In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  The knight looked down without tilting his head. “On the morrow, before the Opening Melee, report to His Holiness the Archbishop at Saint Severun’s Cathedral. He wishes to speak with you.”

  “I would consider it an honor,” he agreed. The knight gathered in his reins and prepared to push on. “May I have your name before you’re away, Brother?” asked Artygalle.

  “Your Grace will do for now,” was the curt response.

  Artygalle watched the knight’s back as he spurred off into the crowd, heedless of those around him. Even within the Church, there are those for whom power and station is more important than faith, Ghaerieal had warned him. It certainly seemed the case for that man, but Artygalle chastised himself for making assumptions. It was not for him to judge his Brothers. This was not Tiriel, and as he had just reminded himself moments ago, the intricate nature of politics in the Providaynian capital surely demanded different skills and mindset. He had almost convinced himself that such behavior might be appropriate when Calamyr’s words voiced his original feeling.

  “His Grace is an ass to everyone, Sir Artygalle,” the young rake said, leading his horse on foot back through the concourse. If there were those that frowned on his casual obstruction to their progress across the bridge, none made it known. “Don’t let it niggle at you.”

  Artygalle was confused and surprised at the nobleman’s appearance, and his slack-jawed stare didn’t hide the fact well. “Yes,” he said as Calamyr arrived before him, “no offense was taken.”

  “I must admit, you startled me, Sir Artygalle,” Calamyr went on, motioning that they should continue on their way. “I had thought it was a squire following us, not a knight, but well met in any case. Calvraign speaks quite highly of you.”

  Artygalle’s shame blanched the color from his face. “I apologize, milord. I intended no affront.”

  Calamyr laughed. “Of course you didn’t, sir. Listening is no affront, and I can’t say I fault your reasoning. You do your friend honor. Regardless, I have nothing to hide.”

  Artygalle saw Garath, still on horseback, and their squires, waiting ahead. A sour expression curled the skin around the nobleman’s neatly trimmed beard, and the lines already etched on his young face betrayed the constancy of this mood. It saddened Artygalle to see anyone with so little happiness, especially one of his station with so much to be thankful for. The scrutiny he gave Artygalle in return promised his disposition would not lighten on his account.

  Artygalle looked to Calamyr’s more friendly countenance. “Who was His Grace, milord, if you’ll pardon my asking?”

  “That was Derrigin Sinhd, Curate of Breakwater Gorge and Knight Commander in the Order of Illuné. Don’t miss a title; he’ll notice. If there’s a man in this world more arrogant than I, it is he, but without my impeccable grace and humor. I don’t think he was happy to play errand boy to a knight dressed as a squire. Somewhat beneath his dignity.”

  Artygalle gave his customary nod and remained silent.

  “I’ve had my fill of this bridge,” said Garath. “Let’s be off it before the wind blows us off.”

  “Garath,” said Calamyr as they proceeded, “may I introduce Sir Artygalle of Tiriel. He’s a lancer, I hear, but the Northern variety doesn’t appear so stuffy.”

  “At your service, milord,” said Artygalle. He was already tired of these formal greetings, and the day was still young.

  Garath saluted Artygalle with too much haste to be considered absolutely proper. “Well met,” he said, eyeing Windthane. “That’s quite a horse, but maybe you should have saved a gryph or two for some armor.”

  “You have a discerning eye, milord,” replied Artygalle, “but I must confess that I ride at the Lady Aeolil’s courtesy. Windthane is hers.”

  Garath and Calamyr shared a wide-eyed look. Artygalle couldn’t help feeling some small satisfaction from their surprise.

  Calamyr recovered first, flashing a confident smile. “I am impressed, sir knight. Rumor has it Lady Aeolil keeps her stables shuttered tightly.”

  Garath agreed with a quick nod. “Aye, what oil loosened those hinges? I only pray I’m the first to tell Ezriel.”

  The two noblemen laughed, leaving Artygalle to wonder at their private joke. He didn’t care for the insinuation behind their words. He knew he should keep quiet, but the thought of anyone with less than the utmost respect for his kind patron irked him. “I hope there is no offense intended Lady Aeolil. She is a kind and honorable lady, and I would defend her good name with my life.”

