The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  She was halfway down the stone steps before it came to her. These satyr must be coming in response to Aelthen’s call. These were the ones who had taken the other path to Gannkis. These were the satyr that had chosen to be exiled from Tira Scyon rather than accept gelding.

  The thought gave her pause. The satyr she had encountered in this city were more like servants than anything else. The barely contained wildness and cruelty she’d know from those at Tir Rhu’thin had been cut away. These satyr she had glimpsed from the balcony seemed somehow worse than those serving Aelthen.

  She forced herself onwards, suddenly wishing that she hadn’t sought out this deserted quarter. The street was still and empty by the time she reached it but distant shouts made her head for the city centre. The cries attracted others and she soon found herself following a growing crowd of fae and satyr.

  Aervern’s voice was clear long before Miriam was close enough to see her or make out the words. She stood in the centre of the square railing at Ileriel as Aelthen watched on impassively.

  “What right do you have to violate our law and custom? These have made their choice. They chose exile and yet you invite them to return? You, who are not even of Tira Scyon? You send missives to this beast and his pack and you bring you him here? Here, of all places?”

  “Aervern!” the voice was somehow all the more penetrating for its gentle tone as Tauntha made her way through the throng. “It is not your place to do this, child.”

  Aelthen nodded in a polite acknowledgement as Tauntha turned to face him. “The question is not hers to ask,” she said in even tones. “Yet it stands unanswered. By what right do you violate our laws? By what right do you invite this creature here?”

  “This creature is Riahl, Lord of the Great Revel. He is owed your respect, Tauntha, for he is as much an elder as you yourself. He answered my summons as Lord of the Hunt and he comes to bear witness.”

  “Bear witness?” Tauntha echoed him with a frown and shook her head. “You do not answer the question. By what right do you violate our law and custom?”

  “By right of challenge.” Aelthen’s voice rolled out over the assembled fae like a wave. It broke over Tauntha’s words and sent them tumbling to the surf. “I summon your exiled satyr, my brothers in the hunt, to bear witness. I am Aelthen. Huntmaster, Worldwalker. I stand as leader of the Returned and I would lead all fae. I would claim the Ivy Throne. Are there any among you who dispute my right or contest my claim?”

  Even from the back of the square Miriam could see the impact of the words. It was almost funny. The shock stripped the fae of their arrogance and, for just one moment, many looked almost human.

  “I contest.” The call came from the back of the square and heads turned to see the fae Miriam had been forced to dance with, once again wrapped his glamour of mists. The crowd parted as he approached and Aelthen regarded him evenly.

  “How are you called?” he asked after a long silence.

  The mists sank down, curling about the fae’s shoulders and revealing the proud face “I am Caraviel, Lord of Mists.”

  Aelthen studied him, measuring his worth. “You pose no threat to me, faeling,” he told the fae. “Withdraw your challenge. I will not hold you to words spoken with no thought or reason.”

  Caraviel’s nostrils flared as he glared at Aelthen and spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not withdraw.”

  Aelthen sighed, waving a dismissive hand at his challenger. “I will not waste time on this. You cannot best me.”

  “The dance of blades.” Caraviel roared in anger as he tore curved daggers from within the mists that clung to his body. “My challenge will be by blade.”

  Aelthen sighed again and looked at the fae with contempt. “You foolish child. You challenge, knowing little or nothing of me and yet you place no limits on your challenge.” He extended an arm in a lazy fashion and stones erupted skyward as thick roots flew out of the ground beneath, wrapping around Caraviel’s limbs and dragging him spread-eagled to the stones.

  Aelthen ignored the struggles of the fae as he fought the grip of the roots. “Let all take note that I offered this faeling the chance to withdraw.” He looked back to his challenger and the smile left his face. Caraviel’s shouts became cries for help, and then screams of pain as Aelthen gestured and the roots began to pull. The screams grew louder and more frantic until, with a wet tearing sound, Caraviel’s arms and legs were ripped from his body and he exploded in a shower of gore. Aelthen smiled then, a thin smile devoid of mirth or compassion as he ignored the roots as they feasted and turned his eyes back to the crowd.

