knew better than to dream of peace. He did not have that much faith in the ambitions of men. He foresaw this war, even if he expected it to have a more human face. In the long-run, staying is more dangerous than going, for the reasons you predict. Will you take the step?”
“Can we even survive the march?”
“You cannot survive if you stay.”
Kelyn closed his eyes and breathed deeply to stave off a rush of fear. He was too tired; his armor was growing thin.
A hand pulsing with calm came to rest on his shoulder. “Your spirit may feel frail, but you have the strength to bear this choice.” Even as Rashén spoke, Kelyn felt the fear scatter before a tide of something extraordinary. A warmth like peace, confidence, love welled up inside him until he felt that he must be glowing as brightly as Rashén. He looked down at his hands, but they were just human hands and he was still only himself. But he was sure now, and he was not afraid to lunge off the cliff.
Rashén glided down from the dais, preparing to depart, but Kelyn asked, “Why is the Mother-Father helping us and not Lothiar?”
The youth turned back and said, “Ana-Forah does not choose sides. She is her own side. Hers is the only side. Lothiar has forgotten this. See that you don’t.”
~~~~
Thorn tried to hide his fingers from Rhoslyn as she handed him a cup and saucer. They were red as boiled crab, and raw to every passing breeze.
“Have you burned yourself?” she asked.
Inwardly, Thorn winced at having been found out, but outwardly he shrugged and sipped the steaming tea. “It happens.”
They gathered in an upstairs parlor among the family rooms, away from the rest of the highborns. It was too early to don the social smile, even for the duchess, it seemed. Lura, her handmaid, laid out flavorless bran muffins on the sideboard. Thorn was tired of eating horse food for breakfast, but at least they had a small crock of butter to share.
“It wasn’t Carah’s fault, I hope,” said Rhoslyn. “Yesterday she told me she conjured flame to light a candle. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so excited.”
Thorn had feared the death of Master Arvold would shatter her confidence, but Carah managed to separate what she saw as her failure in healing him from her meditations on the flame. When the wick caught and burned merrily atop the candle in her hand, Carah squealed and spun in a jig. Thorn chuckled at the memory. “No, it was no blunder of hers.”
In fact, his fingers were nearly numb with cold rather than blistered with fire. Each time he handled the non-substance from the Abyss, it took his flesh longer to recuperate from the chill. Last night he finally managed to wrap a strand of darkness onto the spindle. As soon as he awoke this morning he tried again and succeeded. It wasn’t just dumb luck. He had learned the spell at last. Now, what to do with the abyssal thread? Binding it to iron to make baernavë, he’d decided, was a waste of effort. He needed to affect many ogres at once. Neither chains nor blades would do.
Rhoslyn blew across her cup of tea, looked up at him and smiled. “This is nice. We don’t get to sit and talk much, do we?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Why do you call me that? You, of all people.”
He just smiled in reply. Naming his reasons would ruin the moment. He feared that, soon, there wouldn’t be any quiet mornings to sit and sip tea and watch the sunlight spill across her hair.
A voice called in the corridor. Called again, and this time Thorn recognized his name and the timbre of his brother’s voice.
“Oh, good,” Rhoslyn said. “Lura, set a plate for His Lordship.”
The parlor door swept open, hard enough to slam back against the wall. Lura jumped and juggled the muffins. Kelyn stood on the threshold, his eyes bloodshot and wild. They darted about the parlor as if seeing things that weren’t there. His clothes were rumpled, his hair oily and out of sorts, his feet bare.
Frightened, Rhoslyn leapt from her chair and started toward him. “Are you ill?”
“What? No. I’m fine. Better than fine.” Those feverish eyes pinned Thorn. “I know what we have to do. Summon the commanders.”
That fast, he was gone again.
Thorn and Rhoslyn exchanged a confounded expression. With a shrug, she said, “I’ll see if Lady Athmar is awake. You rouse the men.”
“Right.” Thorn started to rise, setting his tea aside, but his numb fingers fumbled the edge of the saucer. The cup somersaulted. Tea splashed his left knee and right foot. A flash of inspiration stunned him, and he stood staring down at the rivulets soaking into his riding leathers. Rhoslyn called for Lura to bring a towel. Thorn took it in hand, barely realizing. “Liquid,” he muttered. How would the smiths of ages past know that the Abyssal thread could be fused with iron if they hadn’t experimented with something simpler? “Water? No, oil. Better for binding. In clay jars. Flung from catapults. That’s it!” He cared nothing for the tea dripping down his leg, but grabbed Rhoslyn by the shoulders. “Today is a good day!” He sprang from the parlor and started knocking on doors. How could anyone sleep on a day as auspicious as this?
