“We needn’t risk discovery,” Leif said. “We’ve satisfied our curiosity and seen Aeros’ armies with our own eyes, Jon. I say we make haste to Lord’s Point. We’ve brought too few men. The White Prince must know that we watch him. His scouts are clever. I worry for your safety. We should leave now.”
From their vantage point, they could clearly see the army of Sør Sevier spread south of Ravenker. It looked to be over ten thousand strong. Ravenker itself was a town of surprising size, holding two thousand people at least, with outlying farms and steadings that spread out along the lowlands on either side of the bay. But it was dwarfed by the vastness of the army camped to the south of it. Good portions of the inner town itself were encircled by a high ancient stone wall, a crumbled-down affair filled with more holes than not. A bulky bell tower marked the northernmost inland curve of the wall, whilst two squat towers sat at either end of the wall flanking the bay.
On their journey to Ravenker, they had passed by many who were fleeing the southern coast northward. Many had heard of the White Prince’s slaughter at Gallows Haven and Tomkin Sty. They were learning of Aeros’ brutality and wished to avoid it, so they were all now heading to the safety of Lord’s Point and places beyond.
“We shall meet with the White Prince at first light,” she said.
Leif seemed bemused. “That would be suicide with no army of our own.”
“We need not delay in delivering Jovan’s terms of war.”
“It seems like madness to me, m’lady. Your safety is of utmost importance.”
“I will meet with the White Prince on the morrow.”
“Aeros would kill you and the sixty knights with us.”
“He will not,” she said. “We will go under a banner of truce. Aeros asked that my brother come to him and swear fealty. And that is what he will be expecting. We are being invaded, Leif. We must show our quality at some point. Why not on the morrow? We cannot stand about tremble-footed forever.”
“Let us wait until Aeros advances on Lord’s Point before offering the king’s terms of war. At least then you will have the entire army of Gul Kana behind you.”
Jondralyn looked to Culpa for help, but the blond fellow sat on the rock, the point of his Dayknight sword buried in the turf between thick leather boots, the black opal atop the weapon resting against his face. The young Dayknight just sat that way, staring across the bay at the Sør Sevier army. Jondralyn looked back up at Leif, whose dark-rimmed eyes were like black pits in the night. Though Leif’s thin lips were visible, they were pursed in a tight smile as he said, “We should retreat to Lord’s Point and make preparations there, I beg of you.”
“I disagree,” Jondralyn stated. “Meeting with the White Prince here and now is the proper thing to do.”
Leif did not relent. “What of Kronnin’s Ocean Guard? You have to understand, Jon, that when one of royal blood, one who commands even a bit of power over them, shows up on the battlefield, hardened battle commanders with years of experience will sense the futility of their position and the common soldier grows wary. They all of them wonder, will I be needlessly sent to my death now on the whim of a woman, a princess? I sensed this very thing in Kronnin not four days ago.”
Jondralyn winced at his words. Leif just stared at her, unblinking. Those painted dark eyes of his cut through the night, sharp as knives. She gave him a cold stare back. He is trying to help me here. His advice is sound. Yet he does not know the things I know. He is not part of the Brethren of Mia.
“I appreciate your forthrightness, Leif. And I see there is wisdom in your words. And I know it is no small favor I ask of them. But my mind is set. I will take Lord Kronnin’s knights and venture into the White Prince’s camp at first light and offer Jovan’s terms of war.”
“There must be another way, m’lady,” Leif said. “Will you let me think on this a while alone? I must take a piss.” He bowed. “By your leave, of course.”
Jondralyn nodded and Leif excused himself, the king’s standard now planted in the ground. He walked alone down the slight incline toward the gnarled trees and cliff’s edge, not fifty yards away, limping through the grass as he went.
“If it were anyone but Leif”—she turned to Culpa—“I would simply order him to do as I wished. But I do want him to feel like he is part of this. He has swallowed his pride, accepted me as his leader, and made himself an asset to our venture. I know that initially he harbored scant respect for my position over him. “
Culpa Barra said, “I would consider it an honor to ride into the camp of the White Prince with you. I know who you are. I know the prophecies hidden within the scrolls of Mia. Leif does not.”
