A single tear coursed down Dwynwyn’s cheek.
Xian tightened his grip. “Now I’m done playing faery games! You’ll give me the answers I want or I will tear your wings off with my bare hands! Before I am finished with you, you will beg for your own death! So, who are you? Who is your friend? Why were you traveling here under guard?”
Dwynwyn trembled under his coarse touch. She looked at Aislynn, and kept her silence.
“You like ‘new truths,’ don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something you may not have known,” Xian said, his free hand reaching up and seizing the top of her wing. “If you grasp a faery by the upper wing vein just about two feet above the back sockets, you can snap it with a single hand. It makes a particularly chilling sound, too, like a bundle of straw breaking. It isn’t a particularly fatal break, but it is—and I was told this by those who know—an excruciatingly painful one that may not heal completely.”
Dwynwyn cried out as Xian bent the brittle vein.
“One of us is about to learn something,” Xian sneered.
A voice spoke suddenly behind him.
“Aislynn,” she said, standing now. “I am Aislynn, daughter of Tatyana, Queen of Qestardis.”
Xian turned in surprise. “Princess Aislynn? Lord Phaeon’s Aislynn?”
“That is only Lord Phaeon’s assertion,” Aislynn replied quietly.
Xian chuckled. “Lord Phaeon’s troops are marching on Qestardis as we speak. He is expecting a wedding when he gets there, though he’ll find that difficult since I am holding his bride prisoner!”
“Please,” Aislynn said, bowing her head submissively. “You have your answer, now let Dwynwyn free.”
Xian considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Not just yet. We have so many more things to talk about now. So many more possibilities! Still, I feel the need for more conversational surroundings. Guard!”
The metal latch rasped against the door.
“It’s time to say good-bye,” Xian whispered into Dwynwyn’s ear. Then, with a growl in his throat, he pulled her away from the door and opened it.
“No, please,” Dwynwyn begged. “I’ve got to stay with her! Please!”
His hand was still on Dwynwyn’s throat as he dragged her from the room. In her frantic flailing, Dwynwyn’s foot kicked at the broken game board, sending the pieces skittering across the floor.
“It’s time to leave!” Galen shouted. “Which way do we go?”
Rhea was still intently holding the hilt of her sword forward. They stood in a circle of calm surrounded by the storms of war. The battle continued to rage all around them, but at a distance. An occasional combatant drew too near their magic and was whisked into nothingness. “We’re hundreds of miles from anywhere, Galen! Anywhere is better than here!”
“South!” Cephas yelled. “We go south!”
“South?” Maddoc bellowed. “There’s nothing to the south!”
Cephas spat on the ground. “Forsaken Mountains er is! Desolation er is! Forest and food; caves and hiding er is!”
Galen nodded. “South it is! We charge the Aboth line.”
Maddoc yelled back. “What happens to this spell if we move?”
“It will fail—but the Aboths won’t know that!” Galen called back. “Stay together, cut through the line, and keep running! Don’t stop until we get to cover! Everyone understand?”
The grim-faced warriors of the Circle nodded.
“Now!” Galen shouted, twisting the sword in his hand as he turned.
A chill went through him.
To the south was the hill he had seen in the dream, the hill where he had seen Rhea dead. At its crest, beyond the line of Aboths, stood the lone, robed figure of Tragget.
The Warriors of the Circle were already starting their charge. It was too late to change their plan.
Galen raised his sword and charged with them.
Edana screamed into Vasska’s ear, desperately trying to get the dragon to hear her words. “Stop! Defend! Omen ill Dragonking war blood! Perch and guard!”
Vasska answered her back with anger and suspicion. “Edana vision clouding! Mad-kings live below! Unforeseen the vision-smoke their coming is! Mad-kings must die!”
They careened through the sky. Vasska twisted in quick, jerky motions as he tried to position himself against Satinka. The two dragons were nearly at an even altitude, with Panas well below them both, desperately scooping at the air with his great wings and trying to join the fight.
