“Argenthyne!” Spane said in incredulity. “Why that’s a child’s tale ...” He trailed off when Graelalea leveled her gaze at him. Maybe, as he looked into her eyes, eyes that had witnessed the passage of centuries, he recognized whom and what he addressed. He blinked rapidly and looked away.
“Argenthyne is no legend,” Graelalea said. This time no one countered her words. “My brother,” she continued, turning her steady gaze on Zachary, “expresses his hope you will not impede our passage through the breach in the wall to reach the forest.”
Laren suspected the Eletians would not be deterred one way or the other, and that Jametari was simply conferring a courtesy by giving Zachary notice of their intentions.
Zachary stroked his mustache. “Is there anything else your brother wishes to express?”
Graelalea did not appear put off by his lack of affirmation. “Yes,” she said. “If you wish to make this a joint expedition, that you choose worthy individuals, and meet the tiendan at the breach no later than the equinox. On our part, our number shall be small—six of us—so that we may travel lightly and swiftly.”
“It’s insane,” Spane said. “Sire, surely you won’t even consider anything of the sort.”
Zachary ignored him, his countenance unchanged. Laren, however, knew his thoughts. When Prince Jametari first told them of his desire to send an expedition into Blackveil, Zachary later confided to her that the Eletians would not go without Sacoridians along. Whoever went was not likely to return, yet she understood why he must send his own people. He needed to know what lay on the other side of the wall, too, to learn what they faced should they be unable to repair the breach.
She also knew he wanted to keep an eye on the Eletians.
And now Zachary would not have to force the issue. The Sacoridians had been invited.
“I thank you for bearing Prince Jametari’s message to us,” Zachary said. “I will consider his words.”
Graelalea nodded as though she expected no more.
“Have you accommodation for the night?” Zachary inquired. “We would be honored to house you.”
Lhean made what looked like a warding gesture, sharp enough to catch everyone’s attention.
“You have something to say, Lhean?” Graelalea asked.
“Is this place not a ... What is the word these people use? For a house of the dead?”
“Mausoleum,” Telagioth supplied.
“Yes,” Lhean said. “Mausoleum. They sleep upon their dead. I feel it, and I should not like to pass a night here.”
Colin looked mortified and Spane seemed about to burst out in indignation. Estora laid a gentle hand on his wrist to quiet him. No reaction came from the elderly Sperren, who dozed in his chair. Zachary looked—amused?
“Lhean,” Graelalea said. “We are guests, and we do not speak so in the house of our host.”
Lhean did not look shamed by the rebuke. He raised his chin, proud and haughty.
“You must forgive my cousin,” Graelalea said. “He is young and this is his first time venturing among your kind.”
“Young” was a deceptive concept in Eletian terms. Lhean could be hundreds of years old. And yet there was a quality about him that suggested his youth—a guilessness in his eyes. They lacked the deep knowledge and timelessness Laren had observed in other Eletians, as she saw in both Graelalea’s and Telagioth’s eyes.
“He only speaks truth,” Zachary said.
“Your Highness—” Colin began.
“Yes, Colin, we do not speak carelessly of the tombs, but there is no reason to deny what our guests already know exists.” Zachary smiled. “Though I never quite thought of the castle as a mausoleum. Now that he mentions it, however ...”
“We thank you, Firebrand,” Graelalea said, “for your offer of accommodations, but we shall begin our journey home.”
“Truly?” Zachary asked, sounding genuinely disappointed. “May we offer anything else? Provisions?”
A solemn expression fell across Graelalea’s face. “There is. My brother has a request. He wishes I return with something he found very precious here. A treasure, if you will.”
A hush of expectancy descended on the chamber as all waited to hear the request. What treasure could he want? Laren inventoried in her mind all the precious trappings of the castle she could think of—jewels, weapons, art—and she saw that the others must be doing the same. What did the Sacoridians possess that would be good enough for the Eletian prince?
