In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “It is time. Gather your force and prepare for Lord Mejul.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Meet him at the West Gate. You will not recognize his human form, but he will reveal himself to you. With his help and your disguises, you should pass their sentries without incident.”

  “Yes, Gal Pakh. It will be done.”

  “Remember Thaoll, you are to do his bidding as if it were mine. Our success depends on your unquestioning obedience. Do not stop to weigh costs. There may be no return from this, once it has begun.”

  Thaoll didn’t hesitate even a moment in response. “Then we will hunt with the Fallen in Kyztsaraak.”

  “You honor your ruukmwr and bring glory to Shaa, Pakh Thaoll,” praised Dieavaul, his image and voice fading as he pulled himself back through the filmy half-world of the Veil to rejoin his abandoned flesh, leaving the hrumm alone again in its dream. Whether or not Shaa actually awarded Thaoll a place among the honored dead hardly mattered to the Pale Man. That its group of elite graomwrnokk were successful, at any cost, was all that concerned him.

  Dieavaul stirred from his trance, blinking away the shadow world and standing to stretch his limbs. Physically, he still felt somewhat weak from his ordeal in the mountains, and his body needed some rest despite the relatively undiminished potency of his iiyir. He crossed the silk-carpeted floor of his meditation chamber to its solitary furnishing: a wine rack and serving shelf. He stopped and peered silently at his collection for a moment before deciding upon a sparkling strawberry wine of Symbian vintage. A bit cloying for his taste normally, but well crafted. He preferred the dry and robust reds of Inzirii making, on most occasions, but after spellcraft the sweeter draughts often tempted him.

  Dieavaul swirled the rose-colored contents around in the crystal decanter, admiring the light as it was twisted and bent by finely chiseled facets, dancing on the austere walls. He poured some of the wine into a matching, thin-stemmed glass and sipped at it delicately. With the patience and understanding of a connoisseur, he rolled the fluid across his tongue before allowing it to dribble down his throat.

  Perfection can never be rushed, he mused, whether in wine or war.

  Dieavaul put the empty glass down, savoring the last fiery trace of its surrendered contents before turning back to his casting circle and the work still at hand. Perfection also accepted no delay, and he had taken enough rest from his last spell. He walked back to the center of the room and paused at the edge of the carpet, where it relinquished a five-foot circle to rune-carved obsidian, and gathered his thoughts. He formed the image of Mejul in his mind: his physical presence, his Shadow essence, the unmistakable sense of his iiyir, and even the human shell in which he currently dwelled. Then he sat, and began a slow monotone chant.

  Dieavaul could feel his iiyir resonating with each word, forming the patterns of energy that would once more open a portal through the Veil. Unlike his dream-walks with Osrith, he had no need of ilnymhorrim to track down the subject of this spell. Mejul was known to him, and willing, and this required of him nothing more than some of his own iiyir.

  His awareness departed his physical self, leaving it behind gladly to soar out over league upon league as if each was but a footstep. He was not truly within Shadow here, or truly in the waking world, but threading along somewhere within the Veil itself, in-between the in-between.

  He found Mejul quickly enough, out in the city itself and far from the interfering ley lines of King’s Keep, however dormant they might be. Dieavaul did not want Agrylon stumbling upon their link and eavesdropping, not when their subterfuge had existed undetected for so long right beneath his nose. The Shadowyn Lord’s human host remained staring into nothingness out across the great northern plains from the city wall. It was unnecessary for Mejul to sleep to sense or speak with Dieavaul. Even in this mortal form, he existed partly of Shadow.

  None of the passing guards could even guess at the wordless conversation that took place right in their midst, only half a world away. None would have reason to suspect the downfall of their kingdom and their world was being plotted behind the quiet, noble face that peered into the darkness next to them. And certainly none would think to disturb the quiet reverie of a knight cloaked in the blue and gold trappings of the Prince’s Guard.

