by Court Ellyn
Andy backed out of the gallery on his knees. A crack the length of his hand had split the side of the basket. Rocks spilled out. No! The naenis might think he had broken it on purpose. Tears blurred the rocks, the basket, his hands scooping the rocks back in. He hated them all. The naenis, the people who did what they were told, himself. Himself most of all. Weakling. You can’t even breathe right. Runt. Runt! Damn stupid runt. Just lie down and let them twist your head and toss you to the ravens.
All the same, he climbed to his feet. To keep his load from leaking he carried the basket in front of him, with one hand plugging the crack, like stemming blood flow from a wound. It was heavier this way, awkward. He concentrated hard so he didn’t drop it. Several people passed him on his way up the shaft. He didn’t realize one was Lesha until she spoke to him. “What happened?” Her hand clasped his shoulder, turned him to the torchlight. “Andy, you’re practically blue!”
If he argued, he’d start coughing again.
“Are you cold?”
He wasn’t. Well, not more than usual. The fever burned in his cheeks, and his skin ached, but he’d grown used to that. Though now that he thought of it, the tingling in his lips was worse, and the torchlight put off little spots like a swarm of gnats.
“You have to rest.”
“Sure,” he snapped. Did she think he didn’t long to do just that? He almost told her about the welt on his back, so she would see how stupid her advice was, but then Lesha would tell Mum, and he didn’t want Mum to know. She had enough to worry about.
Andy trudged on. The temptation to stop was so consuming that he clenched his teeth. One more step, one more step. Breathe. Don’t fall down. His foot slipped on a loose stone. The basket broke his fall. Stone chips bit into his chest. Don’t spill, he thought, willing to take bruises and scrapes as long as the basket held together.
The split widened. Reeds unraveled. Would the naenis restrain their whips long enough for him to explain that he needed a new basket? More importantly, could he get to his feet again?
He grabbed onto a nob jutting out from the wall to pry himself up. Then, not four feet ahead, he saw the torchlight sink into inky oblivion. A mined-out gallery branched off the main shaft. Andy crawled into it, dragging his broken basket in behind him. The cool dark gathered him in, close and snug. He was asleep as soon as his eyes closed.
He woke with a start. The flicker of torchlight. A bellow. A fierce grasp around his ankle, and he was tugged from the hole like a worm. His cheek raked the stone floor. The broken basket turned over. The rocks gushed out. Andy shrieked. His fingers grappled for something to save him. Then he was airborne. The naeni lifted him upside down by his ankle. Andy twisted, trying to wrench free, but he felt his hip joint giving. He once saw a stableboy lift a rat from the horse trough by its hind leg. The rat curled itself upward and sank its teeth into the meat of the boy’s hand. That’s what Andy did now, scrabbling and scratching at the naeni’s grip, but the naeni held on tight.
Lowering his arm, the naeni dragged Andy up the shaft. His head bumped along the floor until he learned to keep it raised. His shoulders took the brunt instead. They emerged into the sunlit cavern. People with soup bowls scattered. Everyone had gathered for mealtime. The chipping of stone, the shaping of tools had gone silent. Mum screamed his name. She screamed so loud she must’ve forgotten about her broken jaw.
The naeni flung down his catch. Andy tumbled in a heap. “Dis runt sleepin’, Lohg.”
Andy cracked open an eye to see Lohg glaring down at him. Should he appeal to the naeni who had given him medicine for his cough, who had laughed when Andy stole shoes off some dead kid, who had taken the whip from Screamface to save Andy from a flogging?
Before he could speak up, Lohg pointed, first toward the forge glowing with hot coals, then to his own face. Without a word, Lohg turned and walked away. No salvation this time.
The other naeni grabbed Andy by the scruff and frog-hopped him toward the smelter bubbling with molten iron. His massive hand held Andy’s face against the flat of the anvil. His other reached for the forge. He lifted out a red hot flatiron. Andy squirmed, pushed against the anvil with both hands. The world shrank to the sight of that red iron nearing. The air rippled around it. The tang of hot metal filled his nostrils, tingled on his tongue.
There was a hollow ringing of metal against flesh. The naeni grunted.