Edana held with a death-grip to the straps of the pouch. She slammed over on her right side as Vasska spun suddenly before pulling up in a tight turn toward Satinka, his talons extended. They thundered past one another, barely missing a collision. For a moment, Edana caught a glimpse of Satinka’s pouch. It was empty. Edana wondered for a moment if Pir Oskaj had managed to get out before Satinka vaulted into the sky, but she doubted it. Everything had happened so quickly; Oskaj could not have had time. It meant that Satinka was in a blind rage and without a Dragon-Talker to calm her down.
Vasska flipped over twice, spinning Edana wildly in the pouch, then reversed himself, wheeling hard to the left. As they turned, Edana caught sight of the battlefield below.
Amid the chaos, she caught sight of them—a small band moving up the hillside toward the south.
Suddenly she crashed forward. Satinka and Vasska were tumbling through the air, locked in a clawing mass. Their wings beat frantically at the air, and their clawed feet tore at each other’s scales. Vasska breathed a plume of flame as he spun out of the sky toward the ground below. Edana felt the bloom of the heat on her face.
Vasska pitched suddenly upward, throwing her back into the bottom of the pouch, snapping one of the straps. Edana had a quick look at the Enlund Plain rushing up at her before everything blurred, replaced by the morning clouds. She frantically grabbed another strap and wrapped it around her free wrist, then pulled herself up once more to the forward ridge of the pouch.
Panas had fallen on Satinka from behind. Now they were careening through the sky against each other, affording Vasska a moment to pull away and maneuver to a better position.
Edana knew it was her only chance.
“Vasska true! The mad-kings must die! Vasska sight below southward running! The mad-kings! The mad-kings must die!”
Vasska paused a moment, then turned and dove down toward the small band of warriors charging up the southern hill.
Aislynn watched the door for what seemed to be a very long time. She did not know the fate of her old friend but guessed that her death was most probable. But she did not know it as a fact and so sat for long minutes waiting for her friend Dwynwyn to return to her, and waiting, she also knew, in vain.
She was alone.
“I’ll take care of you,” Deython had said. Yet he would never take care of her again. An eternity of moments and heartbeats would never change that terrible truth.
Now Dwynwyn was gone. Dwynwyn who would have given her life to protect her as well, who now most likely had given her life, and what had it accomplished? Aislynn would be bartered to Lord Phaeon by this horrible Xian creature, and she would still be forced into a marriage of political expedience. Deython was dead, Dwynwyn would be dead, and she might as well be dead, too.
Aislynn settled onto the window seat, pressing her head against the bars that kept her from the free sky beyond. She gazed sadly down the side of the ancient tower to the crashing surf below. The sea was full of the dead, she thought. Why could it not swallow her as well?
She moved to rest her chin on her open palm, and her fingers brushed the necklace of jet black pearls. She ran her fingers along their smooth, cool surface, then unclasped the chain and held them in her hand.
A gift from Dwynwyn, she remembered, holding the strand of pearls in her hand. They were supposed to protect me, she thought as she grasped them tightly.
The strand broke in her hand. The pearls spilled into her palm.
A tear coursed down Aislynn’s che
ek. Everyone she had ever cared for had sought to protect her. Each of them, in their turn, had failed.
She looked back through the barred window. She missed her mother. She missed Dwynwyn. She missed and ached for Deython.
They had taken everything from her but these. At least these few things she could choose for herself. Perhaps, wherever Deython now was, he could put them to better use than she did.
Her head pressed once more against the chill bars, Aislynn held a pearl out the window and released it. She watched it fall down the length of the tower and vanish into the surf so far below. She shed a tear for each one . . . until there were none left.
47
The Warriors
The Aboths lifted up their dragonstaffs each with its Eye of Vasska facing toward the small cadre of warriors rushing up the hill toward them. Galen smiled; he had already called the mystical globe that negated the power of the Eye from the recesses of his memory. He screamed as he ran, his sword swinging before him in the rising sun, his brothers and sisters of the Circle charging with him, their own voices rising in an unholy chorus next to his.