~~~~
Drona’s outburst shook the rafters of the Great Hall. “Tírandon? There’s n
o way in hell I’m stepping foot inside that den of cattle thieves.”
Thorn rolled his eyes. Hypocrite, he thought.
Drona’s nephew watched her anger spill over. Daxon had dark eyes that sliced between his aunt and the War Commander. The young man saw much and said little, which made Thorn nervous. Especially given his reasons for despising Lord Ilswythe. He might be thinking anything behind that habitually suspicious scowl. Time and again Thorn had been sorely tempted to spy on Daxon’s thoughts.
“This isn’t the time to stand on old grievances, Lady Athmar,” said Lord Rhogan. His voice was soft but as unbendable as cold iron. He and Eliad, Laniel and Dagni lined the high table across from Thorn and the War Commander. Drona stood at the foot with her nephew, still unwilling to endure the elf’s proximity. She might have to endure Aralorri hospitality and the Aralorri people, but an elf was another matter.
Out of courtesy, Kelyn had invited King Arryk and Queen Briéllyn to attend as well. Off to the side, they occupied two high-backed dining chairs. Whispers passed between them, but they refrained from interrupting, even when Drona lost her temper.
“Remember King Ha’el’s warning,” Rhogan added, “that which he spoke on the day died. ‘It takes only one to undo peace. Do not be that one.’ ”
Drona seemed deaf to the reminder. Her jaw knotted and her eyes narrowed, boring holes into Kelyn.
Thorn detected thoughts racing with fear and hatred and rash vows of violence. Why fear? he wondered. He decided it had nothing to do with Tírandon itself or of its people, but that Drona dreaded having to swallow that much pride. The rage in her eyes daunted Kelyn not in the slightest. “Then I take it you’re volunteering to stay here and help disguise our departure. I’m sure Dagni will appreciate the company.” The dwarven matron grunted. “The dwarves are to remain—”
Drona’s arms flailed wildly. “Disguise? What disguise?”
Kelyn’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “If Lothiar’s scouts see that we’ve abandoned Ilswythe, he’ll have his ogres here within hours to reclaim it. More importantly, I suspect he’d deploy an even larger force to intercept us on the road. We’ll be as vulnerable as a turtle without a shell. So we will disguise our departure, to buy us some time.”
“The dwarves, then?” asked Eliad.
“Yes, along with our extra mouths and our womenfolk—”
Fear for Rhoslyn twisted in Thorn’s belly. “But they won’t be able to fend off an attack.”
“It’s a gamble, I know. The duchess won’t like it one bit, but when she’s angry she gets shit done.”
“Wait,” Drona interrupted. “You mean to leave me and my nephew behind to herd dwarves and civilians in some ruse?”
“You won’t be herding me, I’ll have you know,” Dagni declared. “You stay, you follow my orders.”
Daxon snorted. “And I heard no mention of my name in the War Commander’s reprimand.”
Drona’s anger took aim at him. “You go where I go, Dax. I’m not letting my heir out of my sight.”
“I guess you’ll have to. I want to be a part of this.”
“Never forget what that man did to your father!” Her finger indicted Kelyn.
The grin that spread over Daxon’s face was disconcerting in the extreme. “I never will.”
Thorn cleared his throat and placed a thought inside his brother’s head, like laying a seed in the soil: Keep him at arm’s length.
Kelyn nodded, as if responding to Daxon’s request. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll find a place for you.”
Smug, Daxon stepped away from his aunt and joined the other commanders across the table.
“Now listen up,” Kelyn added, rapping his knuckles on the tabletop. “Here’s the plan. The civilians staying behind will dress as soldiers and fill the watch, in the fortress and in the camps. The artisans will populate the place with dummies made of sticks, burlap bags, whatever they can build with. If Lothiar’s scouts come poking around, it should look like we’re still here. For a couple days at least. By then our main host should be in position, here.” Kelyn laid a finger on the map, where hills overlooked Tírandon’s green plain.
“Scouts could see our soldiers leaving,” Rhogan observed. “What then?”
“Thorn is going to hide us. My bet is that even Elaran scouts won’t think to look for invisible humans until we’re well on our way. Am I right?” The question was meant for Laniel.
The dranithi grinned. “A veil is the last shield I’d expect humans to use.”
Thorn grunted disapproval. “I’ve never made a veil that big. And to maintain it for how long?”
“What, you saying you can’t do it?” The challenge sparkled in Kelyn’s eyes.
“Of course I can. But I assume this means you also expect me to do a fair bit of fire-flinging afterward. You’re going to owe me bottles and bottles of wine for the headache this is going to induce.”
“Aw, poor avedra.”
Thorn laughed at his brother’s mockery. “Son of a bitch.”
“You have Rhian and Carah to help you,” Laniel said, “and my people, of course.”
