by Court Ellyn
The arguing of his squires brought him back to the task at hand. The pavilion was a rumpled tangle of cerulean silk. No time or resources to replace it with a red one. When it was raised, it looked outright garish with the new red-and-black banner flying from the roof pole, but Kelyn couldn’t afford to quibble over appearances. His entire host was a hodgepodge of this and that, so perhaps it was fitting.
“Let me do it,” Haldred said, taking the hammer from Bryden.
“You always get to do everything,” the younger boy whined. “I almost had it.”
“His Lordship would probably like to have his pavilion raised before next winter.” Hal knelt over a stake and pummeled it into the ground. Rock-hard earth posed the problem. Bryden had been working on a single stake while Haldred had finished burying all six on his side. Five stakes remained, and the first star had emerged from the twilight.
“Bryden, bring me the other hammer,” Kelyn ordered, “then fetch the cots and trestle tables.” He was dripping sweat by the time he noticed his brother standing over him, snickering.
“Goddess forbid the War Commander settle for a simple campfire,” Thorn said. He leaned on his staff, an arm draped over it as though it were a fencepost. His cheeks were bright with a wine-induced flush. He was as good as his word. Instead of tents and cookpots, Thorn had packed wine, the finest Kelyn’s cellar had to offer, in payment for his services and to stave off the aches that casting spells hour after hour might cause. “You could host a Turning Festival in there, it’s so big.”
“I would be content,” Kelyn retorted, “if I could make a veil for private conferences with my officers.”
“You don’t need a full-sized pavilion for that. Let me burn it for you and save you the trouble.”
“Too late. It’s a matter of war now. Us and this bloody contraption. Right, Hal?”
“Right you are, m’ lord.”
The two of them ballooned the silk so they could reach the poles inside and wrestle them upright. Kelyn leaned into a pole to hold it steady while Hal lashed it into place. He peered out through the folds at Thorn. “You could lend a hand, you know.”
Thorn shrugged. “I’ve offered my help. Besides, I’ve no wish to put the War Commander to shame. So I’ll stand out of the way and receive your thanks in the long run.”
“You’ll receive my boot up your arse.”
Thorn replied with laughter, but someone called to him, cutting it short. The next time Kelyn looked away from the tent pole, his brother was gone. He thought nothing of it until he heard an urgent exchange in Elaran beyond the flapping silk. “Bryden, come hold this. Do as Hal says.”
The squire dropped a folding chair and grumbled.
Outside the pavilion, Thorn and Laniel approached. Between them strode an Elari with the red facial stripes of one of the Regulars. Sweat streaked the dust clinging to his face.
“A courier from Linndun, brother,” announced Thorn. “Should I translate?”
The courier cast him a cold glare. “I speak duínovan better than you, Dathiel.” He turned and saluted Kelyn. “War Commander? Tíryus sends me to inform you that Lothiar the Exiled has broken his word. He did not wait the agreed upon fortnight for a decision from our Elders, so the Elders have voted to support you and your cause.”
Kelyn looked to the heavens in gratitude. “Will they send warriors?”
“I’m afraid not.” The courier’s regret was no more than an inch deep. “The clan of ogres who call themselves Black Marsh have attacked Linndun. Tíryus wishes me to say that he cannot send more soldiers at present, but neither will he recall the company that marches with you. He must see to our city’s protection first.”
Panic tinged Laniel’s voice, “The naenion haven’t broken in?”
“Not when I left, but they have overrun the Southern Sector.”
“Wingfleet’s sector.”
“I believe he leads them, yes.”
Laniel clenched a fist. “Traitor.”
“As for us,” Thorn said, “we can no longer consider Avidan Wood a refuge. If we are repelled from Tírandon…”
A slash from Kelyn’s hand quelled the rest. “Our ships have burned, gentlemen. Retreat is no longer an option. We will not discuss it further.” He turned to Laniel. “Should you go home?”
Laniel replied with a blank look of surprise. “You would release us?”
Kelyn exhaled a heavy sigh. “We need you, Falconeye. But I worry that the Regs will abandon us at a crucial moment. Better they go now than after I come to rely on them.”