“Stop it!” Lesha shrieked, hoisting a coal shovel. “He’s sick. Leave him alone. If you burn him, I’ll cut you to a million pieces!”
The shovel swept down again. The naeni shrugged to fend off the blow, then whirled with the flatiron. Suddenly free, Andy slipped to the ground. Lesha screeched, dropped the shovel, and fell to her haunches, slapping the flames that leapt up on her sleeve. The naeni reared back the flatiron a second time, brought it down in a blow that would’ve crushed Lesha’s skull, but she crab-crawled out of the way. The flatiron struck the stone floor. Chips of hot iron flew like sparks.
The naeni’s free hand went for the whip on his belt and flung it out, snap! It sang crack, crack across Lesha’s ribs. She curled into a tight ball.
Andy snatched up the first item at hand. As the naeni stooped to grab Lesha by the hair, Andy swung the hammer. It cracked the naeni’s skull like an egg. The corpse collapsed in a heap at his feet. Who had thought it would be so easy? Flesh, it seemed, gave easier than the mountain.
The cocoon of astonished silence shattered. Naenis brayed in outrage. Andy roared back, his voice so small, “White Falcon!” Where was the pain in his lungs? Where was the shortness of breath?
He ran at the nearest naeni, hammer poised over his shoulder, and he noticed he wasn’t the only one shouting and charging. The smith had longer legs and outran him and swung a shining new pickaxe. The point buried deep in the naeni’s chest. Andy leapt onto him as he toppled. The hammer smashed the naeni’s tusk, his cheekbone, his eye socket.
“Andy, come on!” Lesha grabbed his wrist, dragged him off the corpse. He dropped the hammer. A knight must never drop his sword. They ran to the forge and ducked behind the bellows.
Battle had broken out all across the cavern. Screams echoed from the shafts, too. Horns blasted alarm. Naenis keeping watch ran up the road and cornered a knot of people. Swords and axes swung indiscriminately. Lesha buried her face against Andy’s hair, squeezed him tight. “It’s my fault,” she sobbed.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” he shouted. How could the people stand like posts and take the blade without protest?
Lesha clamped her hand across his mouth. “Shut up!”
Suddenly Mum was there. Her fingers, like iron bands, hauled Andy and Lesha to their feet. Her face too was iron, cold and rigid, as she ran with them to the cavern mouth. The sun was blinding, the slope steep, but the road snaking down the mountain was empty. “Slide!” Mum said, pushing them onto their backsides. White dust clouded around Andy as he slid to the first turn in the switchback. He stopped to wait for Lesha, for Mum. Mum’s iron hand dealt him a shove. “Don’t look back. Run. Run!”
~~~~
37
“Choose someone else, nethai,” Laniel demanded. He and Thorn faced off, toe to toe. Kelyn watched the battle from behind the safety of the andyr desk in Lander’s suite. The three of them had withdrawn behind closed doors to discuss the matter of the veil and its unweaving. When Thorn delivered the hammer blow, Laniel lost his cool. “I don’t want to learn it. I despise using spells, you know that.”
Thorn flicked a hand in contemptuous dismissal. “Except when you apply trophy stripes, I’ve noticed. Besides, you can weave the veil, you can learn to unweave it.”
“That’s entirely different. The veil is second nature. And applying stripes is frivolous, innocuous. What you’re asking is … dangerous.”
“Precisely. Aerdria warned me to be careful deciding who I taught the spell to, and who better than you to guard the knowledge?”
Laniel paced through a shaft of late-morning sunlight, turned to gl
are at his oath-brother, and actually stomped his foot. “Fine! But don’t start asking me to do your work for you. I’ll only take your place if you get eaten up, and not a moment before.”
Finally, resolved. Kelyn tapped the desk to remind them of his presence. “If the happy couple is finished bickering, can we get on with it?”
They approached the desk, Thorn smug at having won, Laniel pouting as masterfully as a three-year-old. “You need to choose three among the Regs to learn it as well,” Kelyn said.
This request caught even Thorn off guard. “What? Why?”
Kelyn sighed. “I suppose it’s too much to expect you to follow an order without questioning it.”
“This order, yes. The safety of an entire race depends on the veil, Kelyn, and I won’t endanger it up lightly.”
Laniel nodded. Well, at least they found grounds for accord.