  Calamyr sucked in his laugh with a quick breath and arched a curious brow at Artygalle. “At ease, sir, please. We often forget ourselves, Garath and I, but no offense was intended – at least not to Aeolil. And I certainly don’t wish to cross blades until we reach the field. Isn’t that so, Garath?”

  Garath looked over at his friend with an uncertain frown. “I suppose.” The lack of apology in his tone was made all the more blatant by the unmistakable challenge in his eyes. “But, you’ll need thicker skin than that to survive long in Dwynleigsh.”

  Artygalle made ready to respond, but Calamyr’s tongue was quicker. “Gods, must you always be so contrary?” he snapped. “Your own skin is no thicker than a silk kerchief. I have a mind to challenge you myself if it will shut you up.”

  “And risk dirtying your pretty ensemble on my account?” Garath countered, grinning reluctantly. “I doubt it. The ladies haven’t even seen you yet.”

  “Point well taken,” agreed Calamyr with a mock salute. “You’ll have your turn soon enough.”

  Artygalle suppressed a sigh. Clearly they thought this normal and acceptable behavior, but in Tiriel such was not considered polite discussion. He walked on beside them as they bickered and joked back and forth, trying to avoid inclusion in their banter entirely.

  Perhaps he should be more restrained with his indignant outcries, next time. If it was their custom to throw such veiled comments and insults around so freely, he could hardly go around challenging every member of the court in turn. And, he admitted to himself, his experiences in Tiriel were with the brothers of his Order, not the aristocracy. Amidst their own, those nobles might behave much the same.

  They slowed to a stop at the gatehouse, trapped in a massive bottleneck as the parade attempted to sift through from the bridge into the city. The crowd gathered in the streets beyond made a low rumbling noise like a continuous roar of thunder. Artygalle had spent his days exploring the vast city, and was less intimidated by it than when he first arrived, but this turnout was unsettling. Thousands were waiting to watch the coming tourney. The greatest and most notorious knights from every realm in the East would be here to compete for the King’s Lance under the auspices of the Winter Truce, and he would be there among them, doing battle. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat. If he had a choice, this would not be his first tournament. But here he was, and as far as choices went, he was severely lacking.

  Calamyr remounted beside him, and Artygalle noticed all the knights and squires taking up positions in miniature formations all around him. His heart quickened in his chest. “I don’t understand. I thought the Parade was to begin later, before the pavilions.”

  “Yes, the official Parade will,” said Garath, straightening his tabard, “but it’s customary to put on a show for the city on the way there. I assumed you knew.”

  “No,” Artygalle said, even more quiet than normal. He had neither the time nor means to don his armor now, and he felt a slow churning begin in his stomach. This would not be an auspicious start as Lord Elvaeir’s champion.

  “You might as well mount up,” said Calamyr. “You’ll just have to make the best of it. You may ride between us if you wish.”

  “That is a kind offer, Lord Calamyr, but I suggest you go on ahead. I will be a moment, and you have your own appearances to maintain without worrying for mine.”

  “As you wish,” said Calamyr. “Good day, then, sir.”

  “And good luck,” added Garath with an unc
haracteristic smile. Whether from sympathy or amusement, or a bit of each, Artygalle couldn’t tell.

  He didn’t watch them as they took their places in the advancing queue; he had enough details to worry over without second-guessing himself. By the time he had rearranged his packs and taken the saddle, the procession of knights and nobles was thinning, and he had no trouble slipping through the Harbor Gate into Dwynleigsh.

  The crowd still waited, cheering from windows, balconies and in a surging mass on the sides of the smooth-paved streets. Many had strips of cloth or miniature pennants with the colors of their favorite House or individual champion, waving them aloft with loud whoops and cheers of encouragement. He saw none with the scarlet and white of Tiriel, nor did he expect to. Lord Elvaeir had not sent a champion in four years, since his last dispute with House Jiraud, and no natives of his homeland had braved the howling snows to lend him support. But that was not important to him. Those watching the field were only as invested in his victory as much as their purses would allow or Oghran’s spirit moved them. And he was not here to win fame or the crowd’s adoration. His reasons were of much greater consequence.

