by Ellyn, Court
“Listen, Da. You were holding your ground fine before my people and I arrived. You don’t need us crowding up the place. Send us. I’ll lead them.”
“Stop this…”
“If we enter the Barren Heights from the south,” Kethlyn persisted, “we can draw the ogres away from this mountain or whatever it is, maybe not all of them, but some, and give Uncle Thorn time to slip in and find what he can find.”
Thorn turned abruptly from the fireplace. A spark had ignited in his eyes. “Kelyn, it could work.”
“No! I lose my daughter, my son, and my brother in one fell swoop?”
Coldly objective, then an about-face? Exasperated, Kethlyn tossed up his hands. “You’re assuming we’d fail.”
“It’s your heart speaking, War Commander,” Thorn said.
“And you’re being rational?” Da retorted. “What I want most in the world is to find my daughter and bring her home safe. But this is folly. We don’t know how many ogres you’d be facing, and in that swamp they’d have the advantage. You’d be days from the safety of any walls whatsoever, or reinforcements.”
“If we kept to the high ground of the Barren Heights, Da—”
“No!”
Kethlyn opened his mouth to argue further, but Thorn held up a hand. To his brother he said, “Carah and I are cut from the same cloth, it seems. I am going with or without your support. Kethlyn’s plan is worth a shot. If we fail, we pull out, try something else. And consider this. We have yet to take the fight into ogre territory. This is a good excuse to start. It will stir Lothiar like a hornet. He might make a mistake.”
Da sank into a chair at the cluttered table. “Where’s a dragon when you need advice?” A long while he calculated silently, eyes darting over the room but seeing only an elaborate chessboard, and the pieces were flesh and blood.
At last, he nodded.
~~~~
27
Rhoslyn peered from a window in the keep, willing her feet to stay put. Dozens of people bustled across the courtyard below, many wearing Evaronnan red. Their mission was urgent. Time and distance moved against them. But Rhoslyn didn’t notice what the soldiers and squires were doing to prepare. Her eyes followed one figure only.
Kethlyn’s golden head shined like candleflame in the early morning sunlight. The steel plate on his shoulders, too. He strode with purpose toward the stable, stopped suddenly and turned. His father must’ve called to him; Kelyn hurried to catch up.
Oh, to go to him, to touch her son’s face and hold him. She couldn’t bring herself to take the first step toward the stairwell. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself.
It was her sentence Kethlyn was carrying out. He was embarking on a dangerous road, eager to prove himself. The Goddess alone knew that road’s end. Until the Mother-Father decided Kethlyn’s fate, Rhoslyn must keep her distance. What if she reached out to him in forgiveness only to lose him to an ogre’s axe? Surely she would die.
Kelyn drew the sword he wore, the one rippling with oily dark colors, the one taken off an Elari’s corpse, and offered it to his son.
When Rhoslyn heard that Kethlyn’s own sword, the one she had commissioned for his knighting, had broken on an ogre’s armor, her resolve cracked. Did arriving on the battlefield at a late hour absolve him of his crimes or not? The night before his trial, it had taken Rhoslyn hours to settle into the cool, objective mindset of the duchess.
Kethlyn stared at the proffered sword a long time before taking it.
A stableboy brought him a new horse as well, a muscled gray beast from Tírandon’s strongest stock. He mounted up, fearlessly reined in the recalcitrant stallion, then cantered toward the gate. That fast he was gone.
Rhoslyn’s foot shifted away from the window. She dragged it back.
Less eager, Kelyn followed on a horse of his own. He would speak to Kethlyn’s troops on the parade ground before sending them out from the safety of the walls. Rhoslyn had time. A few moments more to go to him, to look him in the eye and tell him…
No. Don’t interfere. He’s in the Mother’s hands. Let him go.
She turned from the window. Other tasks awaited. She dreaded them as badly as the Mother’s judgment.
Down the corridor, she eased into Rhian’s room. She should’ve seen to this task days ago. Hope had caused her to delay.
Carah’s exquisite silver robe was draped over an armchair. A white silk ribbon was coiled on the vanity. Beside it lay the silver brush Thorn had given her, and the berry-colored lip dye Rhoslyn had decided was too bright for herself after all.
