by Ellyn, Court
“Da, this is a disaster.” Kethlyn rifled around in a sideboard. He fished out a bottle of brandy, but Carah plucked it from his fingers with a sweet open-it-and-I’ll-kill-you smile.
They had fled to the family wing. The parlor was sparsely furnished yet, but insulated, quiet, and private. To Kelyn, it still smelled of other reigns. Briéllyn’s perfume. Something lusty, redolent of Rhorek or Valryk or both. There were subtle signs that, after Valryk had been deposed, Lothiar himself had occupied these rooms. Unnerving.
How long before they felt like home?
Kethlyn gave up trying to grab the bottle from his sister and plunked down in an overstuffed chair. “What was Arryk thinking?”
“Peace? Unity?” Carah retorted. Her defense of the dead king was fierce. Ah, but she would’ve made him a fine queen. Everything I wanted, he’d said, never to be.
“You ninny,” Kethlyn accused. “We’ll be lucky if this doesn’t start a war.”
“Both of you, stop,” their mother ordered.
Carah about-faced and went to peer out the window. Glass limned in moonslight reflected her sulking face.
Rhoslyn paced the length of the rug. “Honestly, I can’t help but feel you’re right, son. Goddess have mercy, what are we to do? Blood will spill, I just know it.”
“Relax, will you?” Kelyn tugged off his boots. They barely hit the floor before a chamberlain whisked them away. “You heard the protests. They’ll reject it. That letter is probably torn to a thousand pieces already. The Fierans will return home and conduct their own election. Raed is who I’d bet on, and he and I will remain on friendly terms and promote peace. So you see? We have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s just like him though.” Carah’s voice was small, pensive. She did not turn from the window. Kelyn suspected she wasn’t admiring the view. “What king leaves that kind of legacy? They conquer because they want more for themselves. But Arryk gives it all away. He must’ve known it might backfire. You mustn’t let it, Da, whatever you do.”
Of all the people in Bramoran, Kelyn alone slept soundly that night. Only once did he wake in the strange bed and find the castle drifting in the thickness of sleep-silence.
A heavy-heeled step strode past the door. Too commanding for a servant. Someone was tormented, indeed. Curiosity nearly drove Kelyn to the door for a peek at who headed downstairs. But he didn’t really care. He rolled over and didn’t wake until dawn paled against the coffered ceiling.
He received no one during breakfast, not even his children. Rhoslyn picked at buttered toast and sipped chrysanthemum tea without a word. Her glance darted toward the door at the slightest sound, real or imagined.
They took their time dressing, ears perking at the clatter of breakfast trays being delivered and hushed voices sweeping along the corridor.
At last Rhoslyn folded her hands and drew back her shoulders. “Shall we head down, dearest?”
Kelyn snorted. “All that awaits is another stack of paper. Nothing more.”
Their son awaited them in the corridor, whispering with Eliad. Both wore the expressions of stunned, gasping fish.
“What’s the word?” Kelyn asked.
Eliad snapped a bow. “The people have gathered below, sire. They…” He gulped.
“Da, they … they…”
Kethlyn’s astonishment lit flames under Kelyn’s heels. He hurried downstairs. The highborns clustered outside the Audience Chamber. Their voices trailed away; they parted to let him pass. He sought faces to read. Drona was a shade of green. Laral had a hard time swallowing a fit of laughter as if someone had played an elaborate joke on them all. Daxon was nowhere in evidence. Had he taken the letter and fled Bramoran? Had he fled and lost his chance?
Kelyn hardly felt the floor beneath his feet as he made his way up the aisle. The highborns pressed into the Chamber behind him. Carah met him halfway, appearing from nowhere, her staff clicking on the marble as she followed him as closely as a bodyguard.
One weak-kneed step at a time he climbed the dais, unable to believe what he was seeing. He reached out and clasped Carah by the arm; as steady as the earth itself, she helped him to the top. He stood before the throne and stared down at the letter.
