by Greg James
“Because a Wayfarer is no king to force his will upon others. I ask, and I await your words.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Yes. Please come with me, Ossen.”
He smiled, and so did Mistress Ruth.
~ ~ ~
They set out the following morning with Sarah mounted on a stout grey pony and Ossen astride his white stallion. Saddlebags were packed with victuals provided by Mistress Ruth. She kissed Sarah on the cheek and embraced her tightly before letting her go. Sarah watched the woman make no such gestures to Ossen, but there was a look in her eyes, and in his, of shared longing and sorrow, which made Sarah look away. She let them have a moment alone. Then Ossen was leading the way on his stallion, and Sarah was looking back at Mistress Ruth. Sarah was sure Mistress Ruth did not leave the doorstep of her lonesome house until they were well out of sight, with the Northway Mountains looming ever larger before them as they travelled on to the city of Highmount.
Chapter Eleven
Highmount appeared to be more of a fortress than a city to Sarah. Great walls of grey stone separating the city into those with wealth and those without. The latter faced out onto the Grassland Plains and their part of the city was more often known as Plainstown than regarded as a true part of Highmount. In the event of attack, the poor would be marshalled to defend their betters from invaders. Or rather, they would fight while their betters fled to find sanctuary in the Three Kingdoms beyond.
It had not always been so, but the centuries had worn away at the small society of Highmount until it became composed of two very distinct strata: dissolute decadence, and those born to poverty.
Ossen and Sarah rode into the richer part of the city through the Norn gate.
Sarah’s eyes could barely tear themselves from the soaring cleft of the Northway Pass, in which the city was built, until she saw the beauty of the buildings around her. In contrast to the functional grey stone of the outer wall, here was marble, rare limestone, and black quartz threaded with veins of silver, bronze, and gold. Great windows let light in to the palatial structures of villas and grand halls, all with porches and alcoves supported by towering concentric columns. The streets were remarkably clean, and gutters ran alongside the roads and pathways. Workers from Plainstown could be seen sweeping rubbish into these gutters. Ossen led the way to the largest building of them all—the Palace-Hall of Highmount, built into the craggy stone of the pass itself. They dismounted and climbed the two hundred steps that led to its wrought-iron gates.
“Why are we here, Ossen?”
“To help a friend.”
The guards opened the gates and ushered Sarah and Ossen in. They walked down the hewn corridor lit by flickering lanterns. In alcoves, Sarah saw the sanguine faces of kings and queens of Highmount, carved from grey marble threaded with turquoise. Precious stones glittered as eyes in each one, making her feel like she was being watched by the dead. They came to the Court and waited at the edge of the crowd. Sarah peeped through the gaps, catching glimpses of the underage queen, sitting awkwardly on the throne, and the regal woman at her side.
“That is Venna and her warden, Ianna,” said Ossen.
A man knelt before them. His bearing was noble and he was clad in leather armour. Long, dark hair ran down to his shoulders.
“I cannot be a party to this act, Majesty. It is a barbarity, what you suggest. A horror worthy of the bandits and thieves who roam the wilderlands. Save us, even the druids of E'phah were not so cruel. I beseech you to reconsider.”
Venna adjusted her position on the throne, but Ianna’s green gaze held steady upon the man before her, his head bowed, his knuckles to the ground.
“We hear your words, Earlman, and thank you for your plain speech.”
A tension left the air, and the Earlmen, Earlwomen, servants and slaves all seemed less stiff in their manner. Fewer hands hung near to their swords.
“Earlwomen and Earlmen of Highmount,” said Ianna, “we have been persuaded by recent counsel that we must be safe and guarded in these treacherous times. From north of the walls comes word of the Fallen One rising. Every day, merchants and traders arrive at our gates with only their own person spared by those who rule the Grasslands. This city of ours was built as a shield to the Three Kingdoms of women and men that survived the last war with the Fallen. I stand before you today and say we have a duty here that we are bound to, and with that duty comes a trust laid upon our shoulders. It is a heavy weight, true, but one that we all can bear together. If Highmount and its people do not stand as one, then all shall fall.”
