by Ellyn, Court
He poured himself a glass of Fieran vintage and went to the window to watch his beloved city burn. The sun sank low now, a dull red stone behind the plumes of smoke. Along the inner wall, a handspan below the sun, a tower leaned. Damn the dwarves and their sapping. May the tower crush their bones when it fell.
Shadryk called to his four Mantles and pulled a slender chain from under his doublet. An iron key set with a pebble of polished granite swung from it. “They won’t be long now. Go to the treasury. You’ll find a large chest in the back vault. It will take all four of you to lift it. Carry it into the courtyard near the castle’s main doors and leave it there. Here’s the key. Leave that, too.”
“We will not let them take you without a fight, sire,” said the Mantle who fisted the key.
“I would rather you live to see your grandchildren’s children.”
“Be that as it may, sire.”
Shadryk dismissed them with a wave. “I will be in the throne room.” He held himself together until he descended the stairs and entered the long Gallery and saw the brilliant mural. The proud faces of his ancestors peered down at him. Painted though they were, humiliation burned in his face as he passed beneath their eyes. He paused before Bhodryn the Great, he who had turned Westervael into the envy of the world. So lofty he sat upon his white stallion, judging. Unsheathing his knives, Shadryk stabbed out Bhodryn’s eyes. Rage drove the blades deep. He scored the faces of his forebears. Fiernen and Eliaur, the twins who had ruined everything, Shadryk the First who at last claimed the white falcon for his own, and his own father, that golden man who had filled his son’s head with dreams and nonsense. Chips of painted plaster flew from the tips of his knives, crumbled under his feet, fell as powder upon his shoulders. Arriving at last before his own section of the mural, he raked the blades across the charcoal sketches of himself, his sons, the falcons on his wrist. His vision, ever in black and white, never in color.
He backed away, panting, his rage spent. Dusting the plaster from his doublet, from his hair, he proceeded into the throne room. A long walk up the green rug. The alabaster throne waited. How long would it remain empty, once he was gone? Mother-Father, protect my sons. He had consulted her rarely enough over the years. Why should she listen to him now? Please…
He climbed the steps and sat in that hard, cold chair. The falcon’s wings surrounded him, a heavy embrace. Bow, everyone. The king has claimed his throne. Silence answered, rather than a rustle of garments. The hall seemed larger when it was empty. Is any man lonelier than a king when he has failed?
The four remaining Mantles joined him there shortly, mopping their brows. He was grateful for their presence more than their protection. They stood two to each side of the dais, at attention, silent.
They did not have to wait long before the ground shook, the narrow windowpanes rattled, and the air quivered with the sound of the tower falling.
~~~~
Thorn picked his way over the rubble. Drifts of gray dust settled slowly, dulling the light of sunset. Wrapped inside the Veil, he strode past the dwarves unseen. Nearly two hundred of them, all who had survived the long sailing and the march to Brynduvh, clustered around an oversized chest in the middle of the courtyard. They counted heavy bags and glistening golden ingots and raised an angry roar when there was not as much as they had expected. Shadryk had spent a fair portion of his stolen prize, it seemed, much good had it done him.
Mounting the stairs to the castle’s main doors, Thorn whispered, “Are they barred?”
Saffron replied, “With iron.”
“Can I melt through?”
“Can you?”
Breaking and entering into a royal residence ought not be easily accomplished. “Find me a window instead.”
“This way.”
Veil Sight alone allowed him to follow the fairy to the far end of the courtyard where a balcony door stood open. Suspicious. As a matter of fact, now that the voices of the dwarves were behind him, the whole castle resonated unnatural silence. The grounds were empty of servants, the walls of sentries. Thorn found the same to be true of the corridors. The White Falcon had warned his people. All for the better. “Is he still here?”
“He is.”
“Lead me to him, Saffron.”
Wending through the maze of hallways and connected rooms, he passed only two people, one a pageboy who stuffed silver candelabra and enameled finery into a bulging canvas bag; the other, a bent old man who sat in a velvet chair with his face in his hands, crying.
