Brohan’s mouth opened and closed once or twice, but still he did not speak. His frown deepened. This was the first time Calvraign had ever seen the bard literally speechless. He stared into his mentor’s eyes and with a sudden realization he understood. It’s the semantics.
“Brohan, forget about Eternal Winter and the end of the world. You’re so concerned that people might be misinterpreting the myth, you’re neglecting the facts at hand. Tiriel needs help, Providayne needs unity, and if fear of arachaemyyhl and the return of the andu’ai will help supply both, then that makes your task of convincing Guillaume to lend aid to Tiriel that much easier. Leave the academics for later.”
“My task?” said Brohan, equal parts bemused and surprised. “How has this become my task, Calvraign?”
“Well….” Calvraign wondered at that answer himself. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pointed stares of the bard and the knight, and spoke past his embarrassment as best he could. “Someone must lend credence to Sir Artygalle’s words and whatever request he brings from his lord in Tiriel. And I certainly have no influence in the matter.”
“Your apprentice speaks convincingly, Master Madrharigal. You have taught him well,” remarked Artygalle. “And he is correct. Although I carry with me messages to Guillaume and the archbishop from Elvaeir, I will need a second to make my case effectively, even if I win the tourney and the King’s Lance. I would be indebted to you for any help you might offer.”
Brohan did not look away from Calvraign even as he answered the knight. “I wasn’t aware I had taught him all that. But he is right. You are both right, of course. Sometimes I am too busy singing of a rock to see the mountain before me. Thus I am no general or leader of men. I will do what I can to sway the king.”
Brohan examined Calvraign, his smirk returning, and spoke to him quietly. “There is wisdom in you, Calvraign – wisdom and strength. Perhaps there is more of your father in you than you realize.” He patted the boy’s head with affection. “Rest yourself now, for tomorrow we will be nearly at the walls of Dwynleigsh, and I have much more to teach you before we arrive. I think the king will be well pleased with you.”
Sir Artygalle was a pleasant traveling companion for Calvraign. He was unassuming in nature, quiet and reserved, but quick to laugh and always ready with a kind word. He spoke readily of the battles he had seen, but not fondly, and never with praise for his own deeds. Unlike the sagas that Brohan had related over the years, Artygalle’s stories lacked the glorified drama of war, focusing instead on the great losses faced by nobles and peasants alike. He was not at all like the dashing knights of Calvraign’s imagination, whose swords were quick as their tongues, and whose brave deeds and handsome faces won the hearts of swooning maidens. But he was intriguing in his own right, a man of real depth and, aside from Brohan, the only person of wider experience with whom Calvraign had conversed.
They stopped to rest at the crest of Vaelyhn’s Drop, where the Vlue Moignan met the Ciel Vlue, both plummeting a hundred feet to a crag-strewn foaming roar where the ancient lovelorn lady had met her self-inflicted doom. During the more agreeable moons, this was a favored picnic ground for lovers old and young alike. Despite its sad history, it commanded a wonderful view of the capital and the Ciel Maer, with fields of golden grains and wildflowers laying a carpet all the way to the city’s grand North Gate. On a clear day, it was even possible to spot far away King’s Keep on its solitary isle. This, unfortunately, was not a clear day at all. The view this vantage point afforded them was of cloud, mist and fog, and so Calvraign was robbed of his first glimpse of Dwynleigsh.
“A shame,” remarked Brohan from behind Calvraign, “but you will see it soon enough. We are only a few hours’ ride from here. Even on foot we should reach the city by nightfall.”
A faint smile crossed Artygalle’s lips as he looked into the haze before them. “There were times I doubted this day would come,” he said, almost to himself. “Now that it’s here, all the weariness of my journey comes upon me at once. Still, I offer thanks. Thanks to you, Illuné, for guiding me to new friends, for leading me when I had lost my way, and for bolstering me when I had no more strength. In Your wisdom I trust, and in Your way I follow.” He made the circular sign of the moon over his breast. “Amen.”