The long stained sheet of parchment lay face-down instead of face-up as he’d left it. Someone had been here. Maybe many someones. But each one had put the letter back.
They’re willing to try, Kelyn thought, numb with inexplicable awe. They want to believe. Can I believe? How marvelous it would be to believe.
He harbored no illusions. He knew well that the journey down the mountain was as fraught with toil and danger as the journey up. The voyage stretching out before him was too daunting to imagine. But he found himself smiling. The first step was worth taking.
With trembling fingers he took up the parchment, held it aloft for all to see. “My people, we have stars to reach for.”
~~~~
44
One Year Later
Carah passed the book to Lyrienn. As soon as it left her possession, the dread it incited lifted. She turned to face the sunlight streaming through the Lady’s tower window, closed her eyes and breathed more easily. The fragrance of leaves, budding fresh with the spring, eddied with music of birdsong and, somewhere, a harp.
Lyrienn stared a long time at the bone-pale thelnyth cover and the silver symbols etched upon it. The Book of Barriers. Lothiar had used the contents as a weapon, to conceal his schemes, to hide avedrin away in the dark. “Wherever did you find it?”
“It turned up during a cataloguing of everything the ogres hadn’t destroyed. In Bramoran’s library on some random shelf. I can’t imagine how it got there. Took us a while to figure out what it was. Velthion translated a couple of pages for us and, well...”
“You were right to return it,” Lyrienn said, heading for the door. “Come with me. We’ll lock it in the vault together.”
They took ramps and lifts down the tower, deep into the rocky island beneath the Lady’s palace. There, Lyrienn secured the tome with dozens of others behind a bronze door sealed with spell words.
Satisfied, she ushered Carah away from the grim place. “Will you stay long with us?”
“Not this time. My father returns from Brynduvh tomorrow. I want to be on hand to greet him.” The Great Falcon divided his year, spending autumn and winter in the Fieran province, spring and summer in the Aralorri. His queen traveled with him much of the time, rarely returning to Windhaven. Mum never said as much, but Carah knew she missed the sea. Kethlyn governed in her absence. People were fickle; they had revolted when he governed them under the title of His Grace, but they loved him as His Royal Highness. Mum and Da employed a blue-clad bard to sing Kethlyn’s tale. “The Undying” had become a favorite ballad sung in tavern common rooms.
“Edfrid seems to be doing well,” Carah said as she and Lyrienn stepped into the lift. “He greeted me with an abundance of enthusiasm when I arrived this morning. Didn’t take him long to change his tune.”
Shortly after Da’s coronation, Lyrienn had requested an audience. “I’m not willing to let my people pass into obscurity again. I hope you’ll forgive me. Our recent struggles may have been avoided if Aerdria had taken steps. I’m not suggesting a dissolution of boundaries. My people will remain in the Wood. Your people may not live within it. Not for as long as the moons burn. But I would have us exchange ambassadors, so that ignorance does not creep in again. Our people must not be allowed to villainize one another through bias and ugly rumor. I find this especially important after … well, it was my brother who instigated so much terror and bloodshed. Will you help me repair the damage?”
Carah, intent on protecting her father, had attended many of those early meetings. She had turned to plead with him on Lyrienn’s behalf, but the gesture was unnecessary.
When the Great Falcon’s ambassador was first deployed to Linndun, one might’ve thought Edfrid had been sentenced to hard time in a Harenian slave galley. Lyrienn laughed at Ca
rah’s comparison. “Elaran hospitality is difficult to ignore,” she said as the lift sped them high. “Edfrid appears to have taken a liking to our music and our silk. He remains uncertain about the cuisine.”
“Velthion is the same,” Carah said. “He’s a terrible snob. I hear he won’t eat anything Bramoran’s cooks prepare unless it comes out of a single Elaran cookbook.”
