And so, again, I admit my delight—and my shame—when I realized Raz i’Syul Arro’s purpose among us.”
—from the journals of Jofrey al’Sen
Jofrey sat for a long time in the semi-darkness of the High Priest’s rooms, his head in his hands, his elbows leaning against the marbled pine surface of the L-shaped desk he sat behind. The council, gathered before him, stood in complete silence, having just heard his grave news and witnessed the bloody wicker baskets and their contents, provided as proof.
The reddish stains, black streaks in the dim light of the candles, still blemished the stone floor between the desk and the grouped Priests and Priestesses.
“What are we going to do?”
It was Aster Re’het, the youngest of the remaining council, who gathered the courage to ask the question, and it came out in an all too terrified whisper.
Jofrey gave her the only answer he could.
“Laor only knows.”
For once, no one spoke a word in support or anger. Even Valaria Petrük and her lapdog, the deceptively bitter Behn Argo, had nothing to add to Jofrey’s response, no scathing retorts to follow up with in quick succession. The contents of the baskets had banished all feuds from the chamber, sucked all grudges and bad blood away, at least for a time.
And all it took was the imminent threat on all our lives, Jofrey thought ironically, not looking up from the desk.
“You’re certain Syrah wasn’t among them?” Cullen Brern, the Citadel’s master-at-arms, ventured to ask.
“I am,” Jofrey said with a nod, finally lifting his head to meet their gazes. “Even those I couldn’t identify lacked white hair. Whether that means she’s been captured, or simply that there wasn’t enough left of her to throw in a basket, I couldn’t say.”
“That’s awfully callous, Jofrey,” Kallet Brern said quietly from beside his brother. “Shouldn’t we do something? Shouldn’t we—?”
“Shouldn’t we what, Brern?” Priest Argo cut in bitingly, finally seeming to find his voice. “Gather a search party? Send someone looking? You’ll have about as much of a chance of success as you would suing the savages for peace! Brahnt is dead, and if she’s not, we should all pray to the Lifegiver she isn’t long for this world.”
Ordinarily Jofrey would have silenced the man, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to do so. It so happened that he agreed with the angry old Priest—almost too enthusiastically, if truth be told—and it pained him deeply.
Among the mountain clans, the Sigûrth in particular were not known for treating their prisoners and slaves with anything close to what a civil soul would call dignity…
“Still…” old Benala Forn in turn spoke up from between the Brern brothers and Aster. “Is there nothing to be done? Send word to the valley towns, perhaps?”
“Syrah saw to that some time ago, and again more recently,” Jofrey said with a sigh, reclining to rest against the back of his chair, finally looking up at the dark ceiling in thought. “Her first letters warned of the burning of Harond, and of Baoill’s eastward march into the Arocklen. The next birds were sent no more than two weeks past, when word came from Ystréd’s advanced scouts that the Kayle’s armies hadn't pushed south through the tree line as we expected, but rather seemed to have continued deeper into the Woods…”
“Making for the pass…” Priest Elber finished, standing beside the chair that had been dragged back for Jerrom Eyr, the oldest of their party.
“Exactly,” Jofrey said with a nod.
“Then there’s nothing to be done.” Petrük had, at last, recovered some of her coldness. “We have our reserves, and we can ward the gates. We’ll outlast them. If they’re committed to laying siege to the Citadel, it won’t be long before their supplies run short, and they’ll be forced to make a move. By then the towns will have gathered in force, and the whole ugly matter will be put to an end.”
“Possible,” Jofrey admitted with a shrug. “But unlikely. The tribes are accustomed to life in the ranges, where there is only ever little in the way of food. If provisions can be found in the Woods, the Kayle’s men will find them, and make them last.”
“Or they’ll just start eating each other, as is undoubtedly their custom,” Argo muttered quietly.
“As for the valley towns,” Jofrey continued, ignoring the man, “I find I have little faith in the prospect of a rapid coalition of forces. Drangstek and Stullen’s march north in the hopes of assisting Harond was one thing. The first two have close geographical and economic ties, the latter of which they shared with Harond and Metcaf, before their sackings. But Azbar’s trade is mostly self-sufficient, and Ystréd is too far removed to have more than minimal interaction with the western towns. While the Kayle persists to show no deliberate interest in the continued razing of the North’s remaining municipalities, I find it hard to believe any of the valley towns will be keen on doing anything more than hunkering down and taking advantage of the freeze to fortify their own defenses…”
There was a long silence as Jofrey’s words rang true.
“Laor have mercy,” Jerrom managed in a frail, breathy voice. “Laor have mercy on us all…”
“So then what is the plan?” Kallet asked, his voice tinged with frustration and the very beginnings of anger. “Are we meant to sit here, stuffed away in our halls and just—?”
BANG!
To a one, every member of the council jumped as the door to the chambers slammed open and a broad youth stumbled in, heaving and gasping. He’d clearly sprinted to reach them, and as Jofrey recognized the shoulder-length blond hair of his former acolyte, he instantly understood why.