The line of Aboths disintegrated in the face of their charge. Knowing their dragonstaffs were useless against Galen’s magic, the Aboths, who were used to herding the Elect like cattle, were left powerless and vulnerable. They sensed that flight was better than death, and scattered before the charging group like surprised birds taking flight.
The slope increased slightly, but in their enthusiasm the warriors’ speed was undiminished. Onward they rushed, their cries still in their throats, for over the hill lay hope. Over the hill was freedom. Over the hill was their destiny.
Galen came over the rise first, knowing who awaited them there. “Tragget! Tragget, where are you?”
A searing bolt of flame slammed into him, burning through his doublet at the shoulder. He gasped in pain. The stench of his burning flesh filled his nostrils. The power of the blow stopped his momentum, and he staggered backward.
“Stop! Stand where you are!” Tragget yelled. His hands were raised, his fingers cupped slightly over the palms that faced toward Galen. There was a red glow gathering in them, spinning flame curling back in on itself. The Inquisitor was forty feet away, just down from the ridgeline, waiting for them.
Galen held his hand up behind him as a sign for his companions to stop. Maddoc and Rhea halted their momentum and managed to hold Cephas back from continuing headlong forward. The rest of the Circle slowed to a stop as well, their blades raised as they watched warily.
“I haven’t seen that one before.” Galen winced as he held his damaged shoulder. “Learn something new?”
“I’ll teach you worse if you come any closer!”
Galen spread his hands wide and low, his palms down. “It doesn’t have to end this way, Tragget.”
“Yes it does!” the Inquisitor answered back, his voice high and strained. “It cannot end any other way for us, Galen! This is where it must end. This is where it is supposed to end!”
“No!” Galen insisted, stepping carefully forward, his hands still facing down. “There is a tomorrow, Tragget. You can come with us! We can find a way to master this mystic power. We can do it together; you and I.”
Galen took another step toward the Inquisitor.
Tragget blinked, licking his lips. “But the prophecy . . .”
“I don’t know about any prophecy,” Galen replied evenly, his gaze fixed on Tragget’s eyes. “All I know is that this is the life fate has dealt us. Maybe it’s a curse, or maybe it’s a gift—I don’t know. But I know that it is as much a part of us as the sky, the sun, and the earth. We can no more deny it than we can deny breathing. I don’t know why or what ends these things portend. Perhaps mortal eyes aren’t meant to see so far. But we’ll find our way, Tragget, I promise you! We’ll forge our own fate!”
Tragget lowered his arms slightly. His breathing was fast and shallow.
Galen took another step. Slowly he extended his right hand. “We are brothers, you and I. We are all of us brothers.”
Tragget looked down at the offered hand.
A shadow passed over them, blocking out the sun.
“Galen!” Rhea screamed.
Galen looked up. Vasska had returned, his wings blotting out the sky. The wind beneath them kicked plumes of dust up into Galen’s eyes; its force threatened to blow him off of his feet. Involuntarily, he started backing away from the maelstrom of dirt, dried grasses, and wind. The Dragonking hovered in the air—an incredible feat of strength—as he rotated around to face Galen and his companions. Then, with a booming thud that shook the earth under their feet, Vasska landed on the hilltop, his forelegs straddling an astonished Tragget.
Vasska trumpeted his outrage. His yellow eyes narrowed in their deep sockets.
The Circle quickly rushed to Galen’s side. He felt them come near, even as he kept his eyes on the cold stare of the dragon. He knew they looked to him for direction, for it was his magic that had saved them from the battle. They would expect his magic to save them now.
“Galen?” There was both awe and fear in Rhea’s voice. “Maddoc? What do we do?”
Galen looked within himself, and found nothing. He ill understood the strange ways of his power, felt all too keenly the blundering blindness of his attempts. It was powerful—more powerful than he had ever imagined—but it was raw and uncontrolled. It all depended upon a connection that was tenuous and ephemeral.
The connection was not within him.
The winged woman was gone from his mind.
