In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  The king signaled the herald, and the doors opened. As the master bard and apprentice made their entrance, they were met with a unanimous roar that deafened only slightly less than surprised them.

  “All hail Sir Calvraign, Son of Dragonheart!” they roared, and then again. All save Renarre and Agrylon, who instead only shared a look of mutual contempt. Then the wizard’s eye flickered for but a moment to her own with a faint smile that made her shiver.

  Yes, thought Aeolil, something is most definitely afoot.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SONGS FOR A KING

  FOR one not accustomed to large surprises, Calvraign thought he handled this one very well. Brohan had said there might be some mention of his father when they were introduced, but from the dumbfounded bard’s own wide and unblinking eyes, Calvraign surmised that this was not what he had expected. The entire hall of gathered nobility was on their collective feet, with their goblets held high as they shouted out the toast one final time. The chamber itself – with its ebonwood rafters and trim; tables set with bronze, silver and gold; wall length tapestries and glowing aulden candelabra – it all faded into the back of his mind.

  “Welcome, Sir Calvraign!” roared an old man with a lustrous crown on his brow. “Welcome to King’s Keep!”

  The king! The reality of it hit Calvraign in the gut like a mule’s hoof. He reacted by what must have been instinct, for in truth he was in a state somewhere between the realization of dreams and abject terror. In a quick motion, Calvraign knelt on his right knee and bent his head in a bow of respect. “You do me a great honor, Your Majesty. I hope to follow in my father’s footsteps, though none could fill his boots, and prove myself worthy of your grace. I am yours to command.”

  Calvraign could feel the very weight of the air above his head, and the multiple stings of querious eyes upon him, assessing him, ascertaining his worth and his character through this first vital introduction into their midst. Brohan was silent beside him, his own graceful homage ignored. Everyone knew the master bard possessed eloquence and composure; it was his apprentice they were interested in.

  The king smiled at him in what Calvraign approximated was genuine affection or approval. He relaxed inwardly, but held his outward poise. No sense leaving the gate open after the flock is in the pen, his mother would say.

  “Well said, boy, well said indeed!” boomed the king merrily. “Now up off your knees, and don’t so much as bend them again to any man but me!” Calvraign noticed the scrutiny of the peerage shifted from him to their liege in astonishment, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps that was unusual. The king went on, “Now, the last Brohan spoke of you, he said a fluent harp you played. Don’t make a liar of the King’s Bard, now!”

  “Please!” agreed Brohan, taking the opportunity to step to the fore. Calvraign could see the temperament of the audience wasn’t to Master Madrharigal’s liking, and he quickly set about brightening their mood with some light jokes as they prepared the stage.

  Brohan had made all the arrangements earlier with the steward and castellan, and the servants brought all the needed instruments and chairs within the semi-circle of tables with capable haste. They had conferred and decided upon the program over the course of their travels, choosing first instrumental pieces that would showcase Calvraign’s young, dexterous fingers and his natural feel for a melody. Brohan also considered this more appropriate for background music. Those who could appreciate such artistry would do it while they ate, and those too banal for the subtler things in life would not be tired by it. Then, after the repast was served, they would begin with the story and song.

  They had decided against telling Ibhraign and the King, for it would seem self-aggrandizing. The Lament of Celian, though a favorite of them both, was far too controversial in such company, especially for a debut performance. And they would under no circumstance, save royal decree, render The Song of Andulin. In Brohan’s opinion, it was much overdone already, and he suspected he would be forced into its utterance a score and a half times by festival’s end. And so they had decided on ballads that were not special in and of themselves but would yet display the talents of the gifted apprentice – The Tors of Traleagh, The Farmer and the Fae, and Good Sir Gullimer’s Pies. The sheer inanity of this last one Brohan insisted the king would enjoy, and the length of the three together was enough without being too much.