Laniel smiled in gratitude. “They may want to go, but they are true soldiers. They will cleave to their orders. As I will cleave to my vow to Dathiel. We will stay.”
Kelyn tried to hide his relief but did a poor job of it. “Come, then. We have plans to recalibrate.”
~~~~
Rhian strolled along the outskirts of camp, trying to clear his head, but thoughts of Carah interfered. A team of Elarion who had slept in wagons during the day assumed the task of maintaining the veil after sundown, so Rhian was free to go where he liked and nurse his headache however he saw fit. A flask of wine, pilfered from Thorn’s stock, did the trick. He wandered past the Leanian tents. Twice. Carah was sharing a pavilion with Queen Briéllyn. Under the red light of the moon, the rust-orange silk shone the color of autumn leaves. A couple of lamps glowed inside, but the flaps were down, and Rhian couldn’t invent an excuse good enough to intrude upon a queen’s privacy. Even if his cunning hadn’t failed him, the queen’s guard, standing at attention around the pavilion, were like to make a fuss. He gave up wishing for a chance encounter and moved on.
Beyond the orderly rows of Leanian tents sprawled the tangle of the highlander camp. Large men with large voices had trouble keeping quiet. Around one campfire, men sang a war song with abandon until Lord Drenéleth brawled them to silence. One of the highlanders stumbled through the embers and howled. Song burst into laughter.
An ache squeezed at Rhian’s chest. He understood these men who lived with empty pockets and prided themselves on hands hard with callous, but they did not invite him to their fire. He walked the halls of lords and Elarion, and they did not know he had been born one of them. Was he really so changed? Would his mother know him?
After the light of Eliad’s highlanders faded behind him, there were twenty yards of darkness, then a campfire set apart. When Rhian asked about the remarkable man who had slain a dozen ogres, all Thorn said was, “My brother learned honor the hard way.”
He had seen for himself how the highlander favored the War Commander and decided it wise to steer clear of him; being swept up in that scandal was no place for him. From the outside looking in, he observed how cruel Carah’s nobility was. Scorn for a lowly pearl fisher was one thing. But a lord’s own son? Why should the child be punished for the indiscretions of the father? The Elarion were right. Humans made no sense.
The small circle of kindred roasted a string of meadowlarks over their fire. Rhian would’ve liked to ask how the men caught them but suspected his curiosity would be viewed with suspicion.
He was nearly past the firelight when one of the highlanders called to him, “Avedra!”
Rhian stopped, and the War Commander’s bastard approached. “Do you see?” Alyster whispered. “That is no courier.” He pointed off to the east, where the flow of hills was blacker than the star-flecked sky. Nestled in that blackness, an azeth flared. “Nor is it a star, I’d wager.”
Through his teeth, Rhian hissed, “Shite. There it is again. Third time now. Last time I saw it was the day you and your kindred arrived at Ilswythe. It must be a scout.”
“No,” said Alyster. “I been watching it since sundown. A scout coulda counted our numbers and been gone by now. But he hasn’t moved in hours. What’s he waiting for?”
Like a spider that drops unexpectedly from above, raw fear skittered across Rhian’s shoulders. Scout or no, that lone Elari had followed the army from Ilswythe. He saw. He knew. The ve
il and all the fuss to keep the host hidden had come to naught.
“Think you should report it?” Alyster asked. ‘Cause like hell I’m going to, his thoughts screamed.
“I’ll tell the Regs. Maybe they can chase him down.” Rhian turned away from the firelight, and for a moment the darkness blinded him. He nearly tripped over young Bryden. The boy fell hard on his duff.
“There you are, m’ lord,” the squire cried, picking himself off the ground.
Rhian and Alyster exchanged a glance, both expecting the other to answer to the title. Bryden’s satisfied grin settled on the highlander.
“Curse you, lad, and the bitch that bore you!” Alyster bellowed. “I’m a cowherd, not a bloody highborn.”
Bryden’s round face went slack with fear. “Um, um, y-yessir. The-the-the War Commander wants you.”