  Guillaume awoke with a start, his arthritic fingers clutching the rumpled bedclothes up about his chin. The shutters had blown open, and the wind now howled into his chamber, sucking away any warmth or comfort with its merciless chill. His breath caught in his lungs as his eyes quested the dark corners for any hint of lurking shadows. The afterimage of the recurring nightmare faded as the less threatening shapes of his furnishings were etched by the glowing moonlight. His panicked heartbeat slowed as he realized he’d left the wraith in the world of his dreams.

  The knock at the door sent him upright and the covers flying. Cursing, he slipped his feet into the doeskin slippers at his bedside and shuffled over to the door. There weren’t many who would pester his sleep, but the king had idea enough who it must be. The wizard seldom felt himself bound by court convention or even common human decency. He pulled the door open, his temper rising, ready to curb Agrylon’s impertinence once and for all.

  But the figure at his door wasn’t Agrylon.

  Guillaume backpedaled, tripping on his own feet and landing with a jolt on his backbone. His eyes and mouth were wide, but his cry of alarm was caught in the back of his throat. The cloaked shadow drifted past the limp bodies of the King’s Guard and into the bedchamber as the king himself scrambled back on his elbows.

  My king, the soundless voice whispered in his mind, a hint of mockery in its unspoken words.

  “What do you want?” Guillaume managed to croak. He knew now the chill was not from the wind alone.

  The doom of your House awaits on Ebhan-nuád.

  “I have done what you asked! What more do you want of me?”

  The familiar sunken face of grey bent down to Guillaume’s with eyes the same ashen, lifeless hue. And again the ethereal voice spoke within his skull. Remember Vingeaux, it warned, lest your entire line perish forthwith. Don’t forget our bargain. Your son is mine!

  “No!” Guillaume cried out, a small fleck of spittle foaming at his quivering lips. “Be gone! Leave me in peace!”

  You’ve had your peace, my king, said the wraith, dissolving into memory even as he watched. Now leave me mine.

  “Agrylon!” screamed the king. “Agrylon!” But none stirred in the antechamber beyond his door. He crawled on his knees to the doorframe and rested his head on the coolness of a brass hinge, sobbing and trembling like a newborn babe. “Bring me Agrylon!”

  The only answer was the creak of broken shutters in the wind.

  Aeolil wiped the rheum from the corners of her eyes and looked at Agrylon again, perplexed. She wasn’t sure what amount of her comprehension yet lingered on her pillow, where until quite recently she had rested almost comfortably, but she guessed it to be nearly half. It was well enough that she had forgone the Feast of First Night and retired early, or she’d have had no sleep at all. She didn’t yet know the details, but something had alarmed the king and then Agrylon in turn. The wizard still frowned out the window of his observation tower, as if the mere display of his ire would alter the lay of the sky and erase whatever evil he saw. She tried again to fathom the enormity of what he claimed, but her mind could not wrap itself around the impossibility of it.

  She looked at the signs again herself, over his shoulder. She was not a seer, nor even by strict definition was Agrylon, but they both knew enough to see that something was wrong with the scattering of the stars and constellations. Frowning, she turned back to compare the sight with the tumble of charts on the desk. She rubbed at her temples, trying to chase away the clinging drowsiness that fogged her thinking. It was doubly – no, triply – wrong.

  Illuné was out of phase, as was Ghaest, both a day or more advanced in their cycle. And there, blazing east to west across the cloudl
ess sky, was the fiery trail of Kazdann, three years too early. But even these paled in comparison to the disarray apparent in the Dragonmeet. Normally Pyderion dominated the stars of the three dragons. It was the brightest and the focal point of the three arms of the constellation. But tonight it was but a flickering hint of light, barely distinguishable from its siblings. More worrisome still was the ascendance of Ewanbheir, the Black Star, sign and namesake of the Dark God. It swallowed the light of its neighbors greedily, shifting the balance of the three dragons.

  All wrong, and impossible besides.

  Celestial bodies moved along on set courses through the sky, their patterns preordained by the Unspoken Gods when they had set order to the universe. She bit at her lower lip, and Agrylon tugged on his white beard, which shone like luminous silver in the moonlight. They exchanged a worried glance as Agrylon turned his back on the window, evidently satisfied that the omens were there, regardless of his wishes.

