by Ellyn, Court
She was right to worry about him. In the quiet dark, Arryk admitted that to himself. He rolled out of bed, lit a lamp, and padded to the writing desk. If the pattern his family had set was anything to judge by, well, he had better put a few things in writing.
From inside the desk he fished out paper, ink, and quill and began to scribble out his thoughts. His thoughts evolved into a daring scheme, a scheme that filled him with profound joy, a scheme to shatter history, a scheme worth dying for.
He wrote with the exuberant fire of a prophet. The letter took him all night to draft.
By the time dawnlight eased through the windows, the mad fire had abandoned him. He sat back to inspect his handiwork, his legacy, and despair flooded through him, leaving him cold and forlorn.
It was a dream, a lunacy, and it all depended on one thing. He had to die first.
~~~~
12
Lothiar stared at the corpse in consternation. The legs sprawled ungainly across the small cell, and the torso seemed to have been propped against the wall but had slipped sideways so that the head hung just above the floor.
In the garish light of Lothiar’s hovering orb, one eye stared milky. The other had been gnawed out. Rats had extricated pockets of flesh from the corpse’s cheek and throat, the tips of the fingers, even chewed a hole in the trousers and feasted on a thigh. The rodents hadn’t appreciated Lothiar’s intrusion. They squeaked angrily when he kicked them aside. He had expected the body to be Valryk’s. Silly of him. Valryk couldn’t have slain the ogre on guard duty while still locked in his cell.
So this was where Dashka had disappeared to. Lothiar had asked Da’ith if the avedra had returned to the battlefield. The Storm Mount ogres were extending their trench system to encompass much of Tírandon's eastern side. The Miraji overran portions of the trenches at a time, but at Da’ith orders the ogres had delved deep bunkers to hide in when the ground rumbled under horse hooves. Humans were one thing, but the ogres turned coward, Da’ith claimed, when faced with the unseeable desert Elarion.
The lieutenant had spat at Lothiar’s query concerning the missing avedra. “Finally flew the coop, did he?”
Lothiar’s suspicions exactly. For a couple of days he assumed Dashka had seized an opportunity and fled. He’d been trying to decide how to divine Dashka’s location when Paggon reported the dead guard and bid Lothiar come to the prison tower.
A dark patch of dried blood stained the front of Dashka’s tunic. The stain wasn’t extensive; he hadn’t bled long before he died.
“Where de small king?” Paggon asked, peering over Lothiar’s shoulder at the corpse. He sounded disappointed, like a child who had lost a favored plaything.
“That, my dear Ironfist, is a very good question.” He backed from the cell and shut the door. The tiny dark space made an apt tomb, though he suspected Paggon would return for the body when Lothiar wasn’t looking.
He checked the other cells, to be sure. All were empty. Dashka might have descended into the dark to taunt the caged king, giving Valryk a chance to get the better of him, but Lothiar suspected that wasn’t the correct scenario at all. Valryk had become too weak to overpower a kitten. Lothiar wanted to drain the king of his vitality, but not kill him. He hoped to have the chance to bring him and the War Commander before a subdued human populace and lop off their heads together. The gesture was sure to crush any remnants of hope among dissenters.
Disappointed, Lothiar climbed the spiral stair slowly. Something ugly stirred in his brain.
Paggon shuffled along behind him. “Dat king get help?”
Lothiar knotted his fists. “He did. By the Mother, he did.”
“Tugark,” he said into the basin. The cloudy marsh water rippled with colors, and the ogre’s long face and scarred muzzle coalesced. Fancying himself a shaman, the Fire Spear chieftain wore bird bones in his hair, and today he had painted a flame-shaped smear of charcoal over an eye and half his forehead. He wielded a torch and brayed ecstatically as a thatched roof blazed. Humans ran screaming from the cottage. Ogres lurking outside the door snatched them up and collected them, screaming and pleading, in a sheep’s paddock.
Did these Evaronnans understand why they suffered? Did they know their duke had given them over to ruin?