Licking her emerald-painted lips, Ianna waited for the whispers and chatter to die down.
“To this end, it is my sad duty to proclaim that at dawn tomorrow Jedda Ferra will be put to death at the stake in the Plainstown Square—for treason against the throne and the dying words of her father, the King.”
A hush descended over all. None came forward. None spoke. Venna lay back upon the throne, shaken, mute, and tearful. Ianna smiled without shame. Two short, sharp claps were the sign that the audience with the Crown was over. All retired to their quarters in the city.
None looked back.
Chapter Twelve
Jedda was awoken by the sound of the cell door opening.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
“An old friend, dear Jedda.”
“Ossen!” She flung herself at him as the mage entered the cell, her arms squeezing his lank frame.
“How do you fare, daughter of Ferra?”
“You know how I fare. It has been four years.”
“I know, and we must talk.”
Ossen turned to the guards and gestured for them to leave. Neither felt sure enough to challenge the hard, unyielding gaze of the Wayfarer’s eyes. The iron door was closed, and Ossen’s ancient fingers swept about in the air. Jedda noticed a peace and quiet settling all about.
“A simple spell for privacy, Jedda. Now, tell me all that has transpired since I last walked the halls of your father’s palace.”
“There’s not much to tell, Ossen. Ianna is as she always has been. She knows how to charm and manipulate those she associates with. She knows their secrets, and she turns them to her advantage. Through them, she gained the support of the Earlwomen and Earlmen, so when father died I was locked away down here while she fashioned herself as Lady Warden with Venna on the throne.”
“Yes. The rank stench from that woman and Mikka Wyrlsorn permeate this place.”
“Mikka? The Council worm?”
“Oh, yes. I could see the blackness within each, as if it were in plain sight. They mean to use our journey in order to strengthen their hold upon the city and its people. Though they do not work as one, they might as well do so.”
“Our journey? What journey is this?”
“You know the tales I used to tell you? Of the warriors, the kings and queens of legend?”
“A’aron! You mean to go to the Fellhorn, after all.”
“Yes, I do. The Fallen One stirs, and so does A’aron. And the Living Flame has come into the world.”
“She has?”
“She is here with me now, and she has accepted my assistance in leading her to A’aron.” The old man sighed heavily and leaned back against the cell’s stone walls. “And it is a long and dangerous journey we will take, Jedda. No man or woman of the Three Kingdoms has tried to cross such a span of distance since the last war. I have great fears for our safety.”
“I will go with you, Ossen, if that’s what you are asking. There is nothing for me here, except poison in my food or a taint worked into my bedsheets by one of Ianna’s pet witches. We will return to Highmount, with or without A’aron, and stand upon its walls against the Shadow of the Fallen One.”
Ossen smiled at her. And at that moment, the door to the cell crashed open and a figure strode in on them.
Chapter Thirteen
Morning came to Highmount cold, bright, and bitter. Ravens and black crows circled overhead, calling and croaking to one another. People lin
ed the streets, all unnaturally quiet. Such a multitude was usually only seen on the festivals of Wintertide and Summernight. The hush was as solemn as that which had fallen over the court chamber when Ianna made her proclamation.
Jedda wanted to shiver from the chill that stole through her skin and bones. She was barefoot and clad in a plain white shift. The cart bumped its way through the streets. The Plainstown Square stood before the far wall, which marked the end of the pass and the beginning of the Grassland Plains beyond. When the city was first built, it was intended to be a killing ground for invaders seeking to reach the second wall. Now, it was a marketplace as well as a centre for celebrations and festival dance. On days like these, it was also used for executions. Surrounding the square, Jedda recognised faces that had fought against her on behalf of Ianna. Her heart screamed that they were traitors who would see her murdered for their own ends. But as she looked into their downcast faces and wet eyes, she saw the truth. War was coming; she knew that as well as they did. The Fallen One was awakening, and all that stood between him and the Three Kingdoms was Highmount. Better Ianna on the throne, who would fight tooth and claw to keep the darkness out, than a civil war that would tear apart the city and possibly even spread into the Three Kingdoms. Her own eyes tearing, she nodded to those who had fought against her, and she hoped they saw her understanding.