“Reyn!” Cullen—the young Priest’s superior in the practice chambers—exclaimed, fuming. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing? This is a meeting of council! Remove yourself, before—!”
Reyn Hartlet cut across his master without so much as sparing him a glance. “Is it true?” he demanded, his eyes only on Jofrey, shoulders shivering from the strain of the run and whatever emotions were crashing down on him. “Is it? Is she…? Is Syrah…?”
He left the question unfinished, unable to say the words. The Citadel’s master-at-arms was about to berate him again, but Jofrey stopped him with a shake of his head.
“Leave him, Cullen,” he said sadly. “Syrah is… important to him.”
Cullen Brern fell silent, and Jofrey pushed himself to his feet.
“Reyn,” he said quietly. “To answer you… We don’t know. I don’t want to offer you false hope, but I won’t hide from you that Syrah wasn’t among the dead left at the Citadel gates.”
“So she could be alive!” Reyn exclaimed fiercely. “Syrah could be alive out there. She could need help. What’s being done? Do you need volunteers? I’ll go! I’ll take anyone willing and—!”
“You’ll go nowhere, boy,” Petrük interrupted him haughtily. “And nothing is being done because there is nothing to bloody well do. Were you a member of this council then you would have been privy to that debate, which has already occurred. However, as you are not, then there is no reason for us to—”
“I said leave him,” Jofrey snarled, slamming a fist down on the desk and nearly upturning the inkwell sitting in the top right corner.
The woman shut up at once, eyes wide at the surprising outburst of anger. Jofrey didn’t care. Jofrey didn’t give a shit. In the mood he was in, the bitch could choke on her own tongue and he didn’t feel he’d be able to convince himself to help her.
“Reyn,” he said, speaking firmly and meeting his former student’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m loath to ask you to leave, but it’s true that there are things to be discussed in which your involvement cannot be permitted at this time. I swear to you that if news of Syrah reaches us, or if we vote that something is to be done, I will personally make sure you—”
“If you vote?” Reyn howled, grief and rage spilling into the words. “IF you vote? How can you—? How could you—? It’s SYRAH, dammit! How can you even C
ONSIDER leaving her to those men?”
“Right now, as much as it pains me to admit it, we have no choice. We don’t know if she’s alive, but we do know that the enemy at the bottom of that pass numbered enough to slaughter ten of our own, all experienced and well trained in the use of their gifts. We cannot afford—”
“You cannot afford,” Reyn howled, face contorting in disgusted fury. “You cannot afford the lives, Jofrey. And I wonder why? Is it perhaps because you know it’s on your head that those lives rest? That the blood is on your hands?”
“Reyn! Enough, I say!” Cullen tried to cut in again, but the young Priest didn’t seem to hear the master-at-arms’ outcry.
“Sending a handful of our own to guard the stairs,” he spat, his livid blue eyes almost bulging as he stared at Jofrey. “Sending them into the Woods in the middle of the freeze, to watch the pass, like dogs. How did you think it was going to end, hm? How did you think that would turn out? Or did you think at all? Maybe you believed word wouldn’t get out, that people wouldn’t discover that you’d sent the men and women under your care to die. But people know. Families were told. Friends were told. And now people know, Jofrey. If Talo were here—”
“TALO. ISN’T. HERE!”
Jofrey punctuated ever word with purpose, finishing the last with a slam of his open hand on the desk, so hard he did, this time, upturn the inkwell. To a one every Priest and Priestesses in the room jumped again, taken aback by the atypical outburst. Jofrey, though, had reached the end of his line.
“Look around!” he bellowed at Reyn, waving a hand about the room. “Look around, before you choose to continue down this path, before you choose to continue playing the insolent brat! Talo Brahnt is not here! Were he here, then yes, perhaps those men and women wouldn’t have died on the pass! Yes, perhaps Syrah wouldn’t have fooled him into thinking this was an opportunity to weaken the enemy’s offense! But he’s not here, and instead of Talo you have an old man who can do only what he believes is best and who has faith in those around him, as I did in Syrah.”
He leaned against the desk with one hand, bringing his other up to rub his eyes. “Furthermore, Reyn Hartlet, you not only insult me but EMBARRASS YOURSELF with your childish screeching and casting of blame! You imply that I don’t care for the men and women of this Citadel. You imply that I didn’t—don’t!—care for Syrah! I’ll allow your grief, longing, and adolescent lust some leeway, but I draw the line at your insinuations of callousness, at your suggestion that I lack compassion. I do not lack compassion. I do not lack in any form the emotions that have taken control of your tongue, Reyn, nor do I believe I feel in any way less for Syrah’s loss than you do. I simply do not have the LUXURY OF ALLOWING IT TO SWAY MY ABILITY TO PROTECT THE PEOPLE UNDER MY CARE!”
He dropped his hand and met Reyn’s eyes again. The young man had gone stiff, though the anger had not yet left the handsome frame of his face.