  The spectators didn’t know this, however, nor did he think they would care if they had, but he attracted their notice just the same. At first, it was mostly surprised laughter that reached his ears. Then, muttered questions and whispered insults grew in both volume and candor, evolving finally into outright taunts. Artygalle kept his back straight and his eyes forward throughout, staring at the capes of those before him. It wasn’t his personal pride that moved him to make a show of his inviolability, but the sense of honor Ghaerieal had instilled in him. He was a Knight Lancer in the Order of Andulin, and as long as he had Illuné’s blessing, he could live without the shifting loyalties of mortals.

  Not that it made their words sting any less.

  “You missed Market Day, farm boy!” yelled a merchant from one side.

  “I hope you polished your wooden sword!” from the other.

  And then a lady’s voice, with the overly enunciated accent of an Aerydii: “The Fool’s Parade is on the morrow, boy!”

  Artygalle continued to ride, eyes forward, ignoring the insults. They were brash to make any such comment to a knight, who by virtue of rank would be well within rights to exact any number of penalties upon them. Normally, he would expect the support of the peers who rode with him to Saint Kaissus Field. An insult to one of their number was an insult to all of that rank. But today, whether because they silently agreed with the crowd’s opinion or because they thought it a strategic advantage to unnerve him, they remained silent. This only emboldened the crowd into more frequent and vociferous slurs.

  Cowards like nothing better than easy sport, he thought, as if repeating the phrase would make the reality less painful.

  “May as well give me the horse and sword,” the latest voice called out. “At least I’ll make a show of it.”

  Artygalle pulled in the reins and brought his horse to a halt. The affront in itself was no more bothersome than the others, but it provided him with an idea and opportunity to halt the annoying catcalls. Windthane shook his head and snorted a plume of fine mist as Artygalle turned in the saddle to face the direction of the taunt. He spotted the man towards the front row – a middle-aged man, a Maeziir by his dusky complexion, and a Guilder of some small affluence from the moderate finery of his dress. His face reddened somewhat as he noticed the knight’s attention focus on him, and he attempted to slip deeper into the ranks of onlookers. The crowd was not accommodating. They sensed the chance of a fight, or at least a harsh dressing down, and they had no desire to let one of the parties escape before they had their fun. Especially a well-to-do foreigner.

  Artygalle nudged Windthane up to the crowd’s perimeter with a quick side shuffle, and looked down at the man. “What is your name, sir?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” the Guilder responded indignantly.

  “I asked for your name,” repeated Artygalle without even the hint of impatience or anger in his voice.

  The man paused, looked around him, and then frowned. “I am Veipo of Abruosk. What business is it of yours?”

  “I will need your name to add you to the List in my place,” explained Artygalle, drawing his sword and offering it hilt first across his forearm in one terrified blink of Veipo’s eyes. “Take the sword and the horse, as well as my lord’s charge to win the King’s Lance. I will vouch for you with the Master of the List.”

  Those in the front of the crowd began to chuckle and murmur, but this time at the Maeziiri’s expense. Some of the laughter stopped when the more observant among them noticed the brooch that fastened the plain cloak at Artygalle’s neck. The winged sword and shield was a rare token, but a familiar one. The merchant wet his lips, which he attempted to raise into a confident smile.

  “Come, take it,” prodded Artygalle, leaning down to bring the hilt even closer to the man.

  “He’s a lancer,” someone whispered.

  “That’s the Order of Andulin,” voiced another.

  Veipo blanched further as similar comments multiplied around him. “No, no,” he said. “Just a jest. A little jest, that’s all.”

  Artygalle could have allowed him to squirm there for quite some time, but that was not his aim. “Ah, a jest!” he said with a smile. “Forgive me. Go with my blessing, then. And may Illuné chase the shadows from your doorstep.”

  Veipo exhaled and nodded, smiling like an idiot but obviously relieved. The Guilder knew the narrow ledge he had crossed, as did the crowd still surrounding him. Artygalle would have been well within his rights to insist some form of reparation from Veipo, including fines or imprisonment, and everyone knew it.