  “Does any other contest my right?”

  “I contest, Worldwalker.” The call was soft, almost regretful, but the words carried anyway. Aelthen turned to regard Tauntha and smiled. She made her way to his side with no hurry, nodding thanks at those who murmured support as she passed.

  He bowed with genuine respect as she approached. The gesture stood in stark contrast to the contempt with which he had treated Caraviel and, as Miriam looked on, the square fell silent.

  “What form would you choose?”

  “I choose the Grace of Our Lady. The art of glamours,” Tauntha replied and, for the briefest moment, Miriam saw a flicker of doubt cross Aelthen’s face. “Strip me of my glamour, if you can. The challenge is by Grace alone.” Tauntha spoke formally and turned to face the watching crowd as she closed her eyes.

  Without really thinking about what she was doing Miriam moved through the throng until she reached Aervern’s side. The fae nodded to her once in greeting but said nothing.

  The attack came without preamble. No foolish posturing, no wasted words. Aelthen extended one hand towards Tauntha and the power began to flow out of him. The green mist came from his hands, rising up above Tauntha, and then crashing over her in a wave that continued to curl under and around her until she was surrounded in the eye of its storm.

  In the centre of it all she stood, silent and unmoving, unruffled by the power that raged around her. The contest carried on in silence, each of them focused on their efforts. Motes of light swarmed around Tauntha like maddened fireflies and her form rippled for a heartbeat, before solidifying once more. Aelthen muttered in obvious frustration and thrust another hand out, bearing down with his teeth clenched in a grimace.

  Miriam glanced once at Aervern’s face but the fear and worry was enough to turn her gaze away. Aelthen roared out in frustration as the torrent of power flowing from him began to wane. He glanced out once into the throng before reaching a hand out towards the crowd.

  An anguished gasp passed through the crowd as the first tendrils of power rose from them, leeched away by the force of Aelthen’s will, and passing swiftly into his outstretched fingers. He became a conduit, draining power from the fae only to send it blasting into Tauntha's form.

  The gasp became more pronounced, overlaid with thin, reedy, wails of pain as some of the weakest collapsed to the ground. Aelthen drew himself up, shoulders bunching as the power infused him and his eyes flared with a bight amber light. A torrent of power burst from him, slamming into Tauntha and tearing around her, shredding the layers from her glamour as she screamed in the centre of the cyclone of mist that surrounded her.

  As the power raged Miriam became aware of another current. A flow of mist trailing back out of the torrent surrounding Tauntha. Aelthen wasn’t just destroying her glamour, he was tearing the power from her.

  Tauntha shook as the torrent rocked her, her image wavering as chunks of it were torn away, revealing the truth concealed beneath. She began to shine brightly, the light blasting out from her to be greedily absorbed by her adversary as her glamour was destroyed. A final roar of triumph from Aelthen and, at last, Tauntha’s voice rose to join his in an agonised scream, pain twisting her face before she fell silent and collapsed to the dirt.

  Miriam looked from the horror on Aervern’s face to the scene that was unfolding before them. The creature she had only ever before glimpsed for the briefest
moment lay in the dirt, exposed and unmasked for any to see. She lay gasping, naked in the truest sense of the word, as those closest gaped at her frail, wizened form. Her chest rose and fell in painful, laboured breaths as Aervern made her way forward and knelt beside her. She bent low, perhaps to catch one whispered sentence, and then Tauntha was still.

  Aervern stood then, striding forward toward Aelthen. Fae and satyr rushed from her path and from the dreadful silence she seemed to carry with her.

  “The challenge was to strip Tauntha of her glamour,” she snarled.

  Aelthen looked down at her. “She placed poor limits on her challenge.”

  “It was to be by the Grace of our Lady alone,” Aervern grated.

  “And as it was.”

  “That is not so.” Aervern snapped. “All here saw how you drew upon the Grace of those present.”