Saffron led Thorn down a broad flight of marble stairs and into a corridor far wider than the others. Ah, yes, there were the main doors, barred by three iron beams as thick as trees. Thunderous clanging came from the other side. The dwarves were trying to break in.
Each iron bar was raised and lowered by a system of wheels that Thorn found in the guardroom. As soon as he opened the doors, the dwarves tried to charge over him, axes raised. “Stop!” Thorn shouted, dispelling the Veil.
Leading the host, Master Brugge skidded to a halt. “What trickery is this, avedra?” he demanded, axe at the ready.
“No trickery, sir,” Thorn said. “You dwarves are more direct than clever. I came in by an open door. You will wait here at this one.”
“Wait? By all that’s fair, we will not!”
Brugge’s brethren protested in outrage.
“You have your gold,” Thorn said. “I have something for the White Falcon. Wait here, and your vengeance will be served.” When the dwarves glared stubbornly past Thorn toward the throne room, he added, “Master Brugge, swear to me that you will not interrupt what I have to do.”
“Yours is a strange and unwelcome request, but you have it. Don’t take too long.”
Walking unhurried up the length of the Gallery, Thorn noted the destruction of the wall on his left. Vandals? Or someone else? Rich and grand it must’ve been before its defacement. He paused before the unfinished panel depicting what could’ve been. The sketch was a pretty lie, hiding the truth of its cost. So many dead to prevent this scene from becoming a reality. How many more might’ve died had it come to be? Shadryk was deluded, indeed, if he believed Aralorr would have let him rule peaceably.
“How many wait beyond?” he asked his guardian.
“Only five,” Saffron said. “Skilled warriors, however.”
The silver doors to the throne room did not resist him. At the far of a green rug, a king sat high on his throne. An elaborately carved alabaster falcon with onyx eyes glared keenly over his golden head. Four guards in long white cloaks, stained from days in the saddle, reached for their swords. These men intended to fend off two hundred dwarves? No, they hoped to die with honor. Thorn started along the rug.
“You,” said Shadryk, voice echoing across the cavernous room. Twilight beyond the windows turned the marble walls gray. No one had come to light the chandeliers. “Dwarves I might’ve survived, but not you. What is it they call you? Kingshield? Is that an irony I should appreciate?”
Halfway to the dais, where the four Mantles were still in full view, Thorn stopped and bowed his head. “I’m your shield, too, Your Majesty. At least tonight. More than you may know.”
“Those swine are in my castle, then?”
“Yes, sire.”
“You command them?”
“No, but they heed my wish that they wait until we have talked.”
“Talked?” Shadryk’s laughter rang against the ceiling. “Rhorek sent you, didn’t he? To deal with me.”
“No, Your Majesty. No one but the dwarves know I’ve come.”
“I don’t understand. It’s too much to hope you’ve changed sides.”
Thorn grinned. “I cannot betray my brother.”
“Then you’re a better man than I, Kingshield. Of what shall we speak?”
“Rhorek would imprison you. The dwarves would strip you of your dignity before they kill you. I have the means to spare you from both.”
The Mantles glanced between the two of them,
uneasy. “Let me get rid of him, sire,” said one, sword half drawn.
Thorn stood his ground, hands folded serenely, eyes downcast.
The guard decided to stay put.
“Do you mean to incinerate us,” asked Shadryk, “as you did that fool of a Zhiani princeling?”
“Of course not, Your Majesty.” He turned over a hand in a most discrete fashion. In his palm lay a vial. The Ghost Root had been easy to find in a country whose vineyards were always under threat of vermin and pests. The vial of fine purple crystal he’d found in a perfumer’s shop.
Shadryk chuckled. “You do appreciate irony.” Yes, how many times had he sent assassins north with poison in their pockets? “Why be so generous to me?”
“A man makes plans in his youth. Roads cross. Before he knows it, his plans are dust. Another steals everything he hoped for, and all he has left is his dignity and that’s shaky enough.”
Shadryk raised his chin. “You, too?”
Thorn nodded.
With a wave of his hand, the king dismissed the Mantles.