Calvraign and Brohan nodded their heads in affirmation of Artygalle’s brief prayer. Calvraign had not adopted any particular patron, though he did have a penchant to blame Oghran for any ill fortune that fell in his path. Most of the Cythe worshipped Father Oa, for they were a people of the wilderness and respected the whims of Old Man Nature. Some of his people still paid tribute to the Old Ones: Ghaest, God of the Dead; Pheydryr, Death Herself; and the Three Sisters, Kahtriae, Muirea, and Sehmbet, Goddesses of the Forbidden, the Arcane, and the Arts, respectively. But Calvraign had no special place in his heart for any of them. It seemed Oa did as he wished regardless of the prayers of man, and that was doubly so for Ghaest and Pheydryr. He had no knowledge of the Forbidden Arts or of Arcana, and so of the Three Sisters, the only one he considered relevant was Sehmbet, to whom he heard Brohan offer an occasional word. But still, though he recognized their place in the universe, he felt no call in his heart to truly worship any of these gods.
Instead, it was two of the Dacadian gods who captured his interest: Illuné, to whom combat meant little without honor, and Irdik, whose sharp eyes saw strategies out of necessity rather than love of war. Though these were not the gods of his people, something in the songs and myths of old spoke to his heart. Around them, it seemed, the old struggle of good against evil always rallied. It was the Three Swords that had triumphed in the legend of the First Battle and freed the humans from the yoke of Anduoun. It was their names that struck fear into the hrumm and dringli, that routed the armies of countless would-be invaders, that had unified the largest human empire the continent had ever seen. Even now, the last remnants of the once-mighty Dacadians still revered their names here in Providayne.
But when Calvraign looked into Artygalle’s eyes and saw the depth of devotion within, it was clear enough that he lacked the sincerity of the knight’s reverence. Where he might be intrigued by the more dramatic aspects of religion, Artygalle felt and acted upon a strength of belief that was foreign to him.
“We should be off now if we’re to spend the night with a down coverlet and a roaring hearth,” mused Brohan with a quiet insistence. “I’ve had enough of the outdoors for one journey!”
Calvraign and Artygalle agreed with broad smiles, and once again the small group set their tired legs in motion. They crossed the solitary bridge that arced over the Ciel Vlue just after its marriage to the Vlue Moignan, its solid timbers treacherous with a thin film of ice. Come the warmer moons, a King’s Warden would stand guard here at this bridge built by the aulden centuries long past. Below them, the half-frozen river rushed over the embankment, offering disconsolate souls the option that bards had rather dramatically dubbed Vaelyhn’s Choice.
Once across the bridge, they descended the steep incline along an ancient switchback trail, the stones well worn from hundreds of thousands of footfalls. A similar trail mirrored this one on the opposite side of the bridge, which led off to Mneyril, Aeyrdyn and other points east and north. Their own path led south down to the broad causeway of Rivers’ Run, which paralleled the Ciel Vlue as it broadened and eventually emptied into Ciel Maer, where in ages forgotten by humankind the aulden had built their beloved Dwynleigsh.
Sir Artygalle met with the most difficulty on the short but steep descent, for what armor he did not wear he had stowed in his oversized pack, and the weight of it made him ungainly on the slippery track. After noting his difficulty, accentuated in no small part by his fatigue, Brohan suggested that Artygalle walk in the middle of their group rather than as rear guard. And so, with Brohan to provide a shoulder to balance on and Calvraign to help support him should he falter, they arrived at the base of the cliff without incident.
Calvraign drew in his breath sharply, paying no notic
e to the bite of the cold in his wonder and excitement. Before them, hidden by the mists from above, lay Rivers’ Run. The roadway itself was impressive enough, even partially covered in snow. The paving stones were smooth as sanded wood, almost imperceptibly slanting from the center down to drainage gullies that ran on either side of the road. Calvraign estimated that its immense width could hold five to six carriages side by side.
More incredible than the highway itself were the trees and statues lining either side. The Crehr ne Og contained forests that were by no means young growth, and within them there was a great variety of woods. But these trees, with fifteen-foot girth and heights he could only guess were close to sixty feet – their branches gnarled masses that tangled in and around each other like the confused, directionless talons of some gigantic bird of prey – these were like nothing he had ever seen. More amazing still to his young eyes, they were all covered in healthy, thick leaves of varying shades of green and red, waxy and glistening and all but free of ice and snow. Here and there a lush golden blossom poked from the foliage.
