She set the food down next to his pallet, following his eyes as they gazed at the sky. The clouds hung like wispy curtains framing the stars and moons above. She frowned when she saw the comet streaking its way across the heavens.
“An ill omen, if you believe in such things,” said Bloodhawk, mirroring her thoughts.
“What is it?”
The halfblood finally turned toward her then, leaving the spectacle above to his back. “Signs. Portents.” He smiled wanly. “And none good, I’m afraid.”
“I thought you held little stock in the lay of the stars and sky.”
“Very little,” he confirmed, “but I am wary of things that alter it out of hand. It is many years yet before we should see the Bringer of War again. And the moons, they rush through their phases. These things may not foretell our future, but they are certainly reflecting our present.”
Jylkir looked past him into the night. She was not surprised to see that he was right. It’s all wrong, she thought. The andu’ai had once aligned the stars to affect the outcomes of their greater spells. At one time her people had done the same. Such meddling was often as dangerous to the caster as the victims, however. Who wields such forgotten powers now?
“You don’t think someone is trying to turn the tides?” she asked.
“It matters little what I think,” he said dryly. “Look at what’s before you. The Pale Man is about, there’s an iiyir-well tapped in Malakuur, andu’ai are on the march, the winter is early and unduly harsh, an unstoppable plague is creeping across the Realms, and now the skies themselves turn traitor. Do you think all that coincidence?”
“Of course not,” she said. “No more than I think this arranged truce with the Maccs and the Priest Kings is coincidence. But against such power, what am I to do? It is all I can manage to sneak you an extra piece of bread.”
“More than I, at least,” said Bloodhawk. “We must hope my friends were more successful in our plan. If Malakuur has agents amongst you, then most certainly it has them in Providayne. But I haven’t given up hope just yet. I cannot believe that the Ceearmyltu will long be fooled by this pretense of friendship. Eventually some of your kind will see the error in this course and take steps to change it. Until then, we can only wait and plan for our opportunity.” He popped a nut into his mouth and tore off a piece of flatbread. “Why don’t you tell me about your new friends?”
Jylkir turned away from the window. It was easier to focus on the smaller aspects of their dilemma when she wasn’t faced with the evidence of its enormity. “They have ever been a war-like people, the Maccs, but not evil. Not like these men who have come before us.
“Prince Ruoghen is young and arrogant, but he’s taken his fair share of skulls in battle – warriors of note, Du’uwneyyl says – and he’s walked Kazdann’s Fire. His bloodlust has him at odds with his mother, the Iron Queen, but he has the loyalty of many in their clan.”
“He’s walked the fire?” asked Bloodhawk, leaning forward. “And how many has he taken? How many skulls?”
Jylkir thought for a moment, trying to remember the procession of his grand entrance. It had been a gruesome pageant. “Ten or twelve,” she finally said. “There were two rows of skull-bearers, his honor guard, and they bore them along on pikes, with trailing banners.”
“Thirteen would give him claim for a legitimate challenge,” he mused. “That’s the ancient measure of a chieftan: bloodline of the clan lords, thirteen skulls and Kazdann’s blessing. You’re sure it wasn’t thirteen? He didn’t wear a skull on his cuirass or helm?”
Jylkir shook her head. “Twelve, I think.”
Bloodhawk hissed and frowned. “A man with ten skulls is not yet desperate for his last. A man with thirteen may have greater power, but he’s more careful when he uses it, more predictable, because he fears losing it. A man with twelve is most dangerous, both desperate and eager. He can be unpredictable. What of the other, the Malakuuri?”
“Lombarde, he is named. He’s a worse sort, I think. He has an air of calm about him, and intellect, and his words are full of reassuring eloquence. He has stirred many a sleeping heart with his pleas for justice, but I don’t trust him. The trees don’t trust him. I don’t know why. He is more reasonable than Ruoughen, and more intelligent, but there is something about him. Something cold and….” She shrugged. “I don’t trust him.”
“Wise enough. Do they bring terms?”
“They claim no quarrel with us, pretending to seek only their just revenge on Providayne.”
“Probably true, for the moment,” put in Bloodhawk. “You’re far too valuable as allies for now.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and despite Meimniyl’s insistence on non-interference, I sense that Ryaleyr looks at the Maccs much as they look at her. Not so much a trusted ally as a useful, and ultimately disposable, tool. One or both sides will suffer for that, in the end.”
“Ideally both, for the Priest Kings,” Bloodhawk muttered. “And although my comrades may have warned Providayne of the trouble on their western front, none know of any threat from the south.”