Like startled deer, they didn’t know which way to go or what to do. One tried to argue, “No, sire. I have never disobeyed you, but—”
“Don’t start now,” Shadryk said. “Wait outside. There will be things for you to do, after. See to it.”
Sick at heart, the Mantles started for a sidedoor. One glared at Thorn, paused.
“Don’t,” he said, but the guard charged anyway, shrieking, sword bare. “Thevril,” Thorn whispered and sidestepped the blade’s bright arc. The guard danced around, looking for an enemy who was no longer there.
“No!” Shadryk cried, running down the alabaster steps. He seized his guard and drove a fist across the old man’s face. “If you’ve cheated me of this, I’ll kill you myself. Get out!”
Devastated, eyes welling, the Mantle backstepped, bowed, and finally fled through the side access. The others hurried after him.
“Kingshield!” Shadryk cried, turning, turning, unaware that his desperation was all too visible to Thorn. He let the Veil unravel. Shadryk found him mere feet from where he’d disappeared. Regaining his composure, he smoothed his doublet and squared his shoulders. “When it’s done, you mean to deliver my head to Rhorek? He might accept it as my offer of surrender.”
“As you wish,” Thorn said, extending his hand.
Shadryk gripped it, grateful, and when he turned away, Thorn’s palm was empty.
“Silk, green silk. And a jeweled box to carry it in, if you can find one.”
“I would couch it in gold, if you but asked.”
Shadryk snorted. “No more talk of gold, man. My son, rather. He is safe?”
“When I left, yes. Unhappy, but unharmed.”
The names Ki’eva—Arryk—Bhodryk tumbled from Shadryk’s mind.
“Neither will the rest of your family come to harm, if I have any say in the matter.”
Gazing out the tall, narrow window at the emerging stars, he said, “They will remember me as a failure.”
“I will remember you as a man of vision. If ever I have an opportunity, that’s what I will tell your sons.”
“I must trust you with them, it seems. All I love …” Shadryk twisted the silver stopper from the vial and swallowed the contents.
Thorn backed from the throne room, head bowed, and dragged one door shut, then the other, leaving the White Falcon to die in solitude. The dwarves had ventured up the Gallery, drawn by their curiosity and their eagerness to have at their enemy, but Thorn stood with his back to the silver doors, forbidding them entrance.
“Well?” Brugge demanded.
Thorn offered no explanation. When he heard the body collapse onto the marble floor, he took off his blue robe and unsheathed his singing elven blade.
~~~~
Haezeldale’s castle perched heavily atop three hills. The Shadow Mounds rose imposingly behind the squat round towers. Though its curtain wall might be only sixty feet high along the hilltops, the slopes of the hills were lined with rows of sharpened stakes, and in the valleys, the wall neared two hundred feet. The gatehouse filled one entire valley all by itself. Most of the town had been built inside the fortifications. Local legend claimed that evil things living deep in the Mounds once raided the lowlands for food and for slaves. The people of Haezeldale still believed the stories, apparently.
The few cottages and shops squatting outside the walls had been emptied, and two cities made of tents had sprung up along the highway, one Fieran, one Aralorri.
Kelyn surveyed the battle lines drawn up against him. The same cavalry and infantry that had retreated from Brengarra dug in deep, delving trenches and setting up barricades in an arch that extended from the fortress wall and south for half a mile. Lord Grevel meant to hold the highway at all cost.
“Any sign?” asked Rhorek, joining Kelyn atop his command hill.
Lowering the spy glass, Kelyn said, “Not yet.”
“They’re taking their sweet time to think it over.” First thing that morning, Rhorek had written an ultimatum for Lord Grevel. “Give us King Shadryk, and we will depart your lands in peace. Hide him, and in three days your lands will be unrecognizable.”
Kelyn doubted staunch old Grevel, grandfather to princes, would hand over his king so readily. He did not look forward to assailing that impressive fortress or the desperate lines of Fierans in his path.
“The way things look, they don’t mean to give us three days. They’ll probably attack tomorrow.”