Next to these, the twenty-foot-tall, slate-grey statues of aulden warriors on guard were almost unobtrusive. They apparently served as league markers of some sort, for at regular intervals they stood watching from the trees, little pieces of some crystal flashing from inside their winged stone helmets, giving the unnerving impression that they were, in some respect, alive – and watching. The crests carved into their shields were unfamiliar to him, no doubt representing long-forgotten aulden houses; and the armor, graceful even in granite, was far more smoothly articulated and decorative than any he had seen. Not, he reminded himself, that this was saying very much. Aside from the knights of House Malminnion that rarely occasioned through the vicinity of Craignuuwn, and now Sir Artygalle, he had not seen anyone in full plated armor.
Calvraign wasn’t sure how long he walked with his mouth agape before Brohan interrupted his gawking with his soft, knowing chuckle. “Impressed, are you?”
“It’s… incredible. How could you have mentioned Rivers’ Run to me so many times without telling me how magnificent it is?”
“Ah, Cal, I’m afraid you will find that there are many things I have mentioned all too briefly. Had I tried to describe this to you, could you possibly have pictured what you see now?”
Calvraign shook his head, face still blank and eyes still staring. “How long does it go on like this?”
“How long? Why, right up to the North Gate!” said Brohan with a triumphant bellow. Clearly, he was enjoying this.
Calvraign thought about that for a moment. It seemed odd to him that anyone would want such a nice, wide highway leading thirty leagues right up to the front gate of their city. It seemed like an open invitation to invaders, intimidating statues or not.
He frowned at Brohan. “Isn’t that rather foolish? Militarily, I mean? The trees are beautiful, and the statues are magnificent, but, well, perhaps in a time of peace….” Calvraign halted when he noticed the smirks of his two companions. They knew something they had not yet shared, and he had learned to read the look on Brohan’s face years ago. With a sigh he prepared himself for the coming lecture.
“From what you know of the aulden,” began Brohan in his tutorial tone, “do you consider them a very inviting and open race?”
“No,” said Calvraign slowly, wary of an embarrassing verbal miss-step, “but the Ceearmyltu built Dwynleigsh, and presumably this highway, and they dealt with humans for a time, didn’t they? After their war with the Maccs? Perhaps this was a gesture of some kind?”
“An interesting justification, but what if I told you that the Run was built during the Blood Wars with the slaoithe?”
Calvraign was taken aback. The Blood Wars didn’t seem a logical time to build a causeway that led right to the gates of a major citadel. Such a smooth surface as this road provided would be ideally suited to siege engines and the like. The aulden must have engineered some sort of fail-safe. He looked up at the flashing eyes of a towering statue as they put another league behind them. Of course! The aulden had once been privy to great magic. The statues must be the key to their defense. Still, it didn’t sit well with him.
“During the Blood Wars the slaoithe and their allies numbered in the thousands of thousands,” Calvraign said. “How could less than a hundred of these put the merest dent in such a force?”
Brohan’s eyes followed Calvraign’s finger as it pointed to one of the granite knights, then returned to rest on the boy. “The Sentinels are not to be underestimated when unleashed, but still, you are correct. They could not turn back such an army as you describe. Not alone.”
“You forget, perhaps, from whence the aulden draw forth their power, my friend,” said Artygalle gently.
“The Sacred Groves,” Calvraign muttered, looking at the immense trees surrounding him. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. They channel their magic through these trees and the, uh, Sentinels, and they have a trap several leagues long.”
“Yes, that would be it, more or less,” agreed Brohan. “These trees are oft used in the wild by the Seven Tribes as guardians of their forests. They are called ylohim, which translates roughly to-”
“Bloodroot,” answered Calvraign.
“Yes, good,” beamed Brohan, noting Artygalle’s surprise with some amount of pride. “The point being that while the ylohim can exist with a standard diet of water and rich soil,” he paused, lowering his voice for added drama, a bard trick with which Calvraign had become well acquainted, “they thrive on blood.”
Artygalle looked up into the swaying tangle of branches sheltering them. “And these trees have certainly fed well over the years.”
Calvraign swallowed nervously. “So why are we so unconcerned right now? What if they’re hungry?”