  “Damned Pits of Erkenàdun,” he said, pulling at the hair on his chin. “It seems impossible, but the king is right to be worried. Ebhan-nuád.”

  “I don’t understand,” confessed Aeolil. “The time is not right.”

  “Nor is it ever right,” Agrylon replied tersely. “It matters not how it came to be. Or, at least, it matters little right now.”

  Aeolil had never seen worry on her mentor’s face before, or fear, until their recent encounter with the Neva Seough. Tonight both were evident again. Neither spoke of the demon, or their brush with the Dark, but the very silence of it hung in the air between them. “Is this what pulls the tides out of phase? They’ve been erratic of late.”

  “Yes,” sighed Agrylon, slumping as he crossed the short distance to the desk. Aeolil couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so old. “That and much more, I fear. There is no worse omen, nothing more dreaded in all our lore. The barriers between our world and that of Shadow are at their weakest now. Even the dead may walk among us, given half a reason.” He paused to rummage through his scrolls, seizing upon a particularly old and yellowed piece of parchment. “A game is in progress, Aeolil, and we’ve not even been playing our pieces, let alone defending against theirs. Now it may be too late.”

  “Is it the Neva Seough?”

  Agrylon shoved the scroll into his voluminous, deep purple robes. “That Myszdraelh and her ilk enjoy the spectacle of our peril, I have no doubt. However, I cannot say for certain that this work is of the Dark. Would that they could so prevail upon our world.” He shrugged. “But to work such magic as that through the Veil, no. I think not. Were such the case, odds are we would never have combated Myszdraelh to defeat. Or, indeed, that the demons would need such indirect means to attack us at all.”

  “Then who? And to what purpose?”

  “There are not many who could work such magics. One might say our nexus has just been captured. The Old Ones once had such power.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Brohan told His Majesty stories of andu’ai in the northlands. Rumors, we thought. Perhaps I dismissed them too quickly.”

  Aeolil’s heart skipped a beat. “The andu’ai?”

  “I am reduced to guessing, but no fae or human since Miithrak has possessed such power.”

  “Then what can we do?” Her head was still spinning with the very thought of the Old Ones coming back for what once was theirs. As a child, she had believed an andu’ai lived in her wardrobe waiting to devour her, and had forced her father or her guardsmen to search it thoroughly each night before sleep. She wished now the fear was so easy to dispel. “If this magic is as powerful as you say, how can we counteract it?”

  “We can’t,” stated Agrylon with resigned calm. “Ebhan-nuád will be upon us this Midride, the very night of the Feast of Illuné. There is naught we can do to stop that. But, we can prepare ourselves for it.”

  “Prepare for what?” asked Aeolil, unable to control a slight tremor in her voice. “We don’t know what to defend against.”

  “Indeed.” Agrylon put his hand on her shoulder in a rare show of comfort. “A tricky bit that will be. For now, we must report back to the king. I doubt he will be fond of what we tell him.”

  “We?” Aeolil’s surprise nudged away her growing fears momentarily. Not even Guillaume knew the true nature of her apprenticeship to Agrylon.

  “It’s time for me to part with some of my secrets,” he said, leading her towards the door. “You, I’m afraid, will have to be one of them.”

  As much as the prospect of entering his clandestine world of grand designs was intriguing and long overdue, her greatest hope was that the transformation of the skies surprised more than just Agrylon. If this was a product of nature rather than design, then none would have time or opportunity to take advantage of it. She hoped for that, but she couldn’t say she really believed it. Such things did not happen by chance.

  They found the king in his day chamber, his nightclothes covered by a thick ermine robe. A goblet was in his hand, and a half-empty flagon of wine rested on the table by the blazing hearth. A dozen of the King’s Guard stood in full battle dress, their eyes wide and alert. The cheeriness of the room, with its airy design and bright decorations, was dampened by the late hour and their collective mood. The only person moving in the room was Willanel, the Captal of King’s Keep, second only to Vanelorn in matters of security.