Tugark was so enamored with his task that Lothiar had to call his name three times before he heard. The torch lowered and he blinked through wafting smoke at the sizzling window. “Cap?”
“Is Lieutenant Lasharia with you?”
“No?”
“Did she stay behind, in camp?”
“No?”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No?” Tugark glanced at the burning house, eager to return to more interesting matters.
“How long since you’ve seen her?” Answer ‘no?’ to that and I’ll rip your tusks from your face.
“Dat ‘Lari gone long time, Cap.”
“Days?”
The chieftain nodded. “Many days.”
Lothiar grit his teeth. “Right. Finish what you’re doing, then return to camp. I’ll be giving you orders directly from now on.”
He funneled the marsh water back into its jug, then sat back to ponder. Where did she go? Where did that treacherous bitch go?
Elaran prisons were brighter with sunlight than any prison had a right to be. Narrow horizontal windows high in each cell let in enough daylight to grow a garden, but there was no soil underfoot. Fresh air drifted through the bars, but today the breeze was tainted with the overpowering tang of wood smoke. Ashes puffed like tainted snow and eddied along the floor.
The instant the portal opened, Lasharia scrambled to attention and pressed herself against the wall. The smoke-hazed sunlight slanting through the window gilded the top of her head.
Lothiar stepped through the shocking cold of the portal looking for guards, but Lasharia was alone. Silvery baernavë bars separated them. Three walls of bars, like a cage. The cell was roofed and floored in the shiny iron as well. He had hoped to open the portal within arm’s reach of the traitor, so he could drag her by the hair back to Bramor, but the baernavë hadn’t let him. No avë in, no avë out. Seemed the Elders feared Lasharia might port away.
As long as she clung to the center rear of her cell, Lothiar couldn’t lay a hand on her. He grinned grimly and approached the bars.
“How did you find me?” Her voice quivered at the edges.
“Took me a couple of days. You know how difficult it is moving that window around. My head is splitting. It’s put me in a foul mood, I’m afraid.” He tilted his head back, feeling the nosebleed coming on.
Dark scabs scored one half of Lasharia’s face. One on her forehead and another on her cheek sported stitches. “Did Dashka do that to you?”
“Took you longer to discover him than I expected. How long would you have let Valryk go without food? You would’ve let him starve.”
“Not quite.” If he had known that vile little king would have cost him his favored lieutenant, well, he’d have done things differently. “Is that why you helped him escape? Because he looked hungry?”
“I freed him because you’re an unconscionable bastard.” She waved a hand toward the window and the murky light beyond. “I smell the Wood burning. One thing’s for sure, you’re a man of your word.”
“Funny, listening to you talk of conscience at this stage. You knew what had to be done.”
“You murdered our Lady! You’ve murdered our Wood. We were to return here, Captain! But now? There will be nothing left. What were we fighting for?”
“Trees? You thought we were fighting for a fucking bunch of trees? We are fighting for freedom!” His hand struck the bars. “You lost sight of that, and now you are finished. You will rot in there. Hope you do. Because if they let you out, I’m coming back.”
She pretended defiance. “The Elders might yet grant me asylum. They were in the middle of a heated debate about it, I hear, before the fires started. Now I must wait.”
; Lothiar paced, hungry for a way past the bars, as though he were a fox seeking a break in the chicken wire. Her bunk rested against the right-hand side of her cell, putting it easily within reach. Easy enough to return while she slept and strangle her. Or he might accost one of the guards for a key, but he had no wish to raise an alarm.
“Your sister is Lady now, did you know?”
That gave him pause. His baby sister, Lady over all their people? Staggering. “Hnh, I might’ve known.” Lyrienn was so young. And untainted by Dorelia’s influence. Might she provide a more sympathetic ear than Aerdria did? Might she seek compromise with her brother? How best to approach her?
“What did you tell her? About our operations.”
Lasharia shrugged. “Everything. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”
Anguish clawed through Lothiar’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Captain. But you went too far.”
“I will tell you when it’s too far!” he bellowed. “We go far enough only when our people join ranks with us.”