“You will have ample opportunity to prove your loyalty,” Jondralyn said. “That both Roguemoore and Squireck hold you in such high esteem is no small thing.”
“Squireck, Roguemoore, your father, all of them have taught me much of the Brethren.” Culpa lifted his sword and pulled out a whetstone, running it along the edge. “Did I tell you my father was a swordsmith in Port Follett?” he asked.
“You did not.” Jondralyn shook her head. “Roguemoore mentioned your father was the greatest swordsmith ever. That he was friends with Roguemoore’s brother.”
“A fine-honed blade is a beautiful thing,” Culpa said, holding up his sword in the moonlight. “This sword is my life.” He paused a moment, a reflective look in his eyes. “I gazed upon Afflicted Fire but the once, when Ser Roderic and I found it at Deadwood Gate. What must it have been like to wield such a blade? Magnificent, I assume. The sword of Laijon. Hawkwood and Roguemoore go to get it. We will have it with us again soon, and Blackest Heart as well.”
Afflicted Fire. We will have it with us again soon. Jondralyn thought on Culpa’s words. Did she really believe Culpa had seen it, had been witness to its rediscovery, then left it where he and Ser Roderic found it? We have found the five, Roguemoore had said. The Princess, the Gladiator, the Assassin, the Thief, and most importantly the Slave. Each a descendent of one of the Five Warrior Angels, each tied to one of the Five Isles by blood, each ready to play a part in summoning forth the true heir of Laijon and bringing about his return as the Moon Scrolls have foretold.
Jondralyn pulled out her own sword—the standard-issue Amadon Silver Guard blade. “Not much of a weapon here.” She bemoaned the simplicity of the thing, with its flat blade and standard cross hilt. “Perhaps Afflicted Fire is different, like you say. Val-Draekin told me how the Vallè believe that their souls are in their swords. I fear there’s naught but poorly forged iron in this blade. This weapon is not my life, Culpa. And I don’t know why you’re so enamored of yours. They are all of them the same.”
“You have it wrong.” With great care Culpa ran the whetstone down the length of his blade again. “A sword is a symbol of justice. A symbol of authority. A sword will survive long after its owner is gone. It can be handed down through generations of warriors. My son will one day own this blade. I should be proud of it. It is an honor to carry the steel of the Dayknights—standard issue or not.”
“A sword is naught but a damn fine way to kill a man,” she said, “or oghul.”
Culpa rubbed his hand over the black opal atop the pommel of his weapon. “My father used to quote verses from the Book of the Cross in The Way and Truth of Laijon. My favorites were, ‘Nothing can set Laijon’s honor more right than the cut of a sword.’ And ‘With the sword, wipe away moral stain and achieve perfection in the spirit.’ ”
Jondralyn liked those verses. And hearing them recited by Culpa, a man so full of conviction, made her think upon the subject more deeply. There was a verse in The Way and Truth of Laijon she had always fancied that had to do with swords. But at the moment, the sense of it eluded her. She racked her brain, wishing to recall it, hoping, by doing so, that the measure of her quality as a fighter would go up in Culpa’s eyes. But the passage would not reveal itself. And most knights worth their salt memorized every scriptural reference to swords in The Way and Trut
h of Laijon. But the verse that eluded her would just not come to mind. She cursed herself, knowing how her fickle brain worked sometimes. She knew that when she least expected, or least needed it, the passage she was looking for would thrust itself into her head for no reason.
Frustrated, she looked out into the darkness at Leif under the gnarled trees at the edge of the cliff. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, Leif’s back was arched as he pissed with the wind. It was no simple task undoing even the leather armor of the Dayknights to urinate, then doing it back up again. In full Dayknight battle armor, complete with black-lacquered breastplate and greaves, some knights were known to go without food or drink for days just to avoid the inconvenience of their bodily functions. Her own armor had rubbed her raw in places she wished she could forget. Riding as hard and swiftly as they had to reach this spot had been a cruel lesson in torture for her. Battle armor and horse riding did not make a perfect match.