Rhian took pity and laid a gentle hand on the squire’s shoulder. “Run back and tell His Lordship that Alyster will join him immediately.”
The boy darted away into the dark, and Alyster retorted, “I winna thank you for that.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to have so fine a manner. Excuse me.” Aye, Rhian had changed, all right. He saw his younger self in the tactless, graceless, uneducated form of Alyster. He headed across camp, feeling in turns pride in himself and disgust.
The lifelights of the Regulars were bright and easy to find.
~~~~
Inside the blue pavilion a pair of lamps burned brightly, gathering clouds of dusty gray moths. Kelyn idly batted them away from his face as he studied the map of central Aralorr. A tiny blue flag in a pewter base marked his host’s position. Tírandon was a black dot three inches to the south.
Thorn lounged in a camp chair with a cup and saucer. He had carried out his last assignment to his satisfaction and was content to wait for Saffron’s return. The fairy was to wing it ninety miles south to Briar Tower and ascertain the condition of the White Falcon’s host. If the Fierans still held the fort, Saffron was to deliver a message from the War Commander. Now, after draining half a bottle of wine with his dinner, Thorn had switched to tea and languidly listened to Kelyn’s plans flitting about like the moths; he offered neither suggestion nor opinion.
Laniel, however, was taut as a bowstring. He leaned over the map, eyeing Tírandon’s dot. “Scouts worth the name ought to be able to run that in three days. Will they have cover?”
“Not much, no,” Kelyn replied. Laniel’s lack of knowledge of the lands surrounding Avidan Wood surprised him. He had assumed that Thorn’s oath-brother had traveled with him as he’d searched for the missing avedrin, but this clearly hadn’t been the case. “The plain is wide open. Farm country. Flat. Few trees. Tírandon occupies a man-made rise in the middle of it. The hills drop off here, little less than a mile north of the outer wall. I need scouts to get closer than that.”
The silken flaps rustled; Alyster ducked into the pavilion. He quickly found a place in the shadows, looking neither eager nor comfortable at having been summoned. Azhien followed on his heels. The Elari motioned his cousin aside and spoke urgently in Laniel’s ear. At the same time, Kelyn heard the whisper of many feet rushing past the pavilion. “What’s going on?”
Alyster glanced uncertainly between Kelyn and the Elarion, perhaps hoping someone else would supply an answer. He cleared his throat and stammered, “Er, the avedra, er, Rhian, spotted something. He and some of the Regulars went to check it out.”
Thorn stopped lounging and planted both feet on the ground. “Something? What kind of something?”
“A lifelight. To the east. Four, maybe five hundred yards out. We thought it might be a scout. Not one of ours.”
Thorn crooked a finger at Azhien. They stood toe to toe and consulted in Elaran.
Kelyn swore under his breath. “If we’ve been seen, we may not have as much time as we thought.”
“The scouts could leave tonight instead of at first light,” Laniel suggested.
“Aye,” Kelyn said, nodding slowly. “Alyster, you up for it?”
“Up for what?”
“We need someone to scout ahead and determine Tírandon’s current state. You would leave immediately.”
Alyster gulped, ventured into the lamplight and peered down at the map. Color rushed into his face, making him look so much like Kieryn at that age that Kelyn found himself staring. “Which one is Tírandon?”
Good Goddess, the boy couldn’t even read. Embarrassed for him, Kelyn laid a finger on the appropriate dot. “There’s some forty miles between us and it. Can you do it?”
“Forty miles of flat land is nothing. The lowland air might slow me down some. But, aye, I can run it.”
“Good. Falconeye, choose one of your dranithion to go with him.”
The consultation between Azhien and Thorn stopped abruptly. The young Elari turned and raised his hand. “Me! I will go.”
Laniel waved his hands to refuse him. “No, wait—”
“Yes! Me. Send me. I can do this, Brannië.”
“Can he?” Kelyn asked of Laniel.
“Yes, but…” Falconeye’s protest had no grounds, and he knew it. His resolve withered before the flame of youthful enthusiasm. He nodded.
Azhien beamed and came round the table to stand beside the highlander.
