Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris)

by A. C. Smyth

  “Come now, lad. Let’s get you away from here.”

  “Why could they do it and I couldn’t, Master Jesely? I could hear the call but I couldn’t hear the kye. The noise and the screaming. I—” He wiped his face with filthy hands, leaving smears of dust and ash on his damp skin.

  “Not a good time to have to learn, son,” Jesely reassured him. “Run for the north gate, now. Find Master Hollin. He will show you the way to go.”

  He gave the lad a nudge and he trotted in the direction Jesely had pushed him. Then a thump sounded from beyond the walls, and a rush of wind fluttered Jesely’s hair. A rock hurtled through the air.

  “Meneas!” The name and the warning came too late. The rock smashed one of the few remaining intact walls and the boy disappeared under an avalanche of ash brick. Sobbing, Jesely tried to pull the bricks from him, but it was an impossible task. As fast as he pulled one away, two more fell to take its place. There was little chance the boy had survived, but Jesely dug with his bare hands, desperately trying to shift enough bricks to at least see him, feel for himself whether there was any life left in the young body. The rational part of him knew it was hopeless—that he should not be expending energy and endangering himself for one novice. But still he dug.

  Choking smoke threatened to overwhelm him. Another burning projectile had landed in a woodpile stacked up against the smokehouse wall. Woodsmoke stung his eyes and threatened to clog his lungs. He coughed, eyes streaming with tears that were not all from the smoke.

  Hands pulled him away from the collapsed wall, pressed a skin of water into his grasp. Yinaede looked at him with concern in her eyes.

  “Why are you still here? I thought I told you to go. Sylas will need you.”

  “These people need me.”

  She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Go.”

  “But—”

  “Sylas will need you. I saw it. You must survive to help Sylas in what is to come.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. What had she seen, exactly? Why was it so crucial to her that he left? No time to ask, not with the Aerie tumbling about them.

  “Please.”

  He nodded, dropping into a half-crouch, then standing again. “Elyta! She is here somewhere. She is pregnant and—”

  She laid her hand on his lips. “Elyta and Cowin flew a few moments ago. They used the smoke to cover their departure and as far as I know they got away safely.”

  “Ayriene?”

  “Donmar asked for Ayriene to attend him, but I told her to leave as soon as they were done. Now will you go, you stubborn fool?”

  An almighty bang and the crash of splintering wood sounded over the other noise. Then another—bang. A battering ram on the main gates—gates that were never meant for defence against an army. Gates that would never hold.

  He crouched near the pile of rubble that would be Meneas’s grave.

  “But you—” He knew from the look on her face that she did not expect to survive.

  Soldiers poured into the Aerie through the breach in the gates, and as he circled, he saw Yinaede brought down by a soldier’s sword. She crumpled, blood spreading from a wound in her chest. If she had not stopped to speak to him, maybe she could have reached safety. Or perhaps she had seen her own death and embraced it. Jesely struck out for Adamantara, arrows whistling harmlessly past him. If a hawk could have cried, he would have been crying.

  Donmar hardly looked up as Ayriene approached. He seemed stunned—his eyes unfocussed, distanced—and blood stained his tunic in several places. She reached by instinct for her side, but her healer pack was not there. She had left it in Banunis for safe-keeping, her falcon unable to carry the heavy satchel such a long way.

  “It’s not just the Cellondorans and whatever has happened with Jaevan, you know,” he said with no preamble. “I don’t want you blaming yourself. Don’t let the boy blame himself, either. This was set in motion when I went to Respar to tell him what I knew of stormweavers, and of my suspicions that Shamella was one.”

  “Stormweaver? That’s how she let loose the firebolt on the Lorandans?”

  “Stormweavers can draw energy from the volcano—far more than a normal changer can. If the mountain is becoming unbalanced—there are too few changers, or they aren’t drawing enough aiea—a stormweaver emerges who can drain the energy away to keep the mountain safe. Another example of the mountain and the changers working together. Stormweavers have always been Chesammos, and nearly always women. They aren’t talents, although Shamella somehow ended up an empath afterwards. Deygan wouldn’t let his sword or his coronet be used as focus but we found her a linandra necklace from somewhere. Instead of releasing the energy safely through her, Deygan had her let it build up and up and then direct it at the invading army. I hope she has found some peace in her life. I know I haven’t.” He covered his face with his hands.

  Ayriene had only seen the flames from a distance, but could imagine what it must have been like—men consumed by fire. She hoped for Shamella’s sake that the empath talent had come to her afterwards. That she had not felt those people die.

  “It could have destroyed her,” she said.

  “It nearly did,” he agreed. “Not just her body, although you saw the damage to her hands—but the knowledge that she had killed all those people. I wish the healing talent worked on minds too; then you might have been able to save her some of the distress. I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, Ayriene.”

  And of course Shamella could not return. Probably mentally shattered, with a newly-acquired talent that would have been too hard to explain, Respar and Donmar had found her a new life. And such a husband that would have completely broken a weaker spirit than Shamella’s.

  “And now Deygan has her son.”