Culpa spoke again, his tone reverent. “My father said that the finest swords are forged under a full moon, thus endowing them with the powers of the stars. I was lucky to have grown up by the glow of the forger’s fire. The very best swords my father ever made were those he made for the Dayknights. He would test each sword’s sharpened edge by dipping it into a river and slicing floating lily pads in half as they drifted by.”
“Why did you not take up the craft?” she asked. “You seem to love the art.”
“Hadn’t the talent. But I cut a good figure with a blade at my hip, my father said.”
It was true. Culpa could handle himself well with a blade. And there was nothing like the lethal beauty of a sword to enhance oneself. Someday Jondralyn now hoped there would be a special weapon for her. Afflicted Fire. It wouldn’t be the clunky Silver Guard blade she was forced to wear now—or the clunky blade that had accidentally skewered Anjk Bourbon. The fact that she hadn’t been affected by killing the oghul surprised her none. It had been like killing a chicken, or a dog, nothing more. She wanted to know what it felt like to really take a life, a human life, in battle, of course, for a purpose—an enemy’s life, the life of a Sør Sevier soldier. After all, her brother had. At Oksana, Jovan had fought alongside their father during Sør Sevier’s initial invasion of Wyn Darrè. So had Leif.
Her gaze again traveled to the edge of the cliff where Leif was in the process of fastening up his armor. Perhaps they should do as Leif advised. Perhaps they should just turn back their army and wait in Lord’s Point. But that is not the way a person of destiny would think. It is not what my mother would do. Culpa Barra was still working his sword with the whetstone. The concentration and care the fellow displayed were truly astounding. He stroked the blade back and forth with a certain tenderness, as if the Dayknight sword meant as much to him as a person would . . . as a lover would.
Even Culpa has killed. It seemed that any normal man would be racked with guilt at what Culpa had done to his four fellow Dayknights in Black Glass Courtyard. Yet Culpa had remained stoic in following Jovan’s orders. She had always meant to ask the young Dayknight about his involvement in the events of that day, but there had never seemed an appropriate time to broach the subject.
Culpa looked up, not at her, but outward, out toward the cliff edge, his eyes tightening. Jondralyn followed his gaze. Leif stood facing them now, stretching—as much as he could in his armor—his back to the cliff, the moon hovering just over his head, the tree branches looming above the moon like crooked claws.
At first Jondralyn hadn’t seen the crows, still and soundless in the trees, but when Leif turned, they all leaped skyward, branches rustling and creaking in the night. They were everywhere, hundreds of them, filling the already black sky. Their flapping wings sent a fright through her. But soon the night settled again around her as Leif returned.
“I see some wisdom in what you say, m’lady,” Leif began, kicking at the dirt under him with his steel-toed riding boots. “We may as well get this war started. It’s not as if the White Prince has been dallying about these last ten years. He is on our shores and conquering our villages. I agree. We should meet with Aeros on the morrow and tell him that Jovan will not surrender at Lord’s Point. There is bravery in your course of action, Jon. We need to show our enemies that we will not break before them, nor cower to their will. Your bold valiance in the face of overwhelming odds does great honor to your father.” Leif then bent his knee to her.
Jondralyn stood and placed her hand on Leif’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, almost in tears. She had hoped this journey that Jovan had sent her on would satiate her unsatisfied yearning for validation in everyone’s eyes. If she could show some measure of courage before Aeros Raijael here at Ravenker, she knew she would be looked upon as a more than just a beautiful face on a coin. “Stand, Leif,” she commanded. He stood and she continued, “The history books will speak of this day when we faced the White Prince together, Leif Chaparral and Jondralyn Bronachell.”