“Listen carefully, both of you,” Kelyn said. “You are to venture as close to Tírandon as you can without being spotted.” He pointed at a brass spyglass on the table. “Take that with you. Mark whether Tírandon’s gates still hold or if they’ve been breached. There are three gates, but only the main gate, here on the west side of the wall is accessible by land. The north and east gates are reached by ferries that cross the moats. I don’t expect the ogres to have broken in, but I could be wrong. Note where the picket lines are placed—”
“Picket lines?” Azhien asked, unfamiliar with the word.
“Lines of scouts deployed to watch for trouble.”
Azhien nodded.
“But most importantly, where the enemy camps are located, and an approximation of how many ogres are stationed there.”
“Wait,” Alyster said, “you mean to base your battle plans on the information we bring back?”
The import of the mission struck Azhien, too. His eyebrows climbed a fraction.
“That’s right. So don’t muck it up. The more detail you remember, the better. You won’t have long to collect it before you have to start back. That’s why two sets of eyes are better than one. Stick to the roads until dawn. You won’t serve anyone with broken ankles. Any questions?”
“Na, Sheannach,” said Azhien.
Kelyn took that to mean something like ‘No, sir.’
Alyster merely shook his head. His eyes clung to the map as if it troubled him greatly.
“Stay low,” Kelyn ordered. “Do not engage. If you’re seen, run. Find a new position. And come back alive, both of you. Dismissed.”
Alyster gave a curt parting nod, swept up the spyglass, and hurried out through the flaps. Azhien turned to follow, but Laniel grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him about to face Kelyn. “Salute your commander.” He wasn’t about to let a highlander’s poor etiquette rub off on his cousin.
Azhien snapped a fist to his chest. “Sorry, sir. We won’t fail you, sir.”
~~~~
Queen Briéllyn set Carah to practicing her stitches. The first night she had argued. “I don’t need needle and thread to close a wound.”
The queen’s eyebrows rose. “And what happens when you’ve treated a hundred men and there are still a hundred to go? Do you have that kind of stamina?”
Carah couldn’t say she did, so she sat beside a lamp in the queen’s pavilion, cursing a line of uneven stitches. Her teaching tool was ingenious, she had to admit that much. Briéllyn had sewn together fabrics of different weights and colors, red silk on the bottom, white linen in the middle, yellow suede on top, then cut holes of different sizes, depths, and cleanliness in them. Handing her pupil a box of surge
on’s instruments, she’d said, “Keep the stitches tidy, and make sure you stitch the right colors together.”
While Carah cursed and doubted the usefulness of the exercise, the queen counted bundles of bandages in a crate, jotted notes in a ledger, then measured herbs and liquids into a mortar and pestle. “What’s that for?” Carah asked. Her fingers throbbed around the needle. Any distraction was welcome. The pavilion was long, divided into rooms by hanging tapestries, but it wasn’t more than eight feet wide. In a couple of steps, Carah stood at Briéllyn’s shoulder.
“An analgesic.” Her voice was distant as she concentrated on pouring an oil into the mortar. “We don’t have much poppy wine, and silverthorn isn’t strong enough, so I’m diluting the poppy wine we do have and supplementing it with herbs.”
“Where did you learn all this?”
Briéllyn smiled. “My mother was a wonder with medicine. People from all across Rhyverdane and well into the ‘Heath came to her for their illnesses. She collected books on herb lore, and copying their text was how I learned to read and write. Second nature to me now. But you must know something about healing as a second nature.”
Carah nodded, grim. “I was only four years old when I healed a cut on my mother’s finger. I held onto the wound and it closed.”
For a moment, the queen was speechless. At last she chuckled and shook her head. “Well, you have me beat there.”
Something had been troubling Carah ever since she learned she would be working closely with the queen. She gnawed her lower lip, wondering if she should mention it. The queen caught her wringing her hands, too, before Carah realized she was fidgeting. She spat it out, “With all due respect, ma’am, I hope you won’t start cutting before I can try to save a limb.”
Briéllyn dipped a measuring spoon into a jar of dried leaves while she chose her response. “When a man’s lifeblood is pumping from his veins, I intend to act, not wait or argue.”