  In truth, Calvraign found the performance relaxing. He felt at home with his fingers on the bone frets of his gwythir and lyre, or dancing along the strings of his field harp. He buried himself in his melodies, Brohan effortlessly strumming chords in his support, adjusting to Calvraign’s instinctive style of play. Somehow, he did not worry that he played for the king, or notice that the clamor of the gathering was quelled to a subdued hush. Somehow, he didn’t see the eyes of the ladies take full notice of his young face, his clear blue eyes, and his deft, articulate fingers on his instruments; or the added attention that brought from their lords.

  He did realize, however, when he set down his gwythir after completing Jeunjar’s masterwork, Spring Suite, that before the hum of its sixteen strings had faded he was enveloped in applause. The applause of the nobles, of the king, of Brohan, and of Lady Aeolil. He blushed despite himself at her frank scrutiny and looked abruptly away. He had never known a woman so beautiful, and feared he had already made himself a complete fool in her eyes earlier in the day. Now he felt he had confirmed it, blushing like a farm boy. He nodded his head in deference to their courtesy, hiding his clenching jaw, and made an effort to smile again when he raised his head.

  “Brilliantly done, boy! Brilliant, indeed!” the king praised. “Brohan has not done you justice.”

  “You are very generous, Majesty,” replied Calvraign. He found it ironic that it was easier to focus on the monarch rather than the young lady of House Vae. But one glance from her and his heart had jumped up his throat to beat madly between his ears. Idiot, he chastised himself.

  “You are too modest!” insisted Guillaume with a gentle admonishment. “You play as well as any I’ve seen.”

  “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon,” said an affable Brohan. “I may take offense if my pupil further pleases the royal ear. Perhaps we should withdraw while my reputation is still intact!”

  The master bard’s remarks elicited the intended chuckles and smiles. The king merely waved his hands at them. “Play on, play on! I’ll not worry you with any more praise for your apprentice. What have you in store for us today?”

  “Some light and capricious fare, Your Majesty, as befits your rather remarkable mood. We shall have enough morally weighted discourse during the festival.”

  Calvraign took a deep breath and tried to return to whatever place he had been before that had provided him such penetrating calm and confidence. Brohan began the lilting tune of The Tors and Calvraign waited for his cue. They would sing the first chorus in rounds and then join in the second verse in two-part harmony. He concentrated on keeping pitch as he joined in the floating, happy melody. His talent was not in song. His voice was clear enough, and tone rich enough, but it was not his purview. Still, he sank into the task with grateful ease, once again removed from his surroundings by the rapture of the muses.

  Soon enough they were in the last verse of Good Sir Gullimer, and Brohan and Calvraign sang away with unbridled frolic at the traditional tempo that so rankled most minstrels. But they delivered the well-rehearsed piece with crafty and fluid adroitness. Even Vanelorn, ever the stern implacable warrior, was laughing heartily by its end.

  And so good Sir Gullimer, Gullimer Sir,

  was stuffed in dough and baked today.

  Oh, good Sir, good, good, Gullimer Sir,

  with gooseberries and a goose, they say.

  In good Sir Gullimer’s Pie, they say,

  good, good Sir Gullimer’s Pie!

  Good sir, good, good, good, Sir Gullimer,

  good Gullimer Sir, good Gullimer, Gullimer,

  good Sir Gullimer’s Pie!


  On past the day and into the evening the festivities lingered, and master bard and apprentice alike were afforded the luxury of dining with the host of the king. Dancing there was, even for the venerable king, and stories and tales told by all. It harkened back to the times between the wars when blood was shed seldom, and angry words were rare. The torches burned late into the night, and there was laughter in King’s Keep. Laughter, song and mead in equally generous portions. Laughter enough to stave away the endless queries that normally welcomed those newly in favor to the throne. Laughter enough even for the likes of dour Agrylon, who indeed seemed to enjoy the occasion with rare levity.

  But, even as he heard it, Calvraign was reminded of Brohan’s oft-delivered warning against complacency for the traveling bard, even in the face of success: one night’s laughter is but a memory on the morrow.

