As he ambled back to the entrance of the house, he found his legs unusually free of furry
obstacles. “Danner?”
But Danner had decided to remain obstinately where he was. Kalad threw him a frown, and left the animal to have his mood in the garden. His meal would be more enjoyable without the wolf begging for scraps the entire time, anyway.
Once inside, he seated himself at the dining table opposite his wife, and watched her as she ate. For once, she was not shovelling her food into her
face as if she were a groundskeeper with a ton of soil to shift. No, she was eating quite elegantly, which reminded him very much of a whore named Lissa, whom he had met in Calben. Lissa had been born and raised in the dirtiest back alleys of Gys, but she would ply her trade whilst affecting the manners of a noblewoman. Or how she perceived a noblewoman would act. How funny she would have found Yulia’s manners,
except for today, of course.
A steaming plate of baconwrapped sausages was placed before him, complete with caramelised vegetables and some curious stringy items that Hirrahans seemed to be fond of. Kalad dug into the food equally as carefully as his wife while he continued to study her. Silence persisted between them until the third course, when he said, “What have you been occupying yourself with today, my love?”
She turned to look at him, and smiled warmly, but did not reply. That was odd, Kalad thought as he regarded her. There was something different about her eyes. Had they been that pale shade of blue before? He was sure they had been closer to hazel. “Yulia?” he asked softly.
She smiled at him again – longer this time – and then returned to eating her sweet dish.
After the meal, he followed her up the stairs and toward the
bedroom they shared, where it became clear that the way her whole body moved had changed. She was so much more graceful than he remembered her being that morning.
Yulia lay down upon the covers of their huge, four-poster bed, and he promptlyjoined her. Kalad turned his head so that he could hold the gaze of his blueeyed wife. “I know who you are.”
“And what will you do about it?” she asked in her new
voice.
“Nothing, so long as you are a good wife to me.”
A smirk formed upon her lips. “I can be that.”
There were many reasons for him to keep this a secret, and so many reasons why this would be thought of as wrong beyond wrong. Not least because this probably constituted some form of mild incest. But it made sparks flicker and tingle inside his chest, and Kalad sighed. For all ofthe
bravado in his voice, he knew too well that she held all the power here. Kings had married closer cousins in the past. They probably hadn’t married such well-known killers of whole armies, however. And not ones who were nearly so pretty.
“Show me your true form. I want to see you as you are, not like her.”
The woman masquerading as Yulia rolled onto her side to face him, and her smile widened.
“I cannot undo this myself. I am quenched until I die. You must untie the forms.”
Eager to oblige, Kalad placed his hand against her skin and searched for them. They were equally as complex as anything his mother had made, but of a completely different flavour. What kind of wielder had made these?
Almost as soon as he began un-meshing the Blaze mask she wore, her nose receded, her
cheeks narrowed, and her eyebrows arched. Her dark hair emerged from beneath Yulia’s lank locks, tumbling down to the surface ofthe bed at her shoulder. Kalad had seen her several times before beneath Gialdin’s castle, and had recognised some attractiveness hidden beneath the dirt, but that had been a mere shadow of the woman who lay before him now. Her eyes appeared to glow a brighter shade of blue, if such a
thing were possible, and her hair shone in the low evening sun that came through the window.
“You’re... exquisite,” he said in wonder.
She dropped her chin to look at him through dark eyelashes. “I know.”
Kalad leaned across to kiss her, and after that... well... after that, he did as husbands were supposed to do with their wives.
The green of the summer leaves against the blue ofthe sky was the most beautiful colour combination he had ever seen. Nothing matched it, well, nothing except the fire red and old gold of Artemi’s hair. It had been so long since he had fed his eyes with that, he lamented. Morghiad
propped himself up on his elbows, and surveyed the forest about him. It was rich and healthy in the way that only Calidellian forests could be, and filled with the calming sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves. The Sokirin jungle had been just as green, but it was also humid, made of vulgar plants with great, cutting leaves, and populated with birds that cawed and hacked and jarred. Calidellian birds sang far sweeter songs.
Yes, these woodlands were far more civilised and handsome than any other. Morghiad got to his feet to take in some ofthe honeyed scent of a spear flower, but paused on the way to it. Something was wrong, but he could not remember quite what. In truth, he could not even remember how he had found his way here. He looked about himself, but there was nothing to offer any clue or hint.
Then, out of the corner of
one eye, he spotted an object that looked out of place. It was as brown as the bark of the trees, but it shone as if polished. Morghiad jogged toward it, pulling his coat more tightly about himself to keep out the cold, and then knelt to examine what it was. It looked to have been made of leather, was tooled on one side, but burned and ripped on the other. Morghiad picked it up to examine more closely. He recognised it,
certainly. It looked like part of a saddle.
As he turned it over in his hand, he saw more leatherwork, this time hanging from the branches of a tree. It looked like – yes, it was a bridle for a horse, and that huge bit was unmistakable. That was Tyshar’s bridle.