Lyrienn sighed. “His complaints are many. In his reports, he claims the saying ‘Nothing colder than an elf’s eye’ falls short in the human court. Humans are far colder. I told him it’s Lothiar’s fault, that he must strive to prove himself a friend. Eating human food at a human table with human utensils would be a nice start.” The Lady ushered Carah from the lift and out onto a gardened terrace. Forsythia bloomed golden. Fairies twined the tendrils into fanciful sculptures. “Velthion writes of dire tidings, too. Another rebellion?”
“Same rebellion, different battle.” Of all the people to survive the ogres, why Daxon? The ink on the Order of Unification had barely dried before he was galloping across Fiera raising discontent, rallying soldiers, raiding Aralorri farms. Fierans who declared loyalty to the Great Falcon were targeted as well. Much of Laral’s vineyard had burned under Daxon’s torches. Da had stripped him of his titles and lands—even Drona couldn’t argue with the measure—and a grand hunt got underway. But so far Dax eluded capture.
At least Da had expected it. About the time he agreed to send an ambassador to Avidan Wood, he’d summoned Raed from Éndaran. “I would name you my Lord Marshal and give you command of my armies in Fiera. The people dread you rather than love you. They would take your word seriously. If I judge you correctly, you are not a cruel man. Are you capable of balancing mercy and justice? There will be uprisings, Raed. Even ogres to ferret out. I need someone of your character to handle such matters. And of course, should I prove to be a piss-pour king, I expect you to lead the army against me and seat someone else on the throne.”
Carah had almost blurted, “That’s not funny,” but she saw that her father hadn’t meant it to be. Still, she had glared down Lord Éndaran, promising a fiery death should he dare.
The man hadn’t squirmed as she hoped, but he had changed the subject. “I thought His Majesty would give such a position to Lord Brengarra.”
“Ah, no. I intend to ruin Laral’s life by naming him Duke of Fiera. He will govern in my absence as my son governs in Evaronna.”
“He over civil matters, I over military?” Raed considered, then nodded acceptance.
Carah watched the fairies flit with the grace and diligence of butterflies and dragged herself out of reverie. “You haven’t … heard from Rhian, by chance?” Many a time she had wanted to ask, but on previous visits she worried that asking would make her sound desperate, heartsick, childishly moaning after the impossible. But now she had grown fearful. When Rhian left Linndun, he’d been ill. What if his fever had returned? What if he had died and his family didn’t know to send word?
Lyrienn gazed west, over the rooftops and agate leaves of the tree-towers. The sun was aging, and somewhere it was settling over the sea. “I wrote to him, telling him of his inheritance and your father’s ascension. I received little more than a ‘thank you’ in return. That was well on a year now.”
He’s moved on, Carah thought. He’ll forget me. And why not? He lived on a lord’s stipend now. He didn’t need her.
A pleasant surprise that had been. Lyrienn had returned to Bramoran in person, bringing all of Uncle Kieryn’s things. Books, clothes, gifts he had bought for Carah and never had the chance to give. “I found this as well, tucked in his rucksack,” Lyrienn said, handing Da a folded scrap of paper. Uncle Kieryn had written in a rush, as if he were bolting out the door. Chasing a lead on where the avedrin might be, perhaps? Late again maybe? “It concerns his half of Ilswythe’s estate and earnings.”
Da had stared at the paper in astonishment. “He left it all to Rhian?”
Part of Carah rejoiced. Unless Rhian developed a habit of visiting gaming tables, he would never lack for anything. Another part resented her uncle for his choice, not because she wanted all of Ilswythe’s wealth for herself, but because she would never be completely free of Rhian. Every year, she would sign a copy of the annual report, pack a chest with coin, and ship them to Rávalin. Forever on her mind, forever in her care.
Carah shifted feet uneasily. “Speaking of Rhian, I don’t suppose you dream of the dragon anymore, do you, Lady?”
Lyrienn gazed at her quizzically. “Not for months. Do you? And what has it to do with Rhian?”
Carah shrugged, evading the question, and kept her own council.