  And the morrow was halfway here already.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE NYRUL CAYL

  BLOODHAWK stirred. First one eye, then the other, opened upon the painful world. It was dark, and the air cold and musty. The scents of rotting leaves and carrion and his own infected wound filled nostrils he was too tired to cover. He tried to stretch for a moment before he remembered where he was, and succeeded only in bruising his elbow.

  What’s another bruise, he thought, too tired to be bitter.

  One bruise upon another upon another: they all faded into one small, dim flash of lightning within a greater storm of pain. Adjusting to the light, his eyes helped his feverish mind remember where he had stuck himself.

  Once, this bed of leaves, fir needles, feathers and soft, white down had made the hollow in the bole of the tree trunk a fit home for a family of tree-napes. He’d always liked tree-napes. He and Khyri had adopted a small colony of them in Oam, where such protection was needed from the relentless furriers who trolled the forests for their prized coats. He didn’t know the derivation of the common usage nape, but he thought the Ebuouki name was more suited to them, anyway: eti nu’m, cat-monkeys. Now, the napes had moved on and it was the wilhorwhyr settled here in their place.

  The old oak, hanging bent and tired over the riverbank, reminded him of the rhyme his mother used to sing:

  Old Man Oak, not quite dead,

  lingering by the river.

  Low hang his brittle branches,

  low to scrape the ground

  Beaten down by the weight of centuries,

  beaten down, he waits for time.

  Hundreds of summers’ growth, he knows,

  rich with leaves and flowing sap.

  Hundreds of autumns’ chill, he knows,

  and hundreds of tiny deaths

  Hundreds of deepest winter snows,

  through which the old oak slept.

  And hundreds of shining springs, he knows,

  and breathes another years’ breath

  Old Man Oak, not quite dead,

  lingering by the river.

  Bloodhawk blinked away returning sleep. Not quite dead, just like the man who’s sought refuge within the hollow of your trunk. Lingering….

  His limbs were frozen in place, stiff and unresponsive. He coughed, and the pain of the spasms was an unwelcome ally to his resolve, feeding his mind with unwanted alertness, forcing him further from tempting sleep.

  Just a little sleep.

  “No,” he said to himself. The sound of his voice startled him. He chuckled. Not mirthfully, but a dry, self-incriminating sound of disgust. “Talking to myself or Old Man Oak?”

  Bloodhawk forced his stiff body out of his shelter and into the snow and leaves of the forest floor. He wanted to stay there, prone, for the scavengers to feed upon. He wanted no more of anything. His will, as always, acted in contempt of, and despite, his despair. He struggled to his feet. He stumbled, balancing himself on the tree, feeling a faint glow of warmth at his fingertips.

  No, he thought sadly, moved and ashamed, no more. You’ve given me more than I deserve already, Old Man. Keep some for yourself. The winter is young.

  The wind rustled in the empty branches, and the warmth in his fingers grew almost hot to the touch as he felt fresh life flow into his bones. He looked up at the gnarly ancient and reproached himself. Who was he, a surly man-child, to lecture this Old One? This tree that had outlived him by tens of scores of years and persevered through more wars and plots and swinging axes than he was ever likely to see? Foolish, indeed. He carried on forward, limping from the stiffness in his limbs, and he could almost hear the tree singing the song in his ears with mocking humor.

  Old Man Oak, not quite dead.

  After a day or two of travel south into the Caerwood, Bloodhawk had come upon less tamed corridors of leaf and limb. The trails of the foresters were gone, surrendering to the close-crowded vegetation around him. The marks of hunters and trappers progressed a league or two further in, but they soon melted away as well.

  Many of the trees had shed their leaves for the winter, naked arms reaching into the sky in mute supplication. Their leafy ornaments now lay cracked and frozen beneath the snow and ice, once a canopy for birds and forest animals, now only a decorative ceiling for worms and mites and movers of soil. The straight-backed discipline of the tall northern firs was challenged by the sag of branches under the weight of winter’s frozen tears. Some of the trees succumbed to their burden, their tired, bent boughs dipping in a lowly ground-scraping bow. The shallow tracks of a fox and the deep indentation of a rabbit’s quick leap for life were the only blemish on the smooth tableau of shining white beneath the trees.