“Very well, here’s my thinking,” Kelyn said, rising. “Lothiar can weaken us by collecting our food stores, but only if those stores actually reach Bramoran. We can interrupt his supply lines if our highlanders can see the wagons. If you teach the spell to a few Regs, they can accompany the foraging parties, enabling us to replenish our granaries and deal Lothiar another blow.”
“I don’t know, brother. Aerdria didn’t specify how many—”
“I’ll handpick the Regs myself,” Laniel interrupted. His grin was a savage gash on his face.
Thorn read the undeniable malice there and shrugged. “To hurt Lothiar, fine. When should class begin?”
A knock on the door cut short Kelyn’s reply. Young Bryden poked his head in. His chest heaved from a long run. “My lord? Her Grace is arrived.”
“Her Grace? Rhoz? Here?”
The squire nodded cheerfully.
“But I didn’t send for her.”
“I did,” Thorn confessed.
Kelyn stared at him in horror. “Why? The area’s not secure. Lothiar must be buzzing mad right now, deploying ogres left and right.”
“Exactly. As soon as Lothiar learns we’ve taken Tírandon, he’s going to be irate. Will he attack Ilswythe first in revenge? Or will he come here? Either way, it’s better that we’re all together, and not cut off.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“So we could argue about it earlier?” Thorn spread his hands in an infuriating gesture of guilelessness. “I would’ve done it anyway. And this way, you didn’t have time to worry.”
“What if they’d been caught on the road?”
“What if, in our absence, Lothiar had unleashed his temper on Ilswythe?”
“You were gambling, with the life of my wife!”
“You think I would do that? It’s Rhoslyn we’re talking about, Kelyn. Rhoslyn.”
She was still precious to him, of that Kelyn had no doubt. Matter of fact, he’d not heard Thorn speak her name in twenty years. It was always ‘your grace’ this and ‘Her Grace’ that, to maintain that barrier of safety between them, perhaps. He’s done everything for our benefit, Rhoz had said of him once, but Kelyn wondered how much of Thorn’s selflessness was for their benefit and how much was really for hers. Still, Kelyn’s anger deflated. “You really are insufferable sometimes.”
Laniel snorted, agreeing wholeheartedly with that assessment.
Thorn’s smugness returned full-force. “I did you a favor, War Commander. And if I’m any judge, in ten minutes you’ll be thanking me.”
Grudgingly, Kelyn had to admit his brother was right. His heart swelled when he saw Rhoslyn climbing safely down from the wagon. She still wore the oversized mail hauberk belted about her corseted waist, and the dagger he’d given her. She’d attached a quiver of arrows to her belt as well. The rose-colored scarf she had tied over her hair, however, was enticingly feminine.
Etivva dismounted after her. The hood of the shaddra’s dusty linen robe fell back, revealing white stubble dulling the customary shine of her shaved head. She clicked around on her wooden foot, shaking the blood back into her legs. Thorn intercepted his former tutor and greeted her with a kiss to her brow.
Three more wagons pulled into the courtyard. Lord Rorin drove one; dwarves drove the others. Dagni leapt down and hailed Kelyn with an upraised hand. “Two companies reporting for duty, m’ lord.” She must’ve left her troops in the bailey to await orders.
For the moment, war could wait. Kelyn approached his wife, swept her up, kissed her hands. She stepped back to inspect him. “Happy to see you on your feet, Commander.” How tender the tone in her voice. She must’ve worried about him.
“Did you meet with trouble?” Over Rhoslyn’s shoulder, Kelyn glimpsed Aisley climbing gingerly down from a wagon. He needed a moment alone with her, as soon as possible.
“Not once we were on the road,” Rhoslyn replied. “But the day before, a war band happened by, to test our defenses. We held them off smashingly. Didn’t we, Dagni?”
“We did indeed, your grace,” said the matron sauntering toward them.
“I slew three ogres myself,” Rhoz added. “My shoulders are still aching from the bow, but Goddess, it was fun.” Her eyes were aglow with pride.
Kelyn laughed, delighted at the idea of his duchess owning a steely warrior’s heart. He’d known it all the time, of course. “Shall we ask Laniel to award you with stripes?”