The magic was not there.
Galen saw a figure rise up just behind the dragon’s head. It was High Priestess Edana, and she was speaking to the dragon, though Galen could not hear her words, nor, he suspected, would they have made any sense to him anyway.
Her meaning, however, was clear enough.
Vasska reared back, his chest expanding with a terrific inhalation of air. His wings extended, his talons flexing as he prepared a great, flaming breath.
A shadow passed over him. Distracted, the dragon looked up, but too late.
Satinka dove down on her enemy from behind, her powerful rear talons catching Vasska’s outstretched right wing. A wet ripping sound filled the air as her claws raked through the membrane of the wing until they caught on the upper leading tendons. The speed of Satinka’s flight matched her bitterness; Vasska lurched upward from the force of the blow, which lifted him completely over the astonished Tragget. He flailed against Satinka, tearing himself loose from her grip and tumbling forward. The dragon’s jaw slammed against the ground, the grasses erupting before the great inferno of breath gushing from his mouth.
The attack had cost Satinka her speed in the air. All four of her legs caught the ground rushing up to her, sending a second shudder through the rock of the hilltop. She turned at once, her cold eyes fixed on Vasska. Galen could see that one of her wings hung lower than the other and moved awkwardly; it must have been damaged in the attack. Her head was low and her spiked tail was raised. Her voice shook in her wrath.
Galen looked quickly back to Vasska. The Dragonking dragged his forelegs out from under him and crouched, preparing to spring. His right wing was bleeding black ichor from the gaping hole Satinka had torn through it.
The dragons were earthbound. They would continue their battle and finish their differences here, on this hilltop.
And Galen and his companions stood squarely between them.
Galen grimaced. “Where’s an army when you need one!”
“Well, you just made one disappear!” Rhea responded grimly.
“Yes, and now I wish I knew where it went!”
Dwynwyn stood between her Kyree guards, their rough hands holding her arms so tight that her fingertips were going numb. She gazed sadly at the floor of the rotunda. She had never grasped the tenuous new truth that she had sought. She was the cause of Aislynn’s being discovered by these monsters. She had made sure that her queen would be forced to abdic
ate her throne and upset the delicate balance that existed between the Seven Kingdoms. She had failed them all.
“This is your lucky day,” Xian said simply.
Dwynwyn could not bring herself to look up.
Xian bent his head a little lower, trying to look into her eyes. “After some more thoughtful consideration, I am setting you free.”
Dwynwyn looked up in disgust at his vile humor.
“Oh, no, I assure you, I am quite sincere.” Xian looked away as he spoke. “The truth is that I need your services as a messenger. I need you to tell Lord Phaeon that I am holding his bride safely for him, and that I would be delighted to ensure her safe passage to . . . What do you call that city of yours again?”
“Qestardis,” Dwynwyn said quietly.
“Yes, this Qestardis,” Xian continued, “as soon as Lord Phaeon properly demonstrates to us his generous gratitude for this favor.”
Dwynwyn glared at Xian. “And just how would you like Lord Phaeon to express his . . . ‘generous gratitude’?”
The Kyree master looked down at the table before him. A large tapestry map of Sine’shai lay across its surface. “In addition to ceding all the lands east of these Cendral Hills, I think it would be most appropriate for him to grant us the lands of the Suthwood.”
“He will not do it,” Dwynwyn stated flatly.
“I think he will do it,” Xian said, looking up. “His alternative is to lose his only chance at fathering an heir to the Qestardan throne, fragmenting his hold on Qestardis and having to fight me for the land anyway.”
“How can you be sure—”
“—That you’ll deliver my message?” Xian finished for her. “Because you are a faery you will tell the truth, and because it is a message you want to deliver. Your famed faery silence will only purchase your mistress’s death. You’ll deliver the message because it is in your best interests to . . . What is that noise?”
A distant cry had drifted into the rotunda from beyond the great doors. Now another cry sounded, followed at once by more noises and the clatter of armor and weapons.
Mystic Warrior Page 39