All these things Rhoslyn gathered together, to make room for someone else.
It wasn’t that she believed Kethlyn and Thorn would fail. It was only that hope was too costly, and she was out of currency. She mustn’t expect that Carah would need the room … no, she couldn’t expect … couldn’t hope to expect …
Rhoslyn fell against the doorjamb, unable to cross the threshold with her bundle. She hugged the items to her chest, her wails lost in the folds of her daughter’s robe.
The passing of a servant in the corridor compelled Rhoslyn to compose herself. Arms tight about the bundle, she staggered to her own chambers.
Days ago, she had shut out the sunlight. The blue sky was too brazen in its cheerfulness. She thought more clearly in the dark. Waifish fingers of light tried to pry between the shutters but only succeeded in striking the rug in small petulant gashes.
Blindly she laid Carah’s things in a chair and felt her way to the lamp. Her fingers fumbled with the flint. They trembled with unspent sorrow. She was about to give up when the wick leapt to life.
Rhoslyn dropped the flint box. Thorn sat on her window bench, elbows on his knees, head low. He raised his eyes high enough to glance at her feet, that was all.
He hadn’t made a mistake; he knew where Kelyn was. Always knew. If he had wanted a word with his brother, he would be elsewhere. What could he want with her?
“I thought you were leaving with …” my son “… with Kethlyn.”
Thorn nodded as if his skull were filled with lead. “That’s why … I had to come. To see you … to say…”
Had words lingered unsaid between them? Only those which, perhaps, should be left to molder in silence. Why did he think now was the time to voice them? “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“In my mother’s garden,” he blurted, “I swore to you I’d protect Carah with my life, as if she were my own. You trusted me, and I failed you.”
How satisfying it would feel to withhold forgiveness, as he once withheld it from her. But the merciless chill inside her thawed all too quickly.
When he looked up from the rug, his eyes were haunted. “I’m afraid, Rhoslyn.” How long since he had called her by her name? “Afraid I’ll find her too late. Afraid of dying.”
The confession shook her. She had relied on his courage—his enraged, desperate courage—more than she realized.
She took up his gloved hand, a gesture that seemed to startle him. “How often did I bring you my fears,” she asked, “and you had but to speak to ease my mind? What can I say? You’ll find Carah. You’ll bring her back. I fear only that you’ll be lost to your despair. Like you once were.”
He pressed his cheek to the back of her hand. His grip was fierce.
A brush of her fingers pushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Oh, my Kieryn, where have you gone?”
In an instant he was on his feet, his hands cupping her face, his lips hovering against her forehead, his breath in her hair.
I would’ve done everything different. His thoughts flooded Rhoslyn’s head like a ewer poured out. She tilted back her face, and he kissed her tear-swollen eyes, her mouth, her throat, and her head swirled drunkenly with the maelstrom of his thoughts. I would’ve been the one to ride back to you. Too ashamed, don’t you see? Failed you, long gone when you needed me. Thought my happiness worth less than my brother’s reputation. Was I wrong? I should’ve…
She turned her
face away, breaking the kiss, the flow of his thoughts, and smiled. It was a smile built to be a barrier. “But you didn’t.” She realized her hands clutched the velvet between his shoulder blades and lowered them to her sides. “I would’ve lost you anyway. To your mysterious journeys or to the dust in one library or another.”
He frowned as if he didn’t understand, as if he didn’t want to hear the truth, though surely he knew it already.
“You must be who you are. Kieryn. Thorn. I would’ve come to resent you for not being what I needed.” When she shrugged, his hands slid away from her shoulders. “And if it wouldn’t have been that way, let’s say it would’ve been. So I can love Kelyn without regret.”
Her words seemed to reach into Thorn’s chest and sink talons into his heart.
When he could breathe again, when he could open his eyes and look on her, she saw in his face not bitterness as she’d expected, but veneration. He loved her still, and nothing she said could extinguish it. It shone unshielded for one instant, as bright and clear as a flame just before it goes out.
“Your Grace,” he said and bowed his head, as he had vowed to do all the days of his life. When he left, he took the lamplight with him, leaving Rhoslyn to the uncertain darkness.