The cart clattered to a halt.
In the centre of the square, where dancing-poles and braces of fireworks had often been assembled, were three stakes. Bundles of kindling and sticks had been piled at the foot of each one. Two of the stakes were already taken by Jorra and Kalla: Earlwoman and Earlman of Thanehold. They had given Jedda their swords when all others sided with Ianna. They were blindfolded, and they wore the same thin cotton shifts as Jedda. She wanted to call out to them, to say something, but her mouth was as dry as the rickety old wood of the cart, from which she was led, by the hand, to her stake. Clouds were gathering overhead, dark and threatening. Jedda sent up a wish for the rains to fall and douse the flames that were to come. She was bound to the stake by the rough hands of hooded men. She could feel their fear in each trembling fumble of their knot tying. She was still Ferra’s heir, sentenced to burn for treason or not. A blindfold was placed over her eyes, but she shook her head hard before they could tie it in place. They drew hard breaths at her gesture and withdrew themselves. Jedda looked up to see Ianna there, stepping out of her sedan chair and not even sparing a glance for the gathered nobles and common folk. She had eyes for no-one but Jedda—the girl who had run screaming up the steps to the throne, her sword drawn, to run her step-mother through.
Jedda thought that, in her place, Ianna would not be so bold as to refuse the blindfold.
One of the hooded men strode over to Ianna and fell on one knee, knuckling the ground. The wind, damp and heavy, blustered around the square now, stealing away the words exchanged between Ianna and the executioner. Jedda saw him nod, arise, and bow before retreating into the shadows. The shadows came alight and burned as three executioners strode out of them, all bearing torches bound with cloth and soaked heavily in oils to keep the flames strong in the bad weather. They approached. Jedda felt her muscles harden as she watched the flickering fire that would soon ignite the kindling bunched around her. Drawing in a breath and raising her voice until her throat hurt, she addressed the gathering.
“Good people, I am condemned and come here to die. The fact of my treason is known to you, and my consenting thereunto. But of my desire and will to do wrong by those of you who would see the Three Kingdoms rightly defended against the coming darkness, I wash my hands and state my innocence. I would see you all saved, and if this comes to pass by my death, then let it be done.”
A hush fell before the gathering darkness of the storm, disturbed only by a few sobs from men and women alike. The square was a tableau, only the flames of the torches seemed to move at all, threatening to be extinguished by damp gusts of wind. As Jedda’s eyes travelled over the waiting crowd, she saw a pale-faced girl with strange eyes that shone like amethyst jewels. The girl was watching her and Jedda found her mouth moving of its own volition, forming four words.
We will meet again.
Then, the girl was gone.
Who was she?
“Men of the Black Hood, do your duty,” Ianna said before bowing her head.
Jedda wrinkled her nose at the false gesture of penitence and spat upon the ground. Looking around, she saw that all heads were bowed. Reassured, she allowed herself some tears as she uttered a last private prayer. Then, the torches touched the kindling, and fire, fierce and sweltering, burst upwards. Tongues of scarlet and yellow, sparking with flecks of gold, ate at wood and cotton, and then flesh and bone. Screams carried into the Norn valley and out across the Grasslands on the wind, and the stains left by the ashes that fell from the three stakes were something the rains could never quite wash away.
~ ~ ~
Later, a company of three made its way across the first stretches of the Grassland Plains and away from Highmount. The companions were Sarah Bean, Ossen Wayfarer, and a slight figure swathed in black cloth from head to foot, so that only the eyes were visible. Three was the number of Highmount, as it was of Norn and the valleys. The number of fortune and fair journeys, and so their party came to no more than that.