  Aelthen frowned in mock confusion. “Is that not the Lady’s Grace?”

  “None from Tira Scyon could draw the grace from another,” Aervern persisted.

  “Should I have limited myself then?” Aelthen asked in mock concern. “Been less than I am? If this challenge had been by blades ought I to have fought with less skill? This was my right to the Ivy Throne contested. I would bring to bear any and all of my skills to win, as would any other here. You do no honour to the fallen with this display.”

  Aervern stopped cold and looked around at the eyes upon her. She drew herself up then and gave a curt nod of acceptance before stalking into the crowd.

  “Is there any other among you who would contest my claim?” Aelthen called out across the square. He waited in silence for five long breaths before turning to the great tree. “Variska,” he called. “Speak for the fae’reeth. Is the claim accepted?”

  The only answer was silence and the ever present sound of the wings as the fae’reeth circled the branches in their endless dance. Aelthen smothered a look of frustration that was not lost on Miriam as he turned to face the crowd once more.

  “Riahl, will you kneel to the throne? Will your Revel return to make the fae as we should be once more?”

  “We will, Satyri. Our people should be as one.” The voice was soft, urbane, and not at all what Miriam had expected.

  “My children,” Aelthen spoke up as he lifted his arms high. “My lost brethren of Tira Scyon, Brothers of the Hunt, I would make our people great once more. I would reclaim the Land of Our Lady and purge the maggots that infest her body. I claim the Ivy Throne by Grace and blade. Join with me so that we might summon the throne to us.”

  The roar that followed his words seemed all the louder for Aervern’s silence as Aelthen smiled his acceptance. He turned to the Great Tree and held a hand out, as if beckoning. Stood to one side of the square Miriam could see his eyes close. The first rumbles were so slight she barely noticed them but soon there could be no doubt as the earth heaved and boiled before him. The stones moved first, buckling and being forced aside as the first of the thick roots thrust up through the earth. More soon joined it, twisting and weaving around each other as they formed together. Smaller tendrils worked around the larger roots, whipping around in a fury as they wove themselves into a tight lattice.

  “What is he doing?” Miriam whispered to Aervern.

  She did not look at her and her words were thick with emotion. “He summons the throne. Not seen in the days of my life or those of my sires.”

  The roots formed into a broad dais with thick columns rising up to support the latticework roof the tendrils had formed. In the centre of the dais the throne itself sat, roots and vines still writhing under his will. Aelthen nodded once in satisfaction as the vines burst into bud, and then sprouted, surmounting the back of the throne in a crest of ivy.

  The square fell silent, doubly silent Miriam realised as the fae’reeth stilled their flight, landing lightly on the boughs of the great tree. All eyes were on Variska as she took flight alone, glowing brightly as she flew across to the House of the Throne. Though no sound was spoken something must have passed between them, Miriam realised, as the Swarm itself descended upon the House of the Throne, touching down lightly on the roof until the fae’reeth filled it entirely. Those that could not land began a new spiral, flicking around in their complex dance above the throne in a whirling column that extended up toward the sky.

  Aervern spun abruptly, pushing through the crowd of awestruck fae and satyr as she fled the square, leaving Miriam struggling to keep up as she followed.

  Chapter Five

  Torna reach back into the sack at her waist and flung the handful of rye seed onto the broken field. The sun was already starting to think about giving the day up but she'd made a good effort on the field at least. It was just too big. The farming they’d done on Bresda was no different but the land here seemed to go on forever. She could sow a field in Bresda in a day. She’d been working on this one for two full days already.

  “Daft man,” she muttered. “If he listened to anything except what’s between his legs once or twice…” she trailed off. She told the bloody fool there was no need to start so big. Their farm of Bresda hadn’t been a tenth of the size of what he’d plotted out.

  Torna sighed and tossed another handful of rye. She’d have her moment to laugh when it came time to reap this lot. It made sense to plant winter rye, she knew. There was already a huge demand for fodder for the horses and livestock. Kornik’s plan would see them in good stead, and with a healthy pile of coin if they could manage the crop.