  Bloodhawk leaned against a lightning-shattered husk of silver-barked sannegrin, shivering more from fever than cold. He had exhausted his supply of poultice, and though capable, he was not the equal of Two-Moons in the art of healing. His condition was worsening, and only careful rest and a moderate pace kept it manageable. Had his father’s aulden blood not beat in his heart, he would already have surrendered his husk to the worms. Even so, the barrowshade that smeared the hrummish steel was stubbornly about its work. Normally the hrumm used more straightforward poisons. Barrowshade was nearly as dangerous to the handler as it was to the intended victim. Apparently, the death of a few hrumm was a cost Dieavaul was not reticent to risk or pay.

  Bloodhawk ended his brief respite and picked his way silently forward. He walked on the balls of his feet, pressing in with the tips of his split-toed boots. It was an old wilhorwhyr trick, one of the first he’d learned as a young Initiate, and came as naturally as a leisurely walk. In his wake he left a trail of deer-like imprints in the snow. There was many an experienced tracker in the Realms who, recognizing the odd markings were not what they seemed, attributed them to the wanderings of Buerhoune the unicorn. Quaint tavern talk, that, he thought. As if Buerhoune, or any other of his majestic kind, would leave any tracks at all.

  The aulden should be near, judging from the increasing age and snarl of the woods. His greatest worry now was that they would not deign to show themselves at all. He had gone through their midst many a time without so much as a whisper to acknowledge his passing. He had known they were there, like watchful eyes in the dark, but they had neglected to appear for his benefit. He would have to hope for better luck this time – possibly insist on it.

  Bloodhawk opened his eyes slowly from his mid-day nap. The small clearing was still. A hurn chirped over his head as it preened the feathers of one rosy-gold wing. There was no sign of anyone near, but the hair on the back of his neck was alive and bristling. He sensed more than saw them, a presence shifting in the background of the forest. He sat up, his back against an aged maple, and waited.

  In the distance, to his right, three faint globes of pearly luminescence shimmered into existence. He averted his eyes, afraid that in his weakened state the charm would draw him away. A common trick of the fae – sometimes meant simply to divert unwanted guests, sometimes serving a more sinister purpose as they led the way to a bog or mire. The balls of light danced expectantly, hypnotically, at the
edge of his vision, but Bloodhawk waited patiently where he was.

  The voices were next, and for all his experience, he almost fled. The whispers were in the ancient aulden tongue, speaking beautiful words more fluid than running water but with such wicked intonation that his skin prickled on his arms. The bodiless voices haunted first one ear, then the other, and then both, spoken as if by the whirling wind that sprang so suddenly around him. He relaxed the tension that had wound up the fiber of his muscles with a deep breath. He knew this enchantment as well, for all that it remained unnerving, and he allowed it to rage about him in quiet relentless tones as he sat unmoving against the maple.

  He’d not dealt with the tribes this far east, and it was clear that they were a cautious bunch. He was welcomed, though often as not with tepid hospitality, by the western tribes, and so was no stranger to the aulden in general. He was especially familiar with the Elyrmirea, to whom he was blooded, but each of the Seven Tribes was distinct.

  He waited.

  When it was clear he would not be led away by deception, the unseen watchers changed their tack. An arrow plunged into the powdery snow beside him, then another, and then one more sank into the leather of the pack by his side. Bloodhawk did not so much as flinch. He knew this would be coming, and even at their worst the aulden rarely murdered the unarmed and wounded. Then again, he wasn’t interested in testing their forbearance.

  “Ieylulki,” he said in fluent auldenish. “Y oeleiad ley -”

  “Stop! I won’t suffer our tongue butchered by your lips.” The frosty female voice bit off his words, leaving the rest unspoken in his mouth. “Your kind is not welcome here.”