  “I will have their spurs for this, Your Majesty, that I promise you.” His words were angry, and his middle-aged face red from ill-concealed rage. “They are a disgrace, the lot of them – sleeping at post. I will not have this in the Royal Guard, Your Majesty, I will not indeed!”

  “Stay your anger and leave us,” Agrylon said, his soft voice cutting through Willanel’s ranting. “I must speak with His Majesty alone.”

  The captal shook his head. “I don’t think that is wise, Lord High Chamberlain.”

  “Leave us!” commanded Agrylon with a quick wave of his fingers.

  Willanel and his men were on the other side of the door before they even realized they had obeyed. Aeolil remained in the wizard’s shadow, watching the king as discreetly as she could manage. He did not look well. His face was drawn and haggard, and his beard clung like a grey haze to his chin. A dribble of red wine painted his lips a bloody red, and his eyes sought comfort in the design of the carpet at his feet.

  “Well?” muttered Guillaume.

  “The news is not good, Your Majesty,” Agrylon said evenly. “Ebhannuád is indeed nigh.”

  The king’s head sagged further to his breast. “Then we are truly lost.”

  “Not lost,” corrected Agrylon. “Forewarned.”

  “He grows bolder and more powerful with every day,” Guillaume said without lifting his head. “He’s come out of my dreams to threaten me in the flesh. And he marched through your wards and my honor guard as if they weren’t even there. So tell me, what hope is there that he may be stopped from his vengeance?”

  Agrylon knelt before the king, taking his hand in a firm grip and looking him directly in his downcast eyes. “I can fashion stronger wards for you and yours, and we will double the guards about the royal family. We do not know if it is vengeance he seeks.”

  The king only continued to shake his head.

  “And Aeolil,” the wizard said with obvious reluctance, “Lady Aeolil is trained in the Craft by my own hand.” Guillaume finally reacted, looking up at Aeolil as if just realizing she was there. “She has not the power or knowledge yet to cast the greater spells, but her il-iiyir is at its peak with the full moons. Together we will weave a most potent defense.”

  Aeolil wanted to add her own words of comfort, but in truth, she had none to offer. Despite Agrylon’s assurances, she had more than a trifling doubt in their power to stop whatever it was that was unfolding around them. It was also obvious enough that they had a clearer picture of the danger they faced than she, but it was not the time to press that point. For now, it would be best to calm the king’s nerves. The Winter Festival would continue in a few hours with the
Opening Melee, and he must keep up appearances even in these times.

  But later, she would drag more of the truth from Agrylon. He’d said himself that he needed her, and for her to be of help, he would be forced to relinquish more of his precious secrets.

  She hoped she would be ready to hear them.

  Jylkir brushed past Caethys without comment, ignoring the sentry’s disapproving stare as she ascended the winding stairs inside the Guard Tree. Du’uwneyyl had been careful since the night of the nyrul cayl to have the wilhorwhyr under closer guard. Not a night passed that Jylkir did not regret her delay in attempting his release. Now all chance of escape was gone. At least he was still alive – that gave her some hope. With the news that there would be no opposition of the Priest Kings, she had feared he would be put to death. Had he been full-blooded human, dead he would have been, and without hesitation. But however diluted, his blood was still partially of the Elyrmirea, and Meimniyl would not spill that lightly.

  Her worry now was that Meimniyl would not retain her power for much longer. The influence of Ryaleyr and Hlemyrae on the other caylaeni grew with each passing day, and with the arrival of the Macc prince and the Malakuuri ambassador, things seemed only to be growing worse.

  She sang the words of opening without much thought, stepping into the wilhorwhyr’s cell and sealing the entrance behind her. Bloodhawk sat at the far end of the small room, kneeling on the crude pallet that served as his bed. He didn’t turn as she entered, staring intently out of the small window she sang for him on a previous visit. Somehow she had convinced Du’uwneyyl that it would be a harmless gesture.

  “Welcome,” the wilhorwhyr said, with but a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  “I brought you some nuts and flatbread,” she said, reaching into her pouch for the items. It wasn’t much, more in fact than the cayl allowed. They didn’t intend him to regain his strength.

  “Thank you,” he said, but still didn’t turn to look at her.