~
“Once you part ways from your uncle,” Kelyn said, “trust that he’s doing his part and focus on yours.”
Fear, like a cloud, gusted across his son’s face. They sat in the saddle side by side as nearly four thousand soldiers in Evaronnan red marched across the drawbridge and through the vast campgrounds. Clusters of tents, striped or unadorned canvas, circled Tírandon; banners waved like hands. Though the sun had yet to strike the murky waters of the moats, they raised an abominable stink. The aroma of breakfast over cookfires mingled with it unsettlingly.
Herds of highlanders gathered to sing war hymns and rattle small drums as the column passed. Dagni and her company of dwarves chanted, extending curled fingers in a sign of protection.
A guard of one hundred Miraji led the humans onto the plain. Commander Sha’hadyn stood on the edge of camp with the rest of her soldiers. As one, they blew handfuls of sand after their departing brethren. The dry glistening plumes swirled on a hot southerly wind, chasing after them. There was no road to take them toward the Barren Heights. They would carve their own path through short grasses crisping under the summer sun.
Laniel and handpicked members of his troop trotted after the Miraji. So few to infiltrate among so many ogres. But, perhaps, small numbers would let them slip in and out unnoticed.
High in the battlements, Nyria and the rest of the dranithion raised arms to the rising sun, singing supplication. They prayed for the Mother-Father’s favor. Would she grant it?
Kethlyn released a shaky breath. He didn’t voice it, but he seemed to know that the Goddess waited for him beyond the horizon. Would she let him pass, or cut him down? “Where is Uncle Thorn anyway?”
“I suspect he’s ridden ahead of you.” Rash, careless, stupid. “You may not see him at all. Saffron will deliver word if plans change. Just do your—”
“My part, I know.”
A pair of kudakari pulled a supply cart across the drawbridge, and several supply wagons flying Windhaven’s banner rumbled along behind them. The end of the train.
Kethlyn extended a hand. “Sir.”
The gesture startled Kelyn. Too soon. He gripped his son’s hand, then hooked an arm about his neck and tugged him into an embrace. So much advice bubbled up at once that Kelyn didn’t know what to say first, so he said nothing at all.
“We’ll get her back,” Kethlyn vowed, grinning. Indomitable. Contagious. For a moment, Kelyn believed him. His son put spurs to flanks and charged after his soldiers.
Best not watch him grow small in the distance. Best not watch until he could no longer distinguish Kethlyn from the man beside him. Get busy and forget about it.
Kelyn rode across the drawbridge at a trot. Now that the ogres had abandoned the trenches he had foraging parties to deploy and granaries to refill. Only this morning he’d received a dispatch from Drona. Her troops were having difficulty ousting the ogres from the Athmar Bridge; she was holed up in the ruins of Midguard Tower. Kelyn had to consider reinforcements. If Thorn hadn’t left, he could send Saffron to Lord Raed at Brynduvh and convince him to send fresh troops from the south. Could Daryon send a messenger instead?
Apparently, Lord Haezeldale was having better luck. The first report Johf had sent back stated that the road to Graynor was as packed with ogres as grapes on a vine. But the second indicated that, inexplicably, the ogres had withdrawn into the Heath. Johf expected his delegation to reach Queen Da’era shortly.
He couldn’t know that Kethlyn had driven south from Evaronna, initiating drastic changes across the board.
As Kelyn trotted into the courtyard, the sight of his brother caught him by surprise. Thorn readied Záradel’s harness with despondent sluggishness. The Elaran black raked the cobbles, eager to be gone.
“What the hell are you still doing here?” Kelyn dismounted and handed his reins to a groom.
Thorn kept his eyes on buckles and cinches. “Taking care of things. Last minute things.”
Something besides Carah’s rescue was troubling him. Kelyn experienced a mild twinge of … fear? His brother was afraid? Where had his vast driving anger gone?
“I filled the last of the whirligigs,” he said. “Give Daryon the word, and he’ll deploy them.”
Kelyn let out a breath. “I wish I’d never agreed to this. Hnh, I wish I was going.” He wagged a finger. “If the plan doesn’t work, come back without delay.”