“My brother,” Graelalea said, “requires many pounds of dark chocolate fudge and Dragon Droppings. We must visit the Master of Chocolate. Would his shop be open at this hour?”
Laren saw to it the Eletians got their chocolate. She sent Fergal, who was eager for even the most mundane of errands, ahead to alert Master Gruntler to open his shop for special customers. Then she assigned Mara to accompany them to Master Gruntler’s, thence to the city gates.
By the time everything was arranged and Laren reported back to Zachary, the others had already dispersed. She found him in his private parlor pouring himself brandy. Two of his Hillander terriers sprawled before the fire and barely blinked at her entrance. Zachary poured her a glass, too, which she accepted gratefully. She sank into an overstuffed chair by the hearth, thinking it had turned out to be a very long day.
Zachary dropped into a chair opposite her. “Now tell me the truth. You are uninjured from your battle with the groundmites?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She’d have a massive bruise on her thigh from being clubbed, and she ached, but that was nothing compared to what could have been had the Eletians not rescued her. And, she thought, the cordial Graelalea had given her seemed to have warded off at least some of the pain.
Zachary nodded in satisfaction. “So after you left, I listened to Colin and Sperren explain why I should not trust the Eletians or join in on a foolhardy expedition to Blackveil, and that I should forbid the Eletians passage across our lands to reach the wall. They fear such a venture would only mean certain death for those on the expedition, and that it might stir up things in the forest that might better be left sleeping.”
“What did Lady Estora say?”
“Lord Spane concurred with Colin and Sperren, but the lady spoke up on her own behalf and said she’d support whatever decision I made. Her pronouncement seemed to irritate Spane.” His eyes danced as he sipped his brandy. “Tell me, what do you think?”
“I agree with the others. An expedition into Blackveil will most likely fail. But I sense the profound truth in the Eletians’ desire to investigate the forest.”
“There can be deception in truth.”
Laren smiled. “Spoken like a true king.”
“I fear it is so,” he replied. “All this politicking makes me cynical. I have found all too often there is truth, and then there is truth.”
“Like the castle being a mausoleum?” Laren spoke lightly, but Zachary’s response was sober.
“To Eletians it is truth, for even the living who inhabit the castle are mortal, and therefore more or less dead. Our act of living is also the process of dying.”
Laren set her brandy aside with a clatter. “Then we should all just go to bed and leave the wall untended, and let come what may.”
Now Zachary grinned. “I said that’s how they regard us. I for one believe I have a few good years left in me, and I don’t think I should like to live an eternal life as the Eletians do. Some might desire it, but not me.”
“Never to grow old in appearance? Never to suffer the weakening of the body as it ages?” Laren shrugged. “I guess the Eletians don’t know what they are missing.”
“Perhaps not,” Zachary said, and they laughed. When they subsided, he continued, “You say there is profound truth in their desire to see what lies beyond the D’Yer Wall. I wonder what the deeper truth is. What it is they specifically seek.”
“Specifically?”
“Yes. Argenthyne was important to their people. Jametari called it th
e jewel of Avrath on Earth, remember?”
“Now that you mention it, I remember something about it. What is Avrath?”
“From what I can fathom, it is a high spiritual place for the Eletians, as the heavens are to us. Something is calling the Eletians back, drawing them out of isolation no matter the cost.”
“If so,” Laren said, “why would Jametari bother to invite us along?”
Zachary shrugged. “To serve as bait? Witnesses? Or maybe it is his way of indicating his interest in the old alliance, and we’re being tested to see if we are worthy. Whatever the case, it is an invitation I cannot ignore.”
BLACKVEIL
The shallow cave Grandmother and her people sheltered in was a dismal, dark place, but it was better than being caught in the forest and getting sucked into some mire. Torrents of rain had poured through the forest canopy for three days now, best as she could figure.
They’d found the cave in a hillside that rose up beside Way of the Moon. It was mainly natural in origin, but refined by hand with stone tools they found scattered about. Someone had widened the entrance and leveled the floor, and there were signs the walls had been chipped at. Grandmother did not see it as the work of Eletians, for it was far too crude, and they did not seem to her to be cave-dwelling creatures.