Ossen had told Sarah that their nameless companion was a warrior from an order called the Sworn. Their names were abandoned as a part of their initiation, as well as their sex and gender. They were ghosts and assassins. Sarah was to address the warrior only as “O Sworn” and nothing else. To use any other name or title of familiarity was to show disrespect. The eyes of the Sworn looked straight ahead across the Grassland Plains. Sarah followed the gaze and felt a queasiness pass through her stomach lining. The land was so flat and dry and barren compared to the valleys of Norn, even now with the blight upon them. The air she breathed in was dusty, and her eyes stung from the grit that blew into them.
“Which way, O Sworn?” asked the Wayfarer.
The Sworn nodded ahead, dug its heels into its mount’s flanks, and led the way into the Grassland Plains.
Chapter Fourteen
On the first night in the wild, Sarah saw eyes peering out from between thickets not so far away. No moon illuminated the land around them, and the stars were covered over by clouds. The darkness was near total, except for the light shining from those eyes, which were embedded in a shadow that did not seem to move, only to watch and to wait. Grass, dry as old bones, rustled and crackled too loud in the still hours, which passed slowly as Sarah watched the eyes and the eyes watched her in return.
Was it a ghost? Did they have such things here?
But the shadow seemed so dark and solid that she was sure it could not be.
Was it Him?
Sarah’s breathing came hard and laboured, and her heart hammered. She should do something. Shout. Scream. Throw a rock at it. Wake up Ossen and the Sworn. But there was an air about that bright-eyed shadow she dared not disturb—that of a predator ready to pounce upon its prey. Even with Ossen and the Sworn so close, she felt more alone than she had since she came into this World. A tremble passed through her. She tried in vain to steady her breathing.
What are you?
Those eyes, lit by limpid fire, continued to watch her in silence, seeming to dare her to move, to cry out or to disturb the others. Trembling overtook her, more violent this time. She felt that those eyes were hungry for her.
For the Fire within her.
Sarah closed her own eyes, breathed deeply, and then opened them.
The eyes in the night were gone.
~ ~ ~
Sarah did not tell the others about the shadow. She should have done, perhaps, but something held her tongue. Some vague sense, some trace of that feeling of being prey watched by a predator. If she spoke of it, treated it as more than a nightmare, it would come true, and that shadow would rise up out of the dark on the following night and consume them al
l.
“There are secrets in the Grassland Plains.”
She jumped in her saddle. The words were Ossen’s.
“Are you okay, Sarah?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m ... fine, Ossen.”
“Good. As I was saying, there are secrets in the Grassland Plains. This is a place of bandits, thieves, and old ruins. We must try to be secrets ourselves as we cross it. We must become ghosts in the night.”
Did he know? Had he been awake when the shadow had come? No, she thought, he couldn’t have been. I heard him snoring.
They rode on at a steady pace for five days, camping at night, using the warm bodies of their steeds as shelter against the winds of the plains. They encountered nothing and no-one in this time. For almost a week, there was nothing to see but the steadily undulating grassy plains and sparse brush, marked only by animal tracks and the ruts left behind by passing trader wagons. To not be under cover or in enclosed space for so long, made Sarah feel strangely exposed. She found herself looking over her shoulder, peering into the distance, hoping for a break in the monotony—as much as she feared the trouble it might bring down on their heads.
“Has it always been this way, Ossen?”
“No, Sarah. No. These plains are where the Three Kingdoms used to stand before their people were driven over the Northway Mountains by the wars with the Fallen. It was the Three Kingdoms, as they were of old, who drove the Molloi and their Iron Gods back into the Mountains of Mourning. They were great then, the Kingdoms; now, they are so small and petty and riven by bitter politicking. They argue even over whether the Fallen One should be fought. Fools!” Ossen grumbled in his throat, muttering, and then went on. “We will come to the town of Trepolpen by evening. We will rest there tonight and gather supplies tomorrow. We must set out for the Mountains of Mourning thereafter.”
Sarah felt a chill, and she saw the Sworn stiffen.