“But they are already at war with the Maccs,” Jylkir said, puzzled. “Won’t they be alert for trouble from the south?”
Bloodhawk shook his head. “No, not from this quarter. Throughout the wars between the northern and southern kingdoms, the battleground has always been the plains of Paerytm. The deep reaches of the Caerwood are thought filled with vengeful elves and black magics, and no sane general would take an army through it. With an alliance, the Maccs will come unhindered through your lands and attack the soft underbelly of Providayne. No one has ever thought such an alliance possible, myself included, so no one will be prepared for it.”
“And if the humans over-commit to the west?”
“Aye, a nice trap.” Bloodhawk crunched another nut between his teeth. “And who’s to say this Macc Queen won’t take advantage of her wayward son’s attack and press in on the southeastern border? Whatever their dispute, she’d likely forget or forgive it for such an opportunity. And then Providayne will become a clear example of Ebiqitek’s first maxim of warfare: it’s hard to win a battle with a front at your back. It is a questionable pun, but a sound observation.”
“What are we to do?” Jylkir felt an empty sense of hopelessness settling into her belly. “I am only a treesinger. I don’t have skill at war, or powerful magic, or influence with the cayl. I don’t see what chance we have to avert this war. It appears a flawless strategy.”
“No,” said Bloodhawk, his mouth full of bread. “If you’ll forgive me quoting the Warmaster again, every perfect plan has at least one flaw. The weak link for this one lies in their supply lines. Conquest could quickly turn to retreat if their lines of communication and supply are cut off. I don’t know how many Maccs this Ruoghen has to command, but the forces we spied to the west were too large to live off the land for any length of time.”
“Yes, but locked in here, you aren’t likely to warn anyone of the danger. And without warning….” She saw no need to state the obvious.
“I’ve no clever words or quotes to answer that,” Bloodhawk agreed. “Which leads us to the next matter. We must start planning our escape.”
Jylkir didn’t answer for a moment. She returned his gaze with an open-mouthed incredulity. “Escape?” she said, then more emphatically, “We?”
“I will need your help,” he said evenly, “and I doubt you will be much welcome here after that. For a time, anyway.”
“Bloodhawk.” She sighed. She doubted she could be of any assistance. Not with Du’uwneyyl’s watchful eyes always on her back. “You overestimate me.”
“I think not,” he said, still assured in both his speech and demeanor. “Perhaps you underestimate yourself?”
Jylkir closed her eyes. She wanted to help him, she truly did, but she couldn’t see how. She could open the way out of the Guard Tree, but from there he would have to fight or sneak his way through the entire tribe. That would be no mean feat. An
d then there was the ever-present shadow of her sister. Du’uwneyyl was the finest warrior of the Eastern Tribes, a champion several times over at the Finn Gaeal in both bow and blade. And she could track any living thing to the ends of her forest.
“Do you even have the strength?” she asked.
“I believe I can manage,” he said.
Jylkir closed her mouth into a puzzled frown, noting for the first time in her visit that his eyes were clear of fever and his skin no longer paled by sickness or fatigue. When had he recovered from the hrummish poison? On his meager diet, even with her clandestine supplements, he should still be weak. “How?” she said, puzzled.
“You are not the only one here who doesn’t trust the new allies of the cayl, remember?” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He caressed the smooth interior bark of the Guard Tree with the fingers of his right hand. “I have shared strength with your old friend, Llri.”
Jylkir kept her mouth from falling open again with a conscious effort. She had heard of the wilhorwhyr before, allies that they were in the Blood Wars, but she had never met one before Bloodhawk. They were a people of the west, predominantly. Most of the Ceearmyltu, and the other Eastern Tribes, considered their mythical abilities just that, stories that had expanded over the centuries from mere exaggeration into accepted lore. It was not an easy thing for her people to accept that humans might have the aptitude to intrude in their ancient ways. The thought left even her apprehensive and skeptical.
“You have spoken to her?” she asked, but even as the question left her lips, it was answered by the warmth and peace that flowed up and into her from the wood at her feet.
Bloodhawk shook his head. “I had some small experience with the ilyela of the Elyrmirea, enough to know they are not the common trees of the wood. Yet I could not truly speak with her, not sing to her, at least not in the same fashion as you,” he said. “But I am aware of her being, as she is of mine. That proved to be enough.”
The humming of her precious Llri echoed the sincerity of his words. Any doubts she may have harbored, whether of her own ability or of Bloodhawk’s veracity, fell away at that sweet silent song. The ilyela were displeased, their songs saddened or absent in the wake of these welcomed