They’d had to scare out a colony of roosting bats, oversized things displeased at being roused from their winter’s torpor. Their eviction had been accompanied by much screaming and covering of heads by Min and Sarat, which only stirred the bats up more. Even Grandmother found herself shuddering and ducking at the leathery flap of wings so close to her head.
Afterward, Lala found herself a dead bat on the cave floor to examine. She poked it with a stick and turned it over. Grandmother took a closer look herself, amazed at its sharp claws and fangs. The bats she was accustomed to back home were diminutive, maybe the size of her forefinger at the most, and harmless. These were the length of her forearm. Grandmother and her people were lucky they hadn’t been bitten or scratched.
When Griz saw what Lala was about, he grabbed her stick without apology and used it to pitch the dead bat outside. Then he and Cole set about rigging one of their tents over the cave entry as much to keep the rain out as to prevent the bats from returning, while Deglin worked to light a fire. Meanwhile, Min and Sarat cleared the floor of guano. Deglin declared some of it would work as fuel.
A crack in the ceiling drafted smoke out from their campfire, and it was the warmest and driest Grandmother had felt since they passed into the forest. From time to time, she caught sight of large, multi-legged insects scuttling at the edge of the firelight, but as long as she stayed near the fire, they kept clear of her. Every so often Min would scream, and Cole would come to her and crunch the offending insect beneath his boot.
After laying out their gear to dry, Min and Sarat brewed tea and started to make the usual thin stew. The rain provided them with plenty of water, though it left a distinct, dank aftertaste on the tongue.
Lala occupied herself by searching out insects to stomp on, and Grandmother gazed into the fire, wondering when the rain would let up so they could continue their journey. She wondered if the Watchers sat out there in the rain waiting for them to emerge from the cave. She’d felt their gaze ever since they started along Way of the Moon. She and her people were being stalked.
She did not mention the Watchers to the others, not wishing to alarm them until there was a specific threat. The regard of the Watchers went beyond the general awareness the forest had of their passage; the Watchers were intentional in their regard. Intelligent.
Perhaps the Watchers were trying to figure out how strong Grandmother and her people were; how much of a defense they’d put up if attacked. Maybe they were just curious.
What Grandmother did know was that she wasn’t going to take any chances, and so she doubled her wardings at each of their campsites, including the entrance to this cave.
As she stared into the fire, she also wondered what was happening on the other side of the wall. How was Colonel Birch faring? How went the muster and training of Second Empire’s forces? She had a way of seeing what he was up to, but the forest made the use of the art unreliable. Well, she had to try sometime, and their circumstances might not be as good later on.
Long ago she’d collected fingernail clippings from the colonel just for the purpose of seeing through his eyes. She pried one out of a tiny pouch she kept in her yarn basket. It was a fine crescent specimen, perhaps from the thumb. Birch kept his fingernails remarkably immaculate, but she supposed that was the difference between an officer expected to serve in court and a common soldier.
She knotted a length of sky blue yarn around the fingernail—knots of seeing. Sky blue was good, she found, for seeing over a distance, like looking through the clear sky itself.
“Show me,” she commanded as she tied the last knot. She flung it into the fire. The fire flared. The yarn writhed as the flames consumed it.
At first she thought the spell would resist her, but then a window opened in the fire and she held her breath. Snow. Snow framed by the flames of their campfire. Squalls battered rows of tents and were so dense she could not see far.
Three figures struggled into view and halted before her/ Birch. One of them had his hands bound behind his back and his face was bruised and bloody. He wore green. One of the king’s accursed Green Riders.
“What do you want done with the spy?” one of the men holding him asked.
“He is a messenger,” Birch said, his voice disembodied. Of course it would be, since Grandmother watched through his eyes. “Therefore we shall send the king a message.”
“I understand.” A knife flashed out and the man sank it into the Rider’s back.