  Donmar’s head jerked up. “Sylas? I thought he might be, when he heard the kye. But if I had gone probing it would have raised all those old awkward questions. How did you work it out?”

  “Cowin,” she said. “He had one part of the story and I had another. I still don’t know if we know it all.”

  “If we survive this, I will tell you everything; I promise.” He flinched as another volley of arrows flew overhead. “For now, you must go to Sylas. He carries the blood of Omena Stormweaver, and that is almost as rare as a healer talent. You must see him safe, Ayriene. I want you to go to him. If Deygan learns who he is, he will try to turn the boy into a weapon against us.”

  “And you?”

  He gave a sad smile. “I led us into this. I will stay to the end. If Deygan spares me, I will do what I can to make amends.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw two birds take to the wing—two swallows, one flying as if to protect the other from the arrows. Ayriene covered her mouth with her hands. “Garyth and Miralee. Creator, my children!”

  Donmar transformed and took to the air, Ayriene a heartbeat behind him. A hawk and a falcon, flying hard and fast towards the swallows, trying to shield them until they got high enough to be out of arrows’ reach. Another volley followed them, the shafts hissing through the air close enough to ruffle wing feathers. But four birds together made a tempting target. A thud told Ayriene that one had reached its target, and Donmar dropped, an arrow through his throat, losing his bird form and falling to the ground. Another heart-stopping, gut-wrenching sound and Miralee fell away. Both Ayriene and Garyth made to follow, but the arrows were too dense. As she watched, a soundless scream ripping through her head, she saw Miralee change. Her daughter’s still, naked form lay on the slabs of the Aerie courtyard, not far from where Donmar had fallen.

  Ayriene yearned to go to her—to hold her tight even if her healing talent would do no good. But she must think of the living. That sight—that blood-covered body—would haunt her always, but she had to get to Sylas. Every second she delayed gave an archer the chance t
o nock an arrow and take sight at the falcon hovering above.

  Garyth circled higher, too far up for the bowmen’s arrows to reach him. Go, she signalled, using the shake of the wings changers used to communicate simple messages in flight. Go. He turned and flew for Adamantara, following Deckhan’s call. These youngsters were the Aerie’s future, she thought, climbing until she herself was safe from arrow shot. Maybe he would follow her onto the council. A council in exile, likely, but the changers’ only hope if they were to survive.

  Reluctantly she turned away, breaking out of her hover to set course for Banunis. For Sylas.

  Ayriene returned to Banunis alone and sick at heart, and was placed under guard in her quarters. Deygan and his army had not yet returned from the Aerie. She was not allowed to see Sylas, nor to send him a message. She was angered by news of Sylas’s imprisonment, but she had to tread carefully. If Sylas were as important to the Aerie’s future as Yinaede had implied, and carried a bloodline as vital as Donmar made out, then Deygan must uncover no hint of it. He was perfectly capable of killing Sylas to ensure the changers never recovered.

  Her thoughts returned to Miralee’s death, and to her daughter’s impassioned plea that Ayriene not return to Banunis with Sylas. Her daughter had been convinced that Sylas would cause Ayriene’s death. But now two of her children were dead, the third dead or lost to her. If it took her own life to save Sylas, she was ready to make that sacrifice.

  She heard the commotion when the army returned two days later: hooves on stone, shouted orders, jingling of harness. But still the king did not summon her. He meant to let her suffer, it seemed. It was not until the following day that she was called to his presence.

  “I’m surprised you came back. You stand accused of destroying my son, yet you have the nerve to return. You are braver than I thought, or more stupid.”

  She wanted to lash out at him—to scream that because of him she had lost a daughter, and maybe a son as well. Sylas, she told herself. Think of Sylas. She would do him no good by antagonising the king.

  “Destroy? He is not dead. I don’t know what has happened to Prince Jaevan, Sire, but-”

  “He cannot speak. He shows little, if any reaction when spoken to, even when it is his own father that speaks.” Deygan’s voice became a choking gasp. He raised his hand to clasp his throat as if throttling the voice that betrayed his weakness.

  “I gave him nothing harmful. Blood elder has been used to suppress the change for centuries. Sylas himself uses blood elder to prevent him being called since he does not yet have control.”

  “The same as he gave my son?”

  “He uses the leaves, piercing his skin with the juices. A piercing lasts a week, maybe more, when it is first used, before the body builds an immunity to it. The potion I prescribed for your son is taken once a day.”

  “And how does this blood elder not affect your apprentice, when it paralyses my son?”

  “It does not paralyse your son, Sire. That is impossible. Whatever has happened to Prince Jaevan is entirely separate, and I will get to the bottom of it. Believe me.”

  “And the Chesammos uses the same thing, but once a week, but my son was to drink your potion every night? How is that right?”

  “Prince Jaevan uses a decoction of the root, Sire. That is milder. It holds off the onset of the change a short while, as we needed time to discuss his training with the council. Sylas needs stronger medication now that he is fully through the change. It mingles with his blood, introduced through his skin by the needles. That is the only way effective enough to prevent changing to a call once changing has run its course, but before the changer achieves control of their own transformations.”