“In terror of you?” She cocked her head, seeing him with new eyes. “You think you are a god, that you would destroy the world to save it? I followed you to save our people from human domination, never to destroy them.”
At the far end of the row of cells, a fist pounded a bronze door. “Hey, prisoner! Quiet in there.”
Lothiar eased toward the door, step softer than a whisper in the grass. The small surveillance window slid open just as he crouched against the door. The guard could see only Lasharia pressed against the wall of her cell. She could’ve played it casually, relaxed and flung herself down on her bunk, but she was afraid of Lothiar reaching through the bars. She didn’t move. Only shook her head frantically at the guard, bidding him leave.
Lothiar swore inwardly.
Keys rattled, and the door opened. In one swift movement, Lothiar seized the guard by the throat and hammered the door against his temple. The guard collapsed unconscious into Lothiar’s arms. The keyring fell from boneless fingers.
A small groan rose from Lasharia’s throat.
Lothiar kicked the bronze door shut before she screamed an alarm. He lugged the guard’s deadweight into a cell and threw him across the bunk. Lasharia was on her knees, reaching, reaching for the keyring. Lothiar swiped it up first and locked the guard in.
Triumphant, he shook the keys at Lasharia. She crouched in a defensive stance, hands open.
Lothiar regarded her quizzically. “You’re really going to fight me, aren’t you.”
“With every scrap of life in me.”
His struggle with the guard had him breathless already. And Aerdria had given him no trouble at all. But, then, Lasharia was a warrior for good reason. Seemed they would both come away bloody. “So be it.”
He plied the key to the door.
~~~~
13
A great commotion churned inside Tírandon’s bailey as the sun broke over the eastern towers. Tents deflated, changed configuration; earth abused under the tramping feet of man and beast, the pissing and hawking and pitting of campfires, now lay exposed under the morning sky. Armies prepared to move. Banners flapped on a rising south wind. Alyster saw golden stars on purple, a blue mountain on silver, and a white tower on blue. The latter banner had been hastily constructed of felt instead of silk. Young Lady Lunélion gathered her militia under it like a hen rounding up chicks.
Companies of foot soldiers filled the thoroughfare, stretching from the gatehouse clear back to the inner wall. Fifty Miraji, glimmering in golden armor, formed a vanguard beneath the Bastion’s drum towers. Fifty more brought up the rear, but they were too far back for Alyster to see.
At times like these he understood why the high-and-mighty wielded their colorful sheets of fabric. Who would know where to stand, otherwise? Growing up, he had thought the banners nothing more than ostentatious displays of vanity, flapping ahead of long trains of yammering lords and ladies who delighted in showing off for each other in flashy velvets. Their banners were nothing like the colors worn by his mountain kindred, woven into cloaks and plaited into hair and beards. Yet, now, Alyster understood that they were exactly the same. That clumsy white felt tower represented Lady Lunélion’s family as far back as records served, just as the red, gray, and black stripes represented Alyster’s kindred.
He tried to feel a connection toward the sword-wielding falcon as well, but that bird was alien to him.
He lingered near the well, distancing himself from the crush of men and Elarion, supply wagons and horseflesh that swarmed like gnats over stagnant water. A farrier and his apprentices checked the shoes of moody warhorses and squires’ racers. Drivers of supply wagons prodded mules into harness. The old shaddra with her shaven head limped on a wooden foot through the lines of soldiers, offering prayers and blessings for those who asked for them. Pikes bristled, helms gleamed, men laughed and shouted and compared their bravery to the man beside them. These had all seen battle. Some wore new garish scars like badges.
All this for a distraction? Had to look convincing, Alyster supposed.
In the Fieran camp, preparations unfolded at a slower pace. Laborers stacked supplies beside wagons; soldiers scrubbed rust from chainmail. The regiments of Lord Haezeldale and Lady Athmar weren’t scheduled to leave for a couple days yet. By then, Lady Lunélion and her troops would be striking at Lunélion’s gate, and if all went well, irritating Lothiar like a chigger.