“Fine,” Thorn grumbled. “I’ll teach Carah to weave a veil tonight.”
Kelyn clapped him on the back. “Good. Hopefully, by the time Lothiar learns we’ve mobilized, we’ll have taken Tírandon and fetched the rest of our people to us.”
“If not?” There was a grim note in Thorn’s question.
“Rhoslyn will know to get everyone out through the tunnel.”
“But, Kelyn,” asked Eliad, “if the worst happens? If we lose Ilswythe and fail to take Tírandon?”
Laniel answered for him. “The Wood, of course.”
Kelyn shook his head. “This many humans won’t be welcome there.”
“Fuck welcome,” Laniel snapped. “This is necessity. Aerdria would permit it. Don’t you think so, Dathiel? Our city has been assaulted many times, and it’s never fallen. And we have dozens of outlying towers. We could spread out among those. It would work.”
“In direst need,” Thorn asserted. “I still don’t trust the Elders. Or the warriors they command. They may have agreed to Lothiar’s terms by now.”
Laniel snorted. “Not likely. It will take them a decade to make up their minds.”
“Very well,” Kelyn said, “until we learn otherwise, we will consider Avidan Wood a refuge of last resort. We’ll go over our plan of attack when we get closer to our objective. Brother, you are sure we’ll see the ogres?”
“I’m sure. And that’s another bottle of wine you’ll owe me.”
Laniel snagged his attention with an intense stare. What did Aerdria give you?
Because Elarion couldn’t hear Silent Speech, Thorn answered in Elaran, “Don’t worry, I’m going to teach you. You’ll be our reserve in case something happens to me.”
“I don’t do magic!” he declared.
Though the commanders didn’t understand Laniel’s protest, the heat in his voice turned every head. Color flared in his face, and Thorn laughed at the rare sight of his oath-brother blushing.
“Right,” Kelyn said, “let’s send for food. I’m starved. We can discuss things in more detail over a full belly.”
Thorn suspected that once Kelyn’s belly was full, exhaustion would barrel him over at last, but he didn’t argue.
Eliad started for the kitchens to deliver the order, and Kelyn cast him a quizzical frown. Eliad was under orders to drill highlanders, not attend commanders’ conferences. “Where’s Laral?”
The highborns traded silence. Finally, Thorn volunteered to tell Kelyn about the arrival of Brengarra’s steward and his quiet death two nights ago.
“I expect Laral is halfway home by now,” Eliad said. “Ogres better stand clear.”
Kelyn leaned heavily on the table. “A hard choice,” he muttered. “There is no better way, just a way.”
Thorn guessed at his meaning. He was about to leave Rhoslyn and so many defenseless souls in the same vulne
rable situation as Laral had left his family. All the more incentive to take Tírandon quickly and send for them. Kelyn straightened and turned to the king and queen. “Your Majesties, I don’t know if it’s wiser to leave you behind or take you along. Clearly, there is terrible risk in both options. I cannot predict what will happen, so I leave you to decide your own course.”
They did not consult one another.
“It’s my duty to be there,” Arryk said. “I’m going.”
Briéllyn offered a sad smile. “You know you will need skilled nurses. Goddess go with us.”
~~~~
On the morning of departure, Bryden and Haldred helped Kelyn into his armor. The hutza scales glimmered gray and green in the light of dawn. Below the windows, a sea of sounds roiled in the courtyard: shouts of men, chants of dwarves, bugling of horses, clattering of wagon wheels, clinking of hammers at the forge, rattling of chains as the portcullis rose. All of it contributed to the song of the march. Kelyn let the sounds wash over him, awaken him to the call of the day. A momentous day. He hardly noticed the squires raising his arms and buckling the armor into place.
Hal and Bryden chatted like excited sparrows, speculating about the march and the battle waiting at the end of it. Kelyn didn’t contribute much. They wouldn’t welcome his perspective on things. Better let the boys have their romantic delusions a while longer. He had enjoyed the same delusions once. How young and green he’d been. And then his father was dead, his best friend was mad, his brother had forsaken him, and he was ordering men and women to ride to their deaths.
He suspected giving those orders this time around would hurt differently. Hurt deeper. He had ached over the bloodshed at Bramoran, then worked tirelessly to scrounge the survivors together, to feed them, arm them, protect them. Now to throw them into the enemy’s path? He remembered seeing a particular ache in his father’s eye. It was in the camp beside the Blythewater as Lord Keth surrendered to King Rhorek’s senseless desire to stand against the Fieran invasion. Da had chosen to make that stand atop Slaenhyll, and he’d carried that ache in his eye throughout the night. Kelyn hadn’t understood it then, but he suspected, if he looked in the mirror, he’d see the same ache in his own eyes on this bright, clear morning.