The Rider’s eyes went wide. Snowflakes caught in his hair as it was tousled by the wind. Beneath the blood caked on his face, Grandmother saw he was young.
But never innocent. No, she knew better. From the beginning the Green Riders opposed the empire, acting as scouts, messengers, and warriors for their king. And yes, as spies, using their miniscule but insidious abilities with the art to commit evil upon the forces of the empire, and now Second Empire.
She felt no surge of compassion, not even when Birch’s man twisted the knife in the Rider’s back. The young man’s mouth opened in a silent cry as he fell to his knees, sinking into the snow. Some mother just lost a son. So had the mothers of the empire lost sons, many sons, to the heathen Sacoridians.
No, she felt no compassion when he collapsed into the snow, crimson flowing from his mouth. An enemy of Second Empire was dead and she could only rejoice.
“Prepare the message,” Birch said. “Those Greenie horses are clever—this one’ll go right to the king.”
There was laughter, then all Grandmother could see was snow, snowflakes swirling this way and that. The vision extinguished and she was left in darkness. Dark except for the one candle Cole lit on the other side of the cave. He brought it over to Grandmother and they all stared at the dead campfire. The cave smelled of damp soot.
Sarat reached for the ladle in the stewpot, but could not pull it out. “What have you done, Grandmother?” she chided. “The stew is frozen solid.”
“Oh, dear,” Grandmother replied. Once again the instability of the forest’s etherea had twisted her spell. “I’m sorry, child. We’ll have to start the fire again and thaw it out.”
As Cole used his candle to light fresh kindling, Grandmother reflected that next time she’d wait until after supper to work a spell. But what she’d just witnessed was more satisfying than any meal.
BIRCH’S MESSAGE
Karigan sighed in relief as Condor plodded up the last rise of the Winding Way and the castle gates at last came into view. The fickle weather, changing from snow to sleet to rain, only to freeze again, had challenged them almost every day of their return journey.
Ironically, on this, their last day of travel, the weather turned bright and warm, slush melting int
o puddles on the cobbled streets, and many of Sacor City’s denizens were out and about to absorb the sunshine so long denied them.
At the gates proper, she found the way blocked by a donkey cart. Chickens in cages piled on the cart cackled and squawked, and a milk cow, tied to the back end, serenely chewed her cud. The cart’s master sat astride an old mare and was deep into an argument with the guards.
Karigan could not hear exactly what the argument was about, except that the guards did not wish to grant the man passage. Here she was, so close to her destination, only to be delayed yet again. At least she carried no urgent message, and so she resigned herself to waiting. The sunshine pouring down on her shoulders was not unpleasant, and her eyelids drooped.
Snatches of conversation at the gates came to her: “I will not leave my girls behind!” and “You just go tell the captain I’m here.”
The flicker of a cooling shadow glided over Karigan. Idly she gazed up and saw a vulture circling slow and low. Another fluttering of black wings caught her eye as ravens alighted on the arch that spanned the gates. She wondered what attracted them. She glanced skyward again, and a second vulture looped on drafts high above the first.
That can’t be good.
The man ahead was still bickering with the guards, but Condor, who’d been drowsing, raised his head with nose pointed to the air.
“What is it?” Karigan asked him.
From behind came shouts and a scream. Karigan swiveled in her saddle to see what was the matter. Pedestrians pointed at a horse and rider cantering up the street. The horse’s strides were exhausted, and the rider’s position stiff and lopsided, jerking against the motion of the gait instead of flowing with it. Ravens swooped at and fluttered around him.
Karigan squinted against the glare of sunshine on the wet street. The horse was bound for the gates, and as it neared, her horror grew by the second.
She recognized the star on the horse’s nose—it was Petrel, belonging to Osric M’Grew, a fellow Green Rider. Indeed, the figure mounted on Petrel wore Rider green, though it was hard to tell, for the uniform was so saturated with dried blood. The sun flashed on his winged horse brooch.
Blackveil: Book Four of Green Rider Page 10