“So,” Jofrey continued, “if you’re quite done with your infantile tantrum, you will leave us. You will return to your work, and allow the council to stop wasting its time on this pointless discussion. I said I would keep you informed, and I will. You have my word.”
At last, Reyn’s composure seemed to collapse in on itself. He sagged, his eyes never leaving Jofrey’s, but the wrathful fire that had shone so brightly was extinguished. Instead, he looked nothing short of desolate, a sad outline of the strong youth that had stood in his place not a minute before.
“But…” he croaked quietly. “But… Syrah. What about… about Syrah?”
There was a silence.
“Come on, lad,” Cullen Brern said gruffly, though his voice was kind. Moving beside Reyn he put a heavy, hard hand on the young Priest’s shoulder and gently coaxed him around. Then the pair left the room, Brern leading his charge before him like one might guide the blind.
“Good riddance,” Argo grumbled once the door had closed behind the pair, turning back to Jofrey. “And well said. I’d had about enough of—”
“Another word, Priest Argo, and I will demonstrate exactly how much I have had of you,” Jofrey growled, his eyes not leaving the spot where Reyn had just been standing.
Argo almost choked on his words, flushing a vivid-reddish purple in fury, but something in the glassy gaze behind Jofrey’s spectacles stopped him short of blurting out a blistering reply.
For a long time after that, they all stood quiet, watching Jofrey think. So intent was he on his own planning that the man hardly noticed a few of the council start to whisper amongst themselves, or hear the storm howling against the round wall of the room.
There were pieces in play on this board, Jofrey realized. Pieces no one was considering, and ones the Kayle could know nothing about. Though he had no faith in any alliance being hastened together at his behest—or even at the need of the Laorin as a whole—there was one individual who might have that ability, one man who might be able to galvanize the valley towns into rendering aid.
And Talo Brahnt wasn’t stuck inside the walls of the Citadel…
It was Reyn’s outburst that had brought on the realization. No, Talo was indeed too far removed to have had any chance of influencing the day’s events, but the more Jofrey considered it, the more he saw a greater hand in the High Priest’s sudden trek southward. Perhaps it was the Lifegiver’s will that had taken the man beyond the Woods, taken him beyond the pass and behind the enemy line. Talo had to be returning soon. They’d sent a half-dozen letters to Azbar, some to the city’s council, some to Kal Yu’ri, the local temple’s own High Priest, and some to Talo himself. He was bound to have received word one way or another, even if a few of the birds had gotten themselves caught in the storms.
And if he was on his way…
“We will do as Priestess Petrük recommends.” Jofrey spoke to the room, silencing all whispered conversations at once. “I know it might not be the popular opinion”—he raised a hand to stop Kallet and Forn from interrupting him—“but after some deliberation I find it to be the most prudent.”
“But the mountain men will outlast us!” Re’het said in surprise. “You said so yourself! We’ve only the reserves to last us the winter, and that’s a tenuous guarantee at best. We’d have to start rationing now, and if something should happen to the store… Lifegiver save us.”
“You’re correct,” Jofrey acknowledged the young woman’s concerns with a nod, “and I hold to that same unease, but I’m not sure it will come to that. We forget: Talo will be on his way back…”
At once the council began to murmur. Like Jofrey, it seemed the sudden reminder brought to mind other realizations, new options to consider.
“He’ll be coming from the south,” Priest Elber said thoughtfully. “He’ll chance on the vanguard—or perhaps the majority of the Kayle’s army, depending on the timeline—and come upon them from behind.”
“Do we expect him to attack them outright?” Petrük asked scornfully, wrinkling her upper lip as though she were the only one to whom such an idea was ludicrous. “Because he will be alone. It’s not as though Carro has ever been much use in a fight.”
“Of course not,” old Jerrom rasped impatiently from his chair, coughing between sentences. “Talo won’t be fool enough to give them the opportunity. He and Carro will be ahorse—there’s no other way through the Woods this time of year. If he rides hard, he could be back in Ystréd within a fortnight. From there he could rouse all the temples of the North.”
“Not to mention Ystréd itself,” Elber offered. “The town has always been friendly to us.”
“And whoever else doesn’t want to let the Kayle dig himself in too deep in the east,” Re’het added, smacking her fist into her open palm in realization. “It might not be the conjoined forces of the valley towns—”
“But it’ll sure as hell be a pack to contend with,” Kallet finished her thought, smirking the foolhardy smile of a suddenly-confident man. “Five, maybe ten thousand? It won’t be enough to challenge the Kayle himself, but it
might be enough for Talo to draw attention away from the Citadel, at least for a time.”
“Time we will use to our advantage, whenever that may be.” Jofrey leaned over the desk, extending both arms and placing the tips of all ten fingers on the wood. “We won’t need to weather the winter. Even in the freeze, with travel slowed by the snow, it won’t be more than three months, four at most.”
“If Brahnt is returning, and if he bothers with seeking help at all,” Priest Argo grumbled nastily, casting a doubtful glance across the council. “Who is to say he won’t save his own skin?”
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 84