“Don’t worry, these ylohim are relatively friendly and only half awake. If we don’t molest them, they won’t reach down and pull us apart at our joints. If you come across one in the wild, however, run very fast in the opposite direction. Most aren’t particularly vicious, but you never want to take the chance that it’s a bad seed, if you’ll pardon the pun. If you come across a grove of them in the wild, run faster, because you are most likely about to trespass on a group of fae. And that, I think, begs no further explanation.”
“No,” agreed Calvraign. Innumerable stories leapt unbidden into his thoughts, making any detailed description wholly redundant. But this new information only left him with more questions. “So how did the Maccs overrun the Ceearmyltu? They certainly didn’t have magics of this ilk.”
“Certainly not!” confirmed Brohan with great conviction. “But the human tribes had not spent the last thousand years at war against the hrumm or the slaoithe or even the andu’ai before them. The Maccs were battle-hungry and fearless. The aulden, well, they were tired, weakened and disillusioned.”
Brohan cleared his throat and continued in a brief melodious verse from an old ballad that was only half familiar to Calvraign:
“Sore of arm, sore of mind, and sore of heart,
the aulden without a blow from Dwynleigsh didst depart.
Away from their constructs of stone and of steel.
Away to their woods and their flowers and fields.
And though its shadows still flicker on the glassy Ciel Maer,
Dwynleigsh is but reflection of what once stood there.
“The Ceearmyltu were tired of war, and left their cities and their castles, including Dwynleigsh, in the hands of High King Cachaillan without so much as a skirmish. I suppose they thought this would secure them from further wars. A pity for them they were so wrong.”
Calvraign nodded. “I remember the story, now. It just seems so senseless. To spend centuries building this city, and then simply to walk away.”
“The fruits of war are seldom sweet,” said Artygalle.
“Aye,” agreed Brohan, “but more dangerous still when the fruit is sweet, for it tempts you to take larger and larger bites. And then, when you are c
onsumed by your desire for its sweet ambrosia” – Brohan made a painful cracking sound with his knuckles – “you break your tooth on the pit.”
Calvraign chuckled, and a hesitant, uncertain smile crossed Artygalle’s lips, but no more was said of the matter. Instead, Brohan concentrated on briefing his companions on the current state of affairs at court. Calvraign listened with a focused intensity, and didn’t even notice that Artygalle, evidently disgusted by the machinations of House politics, dropped out of the discussion entirely. And so they progressed until, as night fell, they found themselves at the very gates of the fabled Fae City.
Calvraign had thought he would see none of its splendor due to their late arrival and the darkness of this moonless winter night, but as Brohan had promised, even now the city was a sight to behold.
In front of them was the North Gate, an entryway every bit as grand in width as Rivers’ Run and thirty or more feet tall, with a final pair of Sentinels standing guard. Its timbers were of polished golden oak, bound with reinforcing steel bands. On each of the double doors, the crest of the city was set in a carefully laid filigree of silver and gold. The emblem itself was a tower rising from azure waves, with the larger, golden sun, Ilieam, on one side, and the smaller, argent sun, Nymria the Handmaiden, on the other.
The outer wall that surrounded the city reached outward from the gate in a protective embrace, watch fires set at regular intervals along its battlements. Calvraign wondered how long it had taken to build this monstrous wall alone, never mind the city that lay behind it. Brohan had taken him within sight of Kirith Celian once, when he was younger, and until now that had seemed the most impenetrable place in the realms. He quickly revised his opinion.
Because the city was built on a series of small hills, Calvraign could make out quite a bit of the architecture beyond the walls. Dozens of delicate, fluted spires reached into the sky, lit by uncountable torches, braziers and multi-colored lamps. Beneath these towers was a vast cityscape of stone that seemed to flow seamlessly from one building to the next. Domes, arches, manses and cathedrals, each beautiful in its own right, together formed a spectacular whole that flickered gently in the varying hues of lamplight. Along the paved roadways, Calvraign could see statues and monuments, fountains and courtyards and, most incredibly, a small forest of trees throughout the city itself. In daylight, he could only imagine how the emerald would offset the alabaster, marble and granite of the ancient buildings.
In Siege of Daylight Page 14