The War Commander observed the preparations with a keen eye. He spoke, and the action was carried out. Alyster couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. Why should so many people listen to one man’s word, and that man in particular? Kelyn passed and men stopped talking; they waved or cheered or bowed. What must it feel like to hold the regard of thousands?
Nearby, the War Commander’s brother watched too. With his robe and staff and baleful glower, Thorn Kingshield was as intimidating as a half-sheathed weapon. He was all the bodyguard the War Commander needed, surely.
Alyster was wasting his time.
Move on, he told himself. It’s no concern of yours. It wasn’t out of idleness that he stood beside the well. The well lay between the infirmary and the War Commander, and inside the infirmary lurked a scorpion. Did Thorn know about it? Likely, and Alyster was doubly foolish. He wasn’t needed here. He sure as hell wasn’t wanted. He was an unspoken embarrassment. Aye, he’d seen the glances.
The scorpion emerged from the infirmary. Daxon hobbled stubbornly without a crutch and argued with his aunt. “By then I’ll be able to ride, damn it. Don’t leave me in the fucking Aralorri shithole.”
Lady Athmar muttered a refusal; all Alyster heard was “… still feverish.”
Too bad the ogre hadn’t torn Daxon’s leg clean off. He’d’a laid in that trench and bled out and spared Alyster the trouble.
It appeared the War Commander was making a fatal mistake. Whether Kingshield knew about Dax’s intent or not.
Mother’s bosom, Alyster had to say something. Unfair really, but the best way to remedy the situation was to help Lord Ulmarr get what he wanted. Why should the War Commander listen to me? He’ll just tell me to keep my gob shut and mind my own affair. He’d look as if he was ingratiating himself, or scheming, or stabbing one of Kelyn’s peers in the back.
Alyster waited until Daxon and his aunt disappeared among the Fieran tents, then pushed himself from the well and approached the War Commander. Bad enough to approach him in private, worse under all these eyes. Alyster steeled himself. “Sir?”
The War Commander was oblivious, bustled past, tossing an order at Lord Zeldanor.
“M’ lord!”
The whinny of an annoyed warhorse barreled over the word. Damned if he’d call him Da and astonish him to win his attention. Alyster resolved to wait for a quieter moment.
Then Kelyn turned and saw him. He looked surprised. “Want something?”
Not from you. “A word?”
“If you mean to ask me to send you to Luné
lion—”
“No, sir, ‘tisn’t that.”
Kelyn hesitated, out of busy-ness or dread or discomfort, then stepped aside.
Meeting his eye was too awkward, so Alyster watched the militias sweat in their straightening lines. “If I were you, I’d send Lord Ulmarr south with his aunt.”
Kelyn glanced toward the infirmary. He hadn’t seen Daxon pass. “He’s convalescing.”
Stupid goatherd, that’s what the War Commander thought of him. Alyster grit his teeth. “Send him with his aunt anyway. He can ride in a bloody supply wagon.”
The sudden grip of Kelyn’s hand on his arm made him turn. “Why so adamant?”
Alyster realized his fists were knotted. Came from having to scrap for every measure of space and dignity his cousins would afford him. No one had grabbed his arm without throwing a punch at the same time.
The War Commander merely expected a man to meet his eye. And he was prepared to listen.
Alyster relaxed his fists, hoping Kelyn hadn’t noticed. But he had. Kelyn released him and eased back a step.
“Daxon, he … he tried to recruit me. To do you in, sir. No reason he won’t try something else.”
Astonishment sank into the War Commander. Furtively, he glanced toward the infirmary, then aside to the Fieran camp.
Alyster resisted the urge to turn and look for Lord Ulmarr. Wouldn’t do for the scorpion to see him informing the prey. He scuffed a toe in the dirt instead. The weight of a glare settled on him, and Alyster was sure the War Commander was gathering a rebuttal, an admonition, something. He risked a quick glance and found he was mistaken. Kelyn gazed at him with unnerving intensity, yes, but he wasn’t angry. The War Commander almost smiled, but he pressed it down.
“Did Dax explain why he’d do such a thing?”