By evening, Rhorek had his answer. The Fieran messenger, wearing the hazelnuts of his lord, stood at attention in the blue pavilion while Rhorek read Grevel’s letter. He chuckled dryly and handed the parchment to Kelyn.
Your offer is an insult. Give us the Black Falcon and his War Commander, and the rest may leave Fiera alive.
~Grevel, Lord Haezeldale
Kelyn delivered orders to his commanders to stand ready. He didn’t trust the Fierans to wait until morning. When Laral woke him shortly before dawn, he knew he’d been wise to expect an early assault. “My armor, hurry,” he muttered, though in his head he still battled dream-knights.“M’ lord, it isn’t the Fierans,” his squire whispered. “Come see.”
Curled up on a bedroll under the pavilion’s front awning, Thorn lay fast asleep. He’d flung out his rich blue robe for a blanket.
“When did he arrive?”
Laral shrugged. Eliad pointed at the box set squarely before the flaps. A fine chest ornamented with carnelian and pearls, it might be used to carry ledgers or coin. Kelyn flipped the latch, peered inside, and staggered back again. “Wake the king, quickly.”
As soon as Rhorek saw the contents of the chest, he slumped into a camp chair, lowered his face into his hands, and wept.
~~~~
78
Athna pressed her face into the red wool. The scent of lavender and costly perfumes filled her mouth and nose, and for a moment his nearness made her dizzy. At night she wore the coat he’d given her; she didn’t dare wear it during the day. Regulations forbade it. When she made landfall, she would have the coat altered to fit her properly so she could wear it when she was off-duty. Let people talk. She was past caring.
The Pirate’s Bane Two creaked and swayed as it entered shallower waters. On the deck above, her crew raised the sails. The boatswain shouted orders to prepare the jolly boats. Knuckles rapped on her cabin door. “We’re ready to put in, Cap’n,” said Wyllan. “The dwarves are getting anxious.”
Athna folded the coat and laid it inside her wardrobe. Outside the diamond-paned windows, Windhaven drifted slowly past. She was a beautiful city of golden stone that blushed vermilion at sunset. The fires in the Beacon Tower glowed above the lofty palace. “Duty calls me up there, Wyllan. I have to tell Her Grace what happened to her cousin. I don’t like delivering news of death. And she’ll see right through me.”
“Aye, maybe.” He joined her at the stern windows. “But if she’s a duchess worth the name, she’ll have t
oo much tact to say anything.” The lieutenant looked more dour than Athna did herself. “I warned you, Cap’n. If he were alive still, I’d drown him.”
“If he were alive, you wouldn’t have to.” Buttoning her high collar and straightening the white sleeves beneath the arms of her coat, she added, “I’m sure he’d prefer his woman to cry for him, but I refuse to grant him that satisfaction.” In truth, she had cried. That first night. But as far as she knew, no one had heard. Waiting for the dwarves to return, in the same harbor where Rehaan had gone down, had been difficult. Night after night she’d dreamt of him appearing on deck, dripping and incensed that she had believed him dead. For hours after waking, the ache of emptiness filled her chest. Busying herself with her logs and duties was the only cure. Lack of space and supplies also demanded she make a hasty trip north to deliver Rehaan’s crew to Graynor. With Athna’s permission, Rygg had remained, happy to serve as an able seaman. Angrev disappeared as soon as the Bane docked in Graynor Harbor. No surprise there. Athna hoped he would stay out of trouble and build his tavern on a beach.
Once these tasks were seen to, little remained to occupy her mind. Chess with Wyllan in the evenings, but he beat her soundly three games out of four.
She rejoiced when, a month later, the dwarves appeared on shore. By then, word had arrived that the White Falcon was dead and that peace talks were underway. Master Brugge happily provided details over mulled wine at the captain’s table. Princess Ki’eva, he reported, had emerged from the woodwork to seek terms for peace. Nathryk had been taken back to Graynor, where it was agreed he would remain for all but two months of every year until he was sixteen. During those two months he would live at Éndaran or Brynduvh as the Princess Regent desired.