“If it doesn’t work, I’ll likely be dead.”
“Don’t say that to me.”
Thorn’s glance flicked toward him. “Don’t worry, I’ll have Laniel and Saffron with me. Just keep an eye on your own backside. Who knows where Lothiar will retaliate?” He was checking the security of his staff in its saddle sheath when his hands paused. “Our father was only a little older than us when he died. I used to think he was ancient.”
“Where is this morbid line of talk coming from?”
Thorn’s eyes lost focus as he peered toward some mental horizon. “I’ll be riding past Slaenhyll.” That hill, with its crown of standing stones, loomed over the Barren Heights like a brooding tyrant. Dark lore surrounded it. Compasses spun erratically in its vicinity. Specters were reported on its slopes. Kelyn hadn’t noticed anything unnatural about the place during the hellish nights he’d spent there in his youth. Nor had he visited the place since his father’s funeral, though he had heard that traces of soot could still be seen on the inner faces of the stones.
Thorn’s hands resumed their fiddling. He must’ve checked every buckle three times by now.
Kelyn stopped him with a firm grip to his wrist. “Come back. I have a game of chess planned.”
Thorn scowled, befuddled. When was the last time Kelyn had invited him to play? “Aren’t you worried I’ll cheat?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll lose if I don’t.”
Kelyn grinned. “I’m counting on it.”
“Ogre spawn.”
“If I am, so are you.”
That teased a smile from Thorn at last. It had been too long since the twins exchanged that taunt. The smile broke into full-blown laughter as he stepped into the saddle. How pleasurable it must’ve been to release the anguish of watching his world burn around him, and find occasion to laugh. “Indeed,” he said. “Indeed.”
The morning sun alighted on the four silvering stripes reaching through his hair and upon the silver thread adorning the hems of his robe and winked in the crystal orb of his staff, turning him into something celestial. He cast Kelyn only half a glance as he rode out the gate, taking the sound of his laughter with him.
It was to be Kelyn’s most enduring image of his brother.
~~~~
Laral did not envy Kethlyn his mission. In fact, he was of the op
inion that the War Commander’s son was embracing his sentence a little too zealously, daring the Goddess to make a move. Foolhardy.
But who was Laral to criticize? He knew the undeniable need to chase after family.
He stood atop the outer gate, his sister at his side. Together, they watched the Evaronnans carve a path westward. The sun settled on the soldiers’ backs; pikes and bows glinted on their shoulders. The prayers of the Elarion tapered off to a haunting, contemplative hum. Ruthan closed her eyes and swayed, as if the humming were a lullaby tempting her to sleep on her feet. She never slept enough. Laral settled an arm across her shoulders, steadying her.
She muttered neither thanks nor apology, but with unaccountable sorrow watched the column dwindle, as if it whisked away her own sons.
Across the moats, the fanfare broke up. The highlanders headed back to their herds, the Miraji to their brightly striped tents. The dwarves returned to sentry duty.
Laral shrugged to shift Contention on his shoulder. He had grown accustomed to the greatsword’s cumbersome weight, both on his back and in his hands. Still, he was to meet Haldred on the training grounds for more drills an hour before noon. The young knight seemed to delight in roundly beating his former lord in melee. “Tough love,” he declared, throwing Laral’s lessons back in his face. “Don’t want to see the old man lose his guts in a field somewhere.”
Laral had hoped for an excuse to avoid further bruising. Lunch with a king, for starters. But Arryk hadn’t sent for him in two days, and since the trial, only once. After Arryk learned that Carah had been abducted, he had descended into a dark inconsolable place, the like of which Laral hadn’t witnessed in years. It was as if he mourned Istra all over again.
During their last brief audience, the White Falcon had been irate. “Why did you speak up? That traitor should be dead by now, not walking free.”
Rarely did Arryk lose his temper and more rare still to level that anger at his friend. It had taken all of Laral’s composure to respond intelligibly. “I spoke because I have held my dying son in my arms. To see a traitor lose his head would have been satisfying, yes. But more importantly, we need Kelyn capable and ready to make decisions on our behalf. I spoke with what, to me, seemed the greater good.”