  She looked up at a half-heard sound in the trees. Some animal or other, she decided. This land was different in so many ways. Wilder in some ways too. Man had left such an imprint on Bresda that it was hard to find a spot where the land had been left to do as it pleased. Almost every inch was given over to farming, if it was green enough, or mining and fishing if it wasn’t. Here, though, there was so much untouched. It was like stepping into a fable. You could walk through the trees and wonder if they’d ever known the touch of man.

  Her ears pricked again and she looked up at the sun, just visible through the gathering clouds. It had already found the horizon and was almost half-gone. Time she was getting back, she decided. It looked like rain and Kornik should be heading in soon anyway. She pulled the drawstring tight on the seed bag and hushed at her growling stomach as she thought of that evening’s meal. They had chickens but it seemed senseless to kill a bird when the woods were teeming with game.

  Kornik rushed out of the trees in the distance in a crash of bushes. It was too far to make out his face but the way he’d stumbled out of the woods and his frantic, staggering, stirred her. He shouted at her, something too garbled to make out as he flapped his arms in her direction and her tentative steps towards him became a run.

  “What is it?” she cried as she drew closer.

  “Get away woman, run!” he gasped between ragged breaths. He glanced back over one shoulder and froze as he saw the empty field, the still trees. “They were behind me, scores of them. Chasing me and laughing.” He fell silent, shaking his head.

  “What were?” Torna asked. She’d never seen the man like this. He was actually shaking.

  “Monsters,” the word seemed to slip out before he could stop them. “Some kind of beasts.” He pushed past her, walking instead of his frantic run but still moving swiftly.

  “What do you mean beasts?” She demanded as she hurried to keep up. “There’s nothing in those woods worse than a bear. You told me that yourself.”

  “I was wrong,” he muttered and kept walking.

  “Damn it, Kornik. You dragged me halfway around the world to this place. If you go soft in the head on me now…”

  He whirled around on her, moving so fast that he staggered to keep from falling. “I know what I saw, Torna. They were right behind me!”

  She let him go. His face had been twisted with anger as he’d spoken but she’d still seen the fear hiding behind it. The trees on the far side of the field were still as the last rays of the sun fell upon them. “Mo
nsters or not, I’ll not stand in a field in the night.” She snorted and hurried after his distant figure.

  The rain began before she made it back to their cottage. It was light but the dark clouds made it clear that this was a rain with plans and ambition. The cottage wasn’t much but at least it was their own, and she cursed under her breath as she saw the door left open and the rain blowing in.

  “Kornik where are you? You left the door wide open!” She fell silent as he came out of the small bedroom, travel-sack in hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  He met her eyes. The panic had abated and he looked at her with a calm resolve. “We’re going to the village. I want stouter walls around me tonight.”

  “The village?” she protested. “But you said you hated it there. Crammed into those little huts they’ve thrown up. It’s why we moved out here in the first place.”

  “There’s guards there. There’s people there, Torna,” he said in a soft voice.

  She shook her head. “Are you still on that? You got spooked by a shadow or boar or something. It happens to everyone now and then.”

  “No, Torna. It wasn’t a boar, it wasn’t a shadow. My nanna used to tell me tales about what it was. We’ve all heard those tales. There’s trels, or something like them, in those woods and I’ll not sleep out here. You stay if you won’t believe me but I know what I saw.”

  “Trels!” she snorted, stifling it quickly at the look on his face. “The Keepers would never have shipped us all over here if there was something like that.”

  “Do you see any Keepers here?” He asked, waving his arms around the room. “They’re all back in Hesk getting fat on the coin they make off us while we scrape by on farthings! Do you really think they have any idea what might be in these woods? What do we really know about this place?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Nothing! Everything we know, they’ve told us. Well this time I’m the one telling you something.” He stepped closer to her, jabbing a finger at her as he spoke. “I saw something in those woods. I saw a horde of those damned things and they near ran the life out of me, chasing me through the trees. I’m going to the village. You come or you stay but I’m gone.”