It took her longer to leave Avidanyth than she anticipated. It always did. As Lírashel carried her eastward along the flagstone road, Carah’s attention strayed to the southern stretch of trees. Blackened bark did not quickly fade. And though leaves broke afresh from the branches, her eye always caught a tree she had missed. How many passes through the Wood had she made, coaxing the fire-burst veins back together, enticing water to rise from root to branch to bud?
She knew the Wood as intimately as any dranithi now. Over the past year and a half, she had spent more of her time outdoors than in, often with Azhien at her side. Her limbs had grown firm and wiry, her face bronze with sun, her hair wild with wind.
“You favor your uncle more than ever,” her mother had told her once, frantically smoothing her curls at the dinner table.
Carah and her father had exchanged a grin.
~~~~
She walked a winding path, broad and flagged. The silver light drew her. She had walked it before, many times, and knew she was dreaming. But the light didn’t let her wake. She didn’t mind. The dream was exhilarating, beautiful, empowering.
Primal forest stretched to each side, tangled, hung with beards of moss, a stranger to sunlight. Something sinister lurked in the shadows, watched her progress with a ravenous appetite. Ancients, she heard. Ancients. Do not stray from the path. She didn’t know what the name meant; only that they were legion and deadly.
As before, she came to the very edge of the light, as if it were a door unopened, and basked in the safety of its warmth. “Where is the key?” The voice trembled up from the ground, rained down from the sky, full of hope and eternity.
The sinister presence scattered in terror.
Carah opened her arms and announced, “I am here.” As usual, pride choked her as she spoke, and as usual confusion flooded her as the light disagreed.
“No, find him and enter the waters.”
The light, the primal forest, the path beneath her feet faded, leaving her bereft in a gray netherworld. The dragon had left her behind. She yearned to follow, but fear held her feet in check. Her heart hammered; guilt made her sweat. Guilt because thousands were waiting for her to move.
She woke expecting to see deep forest shadow. But it was always a ceiling she blinked at, be it in the Lady’s palace or Bramoran or Ilswythe. She carried the dream with her throughout the day, pondering what it might mean. Who were the thousands depending on her? Who were the Ancients waiting to harm her if she strayed?
She half suspected that the weight of her responsibilities to her father was catching up to her. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was needed elsewhere.
~~~~
Upon his return to Bramoran, the Great Falcon attended a ceremony initiating the opening of the Memorial Gardens. The charred ruins of Valryk’s banquet hall had been cleared away, new pathways laid, new roses and flowering hedges planted. In the center, an obelisk recorded the name of every highborn, citizen, and servant who was slain on that fateful day. Though the garden was tucked near the Audience Chamber, it was to be kept open at all times, available to all the people of Westervael.
Around the garden’s perimeter, the Westervaelian banner fluttered: on a black field the crowned falcon spread its wings, its right side red, its left white.
Da made a speech. Spectators wept and cheered. Carah
tried to appear engaged, sociable, but in truth she was relieved when it was over. So was her father. They walked arm in arm through the roses, trying to guess what color they’d be come summer. How tired he looked. Carah worried for him.
“Separatists give you trouble all winter?” she asked.
“We had Dax holed up outside Karnedyr for a few days. But he’s a weasel. Slipped out clean. He’ll plague me for years, I fear. Like any ghost from the past. But at least the problem he poses is one I understand. The rest? I feel like the broker of an arranged marriage. Soon as I catch my breath, I’m off again. I’ve traveled from one end of Westervael to the other, preaching unification as the better way. I’m sick of speeches, of making promises that may be impossible to keep.”
Carah saw it in the lines of exhaustion on his face. Raising his spirits was just the thing. “Speaking of marriage, did you know Drys married over the winter?”
Da grinned. “To his lady dwarf? Laral told me. He said the celebration shook the mountain for three days. I sent them wine and silk.”
The shadow of the keep overtook them, the air chilled, and they left the roses to the admiration of the masses. “You should delegate more often, Da,” Carah said as they made their way to the family wing. “Rest more often.”