  Deygan grunted, clearly unconvinced by anything Ayriene said.

  “So why do you not use the same method on my son that you do on your apprentice? Why do you keep your own safe and jeopardise my boy?”

  Ayriene closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm and patient. “It is Sylas who takes the riskier route, Sire. His dose is less frequent but stronger. The way he uses blood elder can cause side effects, and if used for too long they become permanent. And of course there are the marks. The introduction of the blood elder juice through the skin leaves a red pin prick of colour on the skin, somewhat like a rash.”

  The marks were shocking enough on the golden skin of the Chesammos but on Irenthi skin they would stand out all the more. Deygan had been adamant when she put the methods to him; his son’s skin would not be permanently marked as Sylas’s had been. Casian had one or two, put there by Jesely when he was at his most vulnerable. Most changers had one or two, for that matter—it was almost a badge of belonging. Jaevan would never belong. He was crown prince. He had to learn what he needed but never truly cross into the changers’ world. Never become one of them.

  A thought occurred to her.

  “Has the prince taken his potion since the attack which you believe left him mute, Sire?”

  “Of course he bloody hasn’t! What sort of a fool do you take me for, woman? Why would I give him more of something that so clearly poisoned him? Do you think I’m mad?”

  “And he showed no discomfort during your attack on the Aerie?”

  “Discomfort? No. He has barely said a word since he took that Destroyer-cursed filth of yours. He stares into space. That is all.”

  So he had not reacted to Deckhan’s callings? He should have been able to hear them at least, and she would have expected him to show some physical reaction, maybe discomfort. She had never come across anything like this before.

  “May I see him?” The sooner she saw Jaevan, the sooner all this could be resolved.

  King Deygan was not a man given to flights of fancy, and his anger and worry sent chills into Ayriene’s heart. What if the blood elder had truly harmed Jaevan? What if it was irreversible?

  “I’ll take you to him. Pray that you can cure him, healer, for it will be your head—yours and the boy’s—if you cannot.”

  Chapter 31

  Nothing had prepared Ayriene for what she found in Jaevan’s bedchamber. She had left an intelligent, spirited prince on the verge of young manhood—keenly interested in the world, observant of details, determined to right wrongs he saw around him.

  Not anymore.

  Jaevan sat in an armchair, face pale and drawn like one who had suffered a long illness. Brown shadows lurked beneath his sunken eyes like smudges of long-dried blood. When she entered he barely registered her presence—maybe a slight movement of the eyes, a momentary hint of recognition, then nothing.

  Acutely aware of Deygan’s gaze on her, Ayriene tried to conceal her shock at the sight. Overwhelming pity, followed by fear for herself and for Sylas. This was none of Sylas’s doing, she was certain. Nothing she had left with him could do this, and although he devoured books, she doubted he would have found anything to produce this effect in any of her herbals. Ayriene herself could think of nothing—no combination of things—from her years of experience that would leave a person in this state. Dead, yes, or sedated, but not this… emptiness.

  She knelt beside Jaevan, feeling his heart beat, his skin temperature. She looked into his eyes, examined his tongue, bared his chest to check for rashes or bruises. Nothing. No signs or symptoms, no hints or clues. Just a boy staring out through dazed eyes, distant and shocked as if he had seen things beyond his comprehension.

  “Prince Jaevan?” she said, hoping for a reaction, anything to show that his mind was undamaged. “Can you hear me, Highness?”

  Behind her, Deygan puffed out his chest indignantly. “Is this the best you can manage? Feeling his forehead like a nurse with an infant? He is not sulking, woman. He has been like this for three days now—not speaking, not moving.”

  “Is he eating? Drinking? Does he sleep?”

  Deygan frowned. “There’s t
he strange thing. Put food before him and he will eat, if he’s hungry. Same with water, or ale. He will go and relieve himself. He will take himself to bed and dress and undress himself. But he makes no sound and scarcely reacts if spoken to.”

  “Can you bring me a quill and ink?”

  “Your apprentice tried that.” Deygan’s voice was brusque. “It didn’t work.”

  “Indulge me, Sire. I would like to see for myself.”

  Writing materials appeared as if by thought. Deygan expected an instant response from his staff, and generally got it. Ayriene set a sheet of parchment on Jaevan’s knee, dipped the quill in the sooty ink and pressed it into his hand.

  “Can you write what happened, Highness, even if you cannot tell me?”

  He held it without protest, but no more. No effort to bring quill to paper, far less write. No motion. Not a flicker of a muscle. He might as well have been carved from stone.

  She moved a cup of water within his reach and he turned to look at it, reached out, raised it to his lips and drank, setting it back down as naturally as he ever would have. No hesitation. No feeling of unnaturalness. In that few seconds he was himself again, slipping back behind his mask as soon as the cup was back on the table.

  “He will turn the pages of a book, but with no sign that he understands. He will not communicate with so much as the twitch of a finger. Tell me you can reverse this, healer, or you must face the consequences.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt I can, Sire. This seems to me more like an affliction of the mind, not the body.”