“Indeed,” Leif said, yet his eyes held a haunted look. “I just ask of you one thing. I think it unwise for us to go riding into the camp of the White Prince with but sixty knights, even under a banner of truce. I think it more prudent I go to the White Prince tonight, alone. Not to deliver the king’s terms of war by myself; no, that is your rightful task and I do not wish to strip you of that honor. I do, however, think it best that Aeros agree to meet with you on equal terms. I shall but arrange a meeting between you—our sixty knights along with sixty of his in the center of Ravenker. That he should agree to. That way, my mind will be at ease. If we meet with him on equal terms, we do not place ourselves at undue risk of being killed or, worse yet, captured.”
“It is a good plan,” she said, clasping his shoulder again. “And you risk much by volunteering to go alone. Do you wish Culpa to accompany you?”
“This task I take upon myself. I shall go alone. And if I do not return by first light, know that I am dead. And I beg of you, Jon, if I do not return, ride back to Lord’s Point with all haste, for I fear if Aeros will kill me, your messenger, then he will kill you, too.”
* * *
The merfolk and grayken and sharks of the ocean are likened unto to the nameless beasts of the underworld. Man’s continued dominance over them is as man’s continued dominance over the lord of the underworld. Therefore, I prophesy to you with an eye toward truth: the return of Laijon, as Laijon of old, will be born and raised by the sea. He will become like a torch unto mine path, leading all toward that Fiery Absolution.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
NAIL
21ST DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AUTUMN RANGE, GUL KANA
Lightning flashed all around, hitting the water with thunderous claps. Nail felt his lungs ravished of what scant air remained. Red-glowing symbols swirled in the deep: circles, crosses. Then his head broke the surface of the sea. Mermaids surrounded him on every side. “Come this way,” they whispered with liquid voices. “No, this way,” they prodded, circling in the fiery water. Nail floundered, thrashed. “Come this way.” The mermaid nearest him reached out her delicate pale hand, lifting his chin, turning his face. Nail saw Stefan, sitting against a white birch, dead, rough-hewn arrow piercing his chest. A blue angel stone lay at his side. Above Stefan, Liz Hen was hanging from the tree. Her hands and feet had been severed. A potato sack, painted black, hung around her neck. Somehow, Nail knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jenko Bruk was responsible for the dismemberment of the girl. Jenko stood beside Liz Hen, grinning, sword stained red. “She is more important than you, Nail,” Jenko said. “She had to die.” The bottom of the potato sack tore free, and Liz Hen’s hands and feet spilled forth.
Nail looked away. When he looked again, Liz Hen’s feet and hands were being sewn back on with glowing blue thread by a sad blond girl with a metal claw for a hand. In Liz Hen’s own hands was an ornate dagger. Nail watched as she ran her fingers over the intricate Vall�
� scrollwork of the knife’s cross-guard and the sleek texture of its ivory-covered hilt. She carved the word dragon into the white bark of the birch. Suddenly her brother Zane was there, standing on the edge of an icy glacier crevasse. He had the dagger now. He raised the bright blade slowly to Nail’s forehead, pressing the tip gently against his flesh with both of his hands. Two big tears squeezed out from the red-haired boy’s eyes and trickled down his cheeks. “You should have tried harder to save me.” Then Zane sliced into Nail’s forehead twice, once crosswise, once down, then peeled back the skin. Blood oozed out, then congealed, then flaked from Nail’s skin and floated away over the edge of the glacier like soot.
Then Zane did something truly awful. He plunged the dagger into his own chest right where his heart would be. He rooted the blade around and, with the tip of the knife, pulled forth his still-beating heart. It dripped blood and was covered in bright-glowing blue granules of sand. Zane’s tongue flicked out hungrily, licking the sand from his heart as if he were licking the sugar from a candied apple. “Who are these men you follow, Nail? Who?” Zane then crammed both the heart and dagger back into his chest. “Death is your heritage. . . .”
And with a crack of thunder the glacier gave way around Zane and he was plunged into the icy depths of the bottomless crevasse. All that remained of his passing was a broad bloody smear that led over the lip of the ice to the darkness below.
The Forgetting Moon Page 71