Morghiad looked about himself again, but saw no sign of his horse. “Tyshar?” he called.
The forest responded with
more rustlings of leaves on the breeze, and more birdsong. He took hold of the bridle and pulled it from the tree, but the rest of it was missing. It had been torn in two. “Tyshar!” he shouted.
He stamped around the clearing and looked behind trees, searched branches that the animal could not possibly have climbed into, and criss-crossed the entire area to find even the slightest trace of his horse. He whistled to call him, and shouted
another “Ty-”
There was the sound of hoof falls coming from behind him, and Morghiad breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to look at his old friend, but paused when he laid eyes on him. “Tyshar?”
The horse threw his head up and shook his mane, except, it was not a mane of hair; it was a mane made of smoke. His legs were formed of black, swirling clouds and his hooves of smouldering coals. His eyes shone with orange flame and his mouth glowed red inside.
“What happened to you?” Morghiad approached him slowly, and reached out to brush the animal’s muzzle. It felt hot to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. Tyshar whickered to show appreciation, though the sound of it was more like a low rumble, and he pawed at the ground. The grass beneath his hooves became singed.
“You’re right. We have
places we must go.” Morghiad was not even sure if this creature of fire could be ridden, but he certainly intended to try. He grabbed a handful of smoke mane, frowned as the tendrils twisted and squirmed around his fist, and vaulted onto the animal’s back regardless. Morghiad booted Tyshar into a canter, but what he received was movement more powerful than a tornado! And though the horse’s hooves made
the sounds of impact upon the ground, Morghiad could not feel the thumps through his body at all. The noises ofthe woodland leaves upon the breeze became one great hiss, and the sight of them merged into green rivers that surged past his ears.
He could not smell anything other than acrid vapours and smouldering charcoal whilst atop his steed, but perhaps that was to be expect
ed. The sun was by now heading towards its place of
slumber in the west, and the many flowers of the forest were folding their petals closed for the night. Tyshar charged onward and eventually out of the trees, toward the shining white walls of Gialdin. But Morghiad drew his horse to a halt when he saw what had happened to it. A sizeable section of it was... missing. It was as if someone had sliced hurriedly through it like a knife through bread, and now wooden scaffolds and temporary pikes ran the
length ofthe old defences.
Had Mirel done this?
Pain, pain, pain! wailed the monsters in his head. Morghiad cursed; he had been enjoying their silence these last few hours. When he closed his eyes to check for his daughter’s stream, he saw it was still there. She was still alive, thank the fires! But there was something different about his vision ofthe ether. The Blazes had changed from blue to the same orange as the fire he had
seen in Tyshar’s mouth, and there were sprays of flame coming off it. It was messier, and it twisted... sluggishly.
Morghiad edged his horse into a trot toward the broken section ofthe city, but slowed to a walk when he reached the makeshift gates. Plenty of guards in the black and green manned it, which was a relief to see, but they did not appear so relieved to see him.
“It’s just me,” Morghiad
said. “Don’t mind the horse. He’s having an off day.”
The soldiers parted in silence, far too many of them with their mouths wide open, and Morghiad rode through. He did not dare push the horse too fast through the darkening streets; it was bad enough that the citizens ran from him or uttered shrieks of fear.
By the time he arrived at the palace, the roads were quite empty, and the amber light from
Tyshar’s eyes was the only illumination that bounced from the crystalline walls. Even they seemed darker than he remembered.
“By smoke and embers!” the stable master cried when Morghiad arrived. “What is...?”
“It’s Tyshar,” he replied as he dismounted. “Don’t ask because I don’t know. Just stable him and keep him safe. I may be gone for some time.”
The stable master blinked,
but eventually muttered a, “My lord,” and reached up to touch the animal. “Ah!” he withdrew his hand rapidly. “Damn thing’s as hot as a coal fire!”
Morghiad’s brow furrowed. Perhaps he truly was colder than other men now, and his clothing too. “I’ll take him in.” He beckoned Tyshar to follow him by touchingjust under the horse’s chin, and led him into one ofthe boxes that was not filled with flammable hay. “Be a good boy
while I’m gone,” he said, stroking the nose made of black clouds, and afterward he turned to depart.
“Ah – my lord,” called the stable master after him, “– ah, what shall I feed him?”
“Try charcoal!” Morghiad called back, and soon he was inside the familiar blue glow of the palace. Oddly, he no longer felt cold between these walls, even though he was sure he had on the previous visit. Something
had changed in him, but he could not pinpoint quite what it was. He was certainly not flaming at the mouth or in the eyes as Tyshar was. At least... he thought...
He opened his mouth and breathed out as if to check his oral hygiene, but it did not produce any sort of glow. A guard looked at him strangely as he passed, though he hardly cared now.
When he arrived at the
royal quarters, he found Koviere and Jarynd at the doors. The skin beneath their eyes was lined, but they looked alert enough, which was a relief to see.