She cast a wink in the Elari’s direction. “Tempting.” She extended a hand toward Thorn. “Thank you for sending Saffron. Waiting for word was intolerable.”
Thorn bowed over her hand, said only, “Your grace,” and backed away again.
A cry of anguish came from the wagons. “What? Where is he?” It was Aisley.
Lady Maeret had appeared from around a wagon and must’ve offered her condolences. Damn it. Kelyn had hoped to convey the news himself, and delicately. He felt he owed it to the girl.
“Lord Rhogan?” asked Rhoslyn.
Kelyn nodded.
Rhoz’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, poor dear. She has no one now.”
“Mum!” Carah ran from between the wagons, braid swinging, eyes bright.
Rhoslyn threw out her arms, embraced her daughter, then backed away wrinkling her nose and ogling the stained apron. “Not an easy victory then?”
Carah’s face revealed the truth for but a moment; she pressed it away with a smile.
“Dearheart,” Kelyn said, gently turning her by the shoulder. “Take charge of Aisley, please. Maeret stuck her foot in it.” The poor girl hunched over the cobblestones, arms hugging her ribs as she loosed wild sobs. Maeret stooped over her trying in vain to soften a blow hastily delivered.
Carah rushed to them, plucked Aisley to her feet and whisked her into the keep. She cast but one remonstrative scowl over her shoulder at Maeret, then dismissed her tactless friend entirely.
Kelyn welcomed Etivva and Rorin, paid a nod toward Eliad’s mistresses, and learned that Lady Drona had stopped in the bailey to greet her nephew and would be along shortly. Then it seemed the excitement was over. “Let’s get you settled,” he said to Rhoslyn. “After, I should pay Aisley a visit.” They started toward the keep, but a man in leather armor approached them haltingly. Kelyn recognized him as one of the Evaronnans he had captured on the highway.
The man cringed, unable to raise his eyes. “Your grace?”
Kelyn held out an arm to ward him off, to shield Rhoslyn. “Now’s not the time.”
The soldier stood his ground, mouth working with a plea.
Rhoslyn inspected him. “I know you, don’t I?”
“I have served you as a soldier and a guard, yes.” He dropped to his knees. “Your grace, I was captured while trying to deliver supplies to our enemy. His Lordship pardoned me, but it’s your forgiveness I seek. We convinced ourselves you were dead, that the king’s edict was only ceremony.”
A hush had descended on the courtyard. Everyone present saw Rhoslyn step into her ducal shoes and assume a mask of stone. The transformation was effortless, and that made it unsettling to behold. “Th
e War Commander pardoned my subjects, you say? Does everyone hold more power over my people than I do?”
Good Goddess, should Kelyn have hanged them after all? Maybe he had misjudged her. Maybe for the loss of her dukedom Rhoslyn harbored no mercy.
The soldier’s glance clung to her toes. “There were eight of us guarding that wagon. Four died in the battle to liberate Tírandon. Two lie in the infirmary. I’m the only one left on my feet. I could not die before asking your forgiveness.”
With the weight of judgment in every syllable Rhoslyn said, “You are not to blame for the actions of my son. Soldiers are trained to follow orders, and that is all you were doing. You have my forgiveness.” The man bowed so deeply that his forehead touched the cobbles; one hand reached out and brushed her foot. “Kelyn? This man no longer goes to the front. I will need him for testimony.”
She meant to go through with it then—to put her own son on trial. Kelyn bowed his head, the wind struck from him. “Yes, your grace.” He trailed her up the steps. Her stride was heavy-heeled enough to crush bones, and Kelyn was sure she dared not step out of the duchess’s guise until she was behind a locked door, where she could crumble utterly.
But the moment of brokenness would have to wait. A horn blared, not from the main gate, but from the eastern wall. Trouble…
~~~~
“I can’t believe Maeret could be so careless,” Carah said, depositing Aisley into an overstuffed wingchair. Though Ruthan had given her a fine room in a quiet wing of the keep, she had yet to sleep in it. At a sideboard she filled a snifter with blackberry brandy and pressed it into Aisley’s hand. The girl took it, but only because the touch of the glass was a stimulus for her fingers to close. “I could slap her, really I could. Has she no brain at all? Da told me he intended to tell you himself, and she spoiled everything.”