  Artygalle started back down the road, now at the very back of the parade ranks. The merchants and low-level aristocrats were already thinning out, heading to Saint Kaissus Field for the Commencement. The cold glances they shot him spoke plainer than words what they thought of his display. Knights who took vows of poverty were troublesome enough to the rich, and Artygalle knew that his unintentional show of his meager assets only made them more uncomfortable. But, as he had hoped, his display of grace and lack of vindictiveness had curried the grudging respect and even favor of the commoners in the throng.

  “What is your name, sir?” someone shouted. “For whom do you ride?”

  “I am Artygalle of Tiriel,” he answered, a bit of confidence seeping into him, “and I ride for my Lord Elvaeir and the Grace of Illuné.”

  He still heard the laughter and insults of some as he passed deeper into the city, but he rode on unconcerned. For now, amongst those same shouts of shame and ridicule, there were new cries to combat them. Not from the wealthy, and few from the middle-classed, but from the men, women and children who fleshed out their ranks, dressed not much different than he.

  For every distasteful expletive from the higher born, there were ten more shouts of “Luck and Light be with you, sir!”

  He knew it shouldn’t matter, that their support or condemnation was all secondary to his goal, but he found their encouragement raised his spirits and his strength of will. He would bear his burdens alone if he must, but bolstered by their enthusiasm, he decided that it wasn’t necessary. No one rode for them in the great tourneys. No one bore their colors of ragtag brown and coarse linen grey before them into battle. No one risked or gained anything for them. All these nobles fought for was reputation, pride and purse. But he would not, and while his goal was the charge of Elvaeir, his fight would be for them.

  Artygalle raised his sword in salute to the crowd, turning once to each side with the same respect he would shortly show the king and court. Another cheer drowned out another chorus of disrespects, and the city came alive as he passed. The clouds were thinning, the suns warming, and to Artygalle, it was like a new start to the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  FIRE AT THE GATES

  DIEAVAUL stood back to examine his work, checking over e
ach of the inscriptions he had carved into the granite for blemish or careless error. There could be no inconsistencies – each sigil must be perfect. The stone gate that barred his way into the underkin’s mountain stronghold was a secure one. It was ancient, bound by powerful magics, and well hidden. In fact, he had not known the place existed at all until what seemed the entire side of the mountain was loosed upon him and his force the night before. Only the power of ilnymhorrim had enabled him to escape unscathed, cutting through the Veil for a brief walk through Shadow to a point out of harm’s way. Most of his retinue had not been so lucky. He had saved those few he could without wasting his iiyir or undue time, but in the end only six of fifty were left in useful condition.

  If he could slip through the Veil in similar fashion to just beyond the door, his dilemma would be solved. But Dieavaul knew better than to take the prospect of a Shadow-walk so lightly. Without clear foreknowledge of his destination, most especially within such a huge mass of stone, he could just as easily return within a wall or floor or other solid object. That would rid the world of his presence in a heartbeat. And the kin were of Faerie just as the aulden – that way would be guarded, also.

  Brute force, then, seemed his only option, and he had been far too tired after regaining the summit and discovering this cave. Since his escape through Shadow had taken them back down the mountain, to a place familiar enough to be relatively safe, they had been forced to traverse much of the same steep ground a second miserable time.

  Almost a full day wasted.

  It will only be wasted if I fail, he corrected himself.

  Dieavaul stretched his arms wide, fingers splayed, his eyelids fluttering as he fell into a trance. The surviving hrumm backed against the far wall, their bestial yellow eyes reflecting a shared fear of their master and his dreaded power, their hackles rising as the air crackled with invisible energy. Dieavaul whipped the inner flames of his iiyir into a blazing inferno restrained by his will, focused by the complex gesticulations of his slender fingers as they danced fluid patterns in the air, and finally released by the word of power that issued from his taut lips. With its utterance, the Pale Man felt the familiar white-hot energy flood his senses, washing away all other sensation with its cleansing rage as swirling flames shot from his outstretched hands to strike at his target.