“Good to have you back,” Koviere said, though he did not smile. “Her Highness Queen Medea is not here though.”
“Not here? Why?”
Koviere shifted his huge feet about and cleared his throat. “The Hunter has her – ah, I mean – he thought it would be a better
idea to remove her to safety for a little while.”
Morghiad nodded slowly. “Good thinking on his part. Mirel killed one of the-” he paused. Was there any point in describing her as if she were inconsequential when news of his infidelity would soon become public? “She killed Queen Dorinna. How did she escape? And that mess out there...”
A grimace twisted Jarynd’s scar even further. “We don’t
understand it exactly. It was some kind of rot. We found it on Mirel’s prison, and then it took hold on the East Gate and spread. Medea found a way to curb it, but by then we’d already lost part ofthe city. Do you think you and Artemi could rebuild it?”
Morghiad shook his head. “I don’t know. We had a construction orb last time, but it was destroyed. Perhaps there are others out there. Artemi always said they were rare. Quidarh
might be able to help, I suppose.”
“But we have peace now?” Koviere asked, his great eyebrows rising up his square forehead. “It worked?”
Morghiad nodded. “Aye, it did. Treaty signed by all countries, and Kalad is married to Kahriss Yulia.”
His eyes widened. “That is remarkable.”
Morghiad was not able to feel quite so jubilant about it. “Jarynd, have you noticed
anything different about the wielder streams?”
The old kanaala lost his focus momentarily, but when it returned he shook his head. “Looks the same as always.”
Morghiad scratched his chin. It had to mean only he was affected, which was probably a good thing rather than bad. “I’m going to try and find my wife. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please tell my daughter I was here, and tell Tal Hunter...” Morghiad made a noise of frustration. “Oh, tell him not to leave her side. No matter what.”
The two men nodded, and he left them to make his way down into the very deepest part ofthe palace. On the way, he stopped by at his own memorial to stow his weapons. He was confident that the white sword could travel into The Crux with him, but most ofthe smaller blades were power-wrought gifts from Artemi, and he did not wish to burden himself with the Hirrahan steel one in that curious place. And then there was the engagement dagger. Morghiad touched it tenderly, and then hid it beneath the plinth with the others.
There was a distinct possibility, he thought as he stood, that Artemi would not take that dagger back. Blazes, why was he worried about that when she had been missing for months?!
Be wary of the price she will make us pay. Be wary.
Morghiad would pay whatever price she set. He would do anything she asked.
He marched directly to the cave of light, where the heat of it forced him to remove his cloak and coat as if he’d never felt a single chill these last few years, and once there, he withdrew his white sword. Morghiad dragged it along the floor beneath the water, and readied himself for
the ground to open up beneath him.
There was a shudder, followed by the sound of water rushing into the abyss, and then he was falling.
When his eyes had finally adjusted to the brilliant light of The Crux, and he felt confident enough to stand on both feet, Morghiad saw something beyond the unmoving trees. It looked like
“Silar?” Morghiad jogged
toward the man, who had his chin resting upon his hand and was seated before a small gaming table. “Si? I –you’re alive!”
“Shut up. I’m trying to concentrate.”
Morghiad drew a seat next to him, and studied the gaming board carefully. Only five of Silar’s grey will-die pieces remained, while most ofthe rest ofthe board was filled with blue. At his best, Silar had only two moves open to him. “Your opponent has
you by the jelfruits, my friend.” Silar waved a hand at him. “Shut up! This is not like playing with your own blazed toes.” “Who is your opponent?” “Me,” Silar said, and moved his wielder piece forward two squares. He then went to sit at the other side ofthe board, and his features were once more marked by an intensity that almost made them sharp. “Look, you’ve won. Surely you’re happy now? I need your
help – it’s more important.”
Silar’s fist hit the table with an une
xpected thump, and the pieces jolted into the air before scattering to the floor. “You have no idea what’s important! None!”
“Si, I merely meant –I need to find Artemi. Something’s happened to her. I know it.” Morghiad decided to keep the events ofthe talks to himself. If Silar could read in him what he had done to Ulena, and saw how he had betrayed Artemi as a
result, he would never help Morghiad find her.
His friend waved his hand dismissively. “The Law-keepers won’t hurt her. They cannot afford to. She’ll be alive somewhere. Everyone else, on the other hand...” He resumed his posture of concentration at the board, and when Morghiad looked back at it, the pieces had re-assembled themselves in their starting positions.
“Impressive.”
Silar did not reply.
“Can you at least tell me where she is?”
His friend grunted and moved his kahr piece forward by six squares. It was a foolhardy move, and would likely result in a sacrifice at some point during play. Artemi had always revelled in that move when Morghiad had been Calidell’s heir and she his sword student. He had enjoyed it too, but only in the sense that it gave him an opportunity to
Voices of Blaze (Volume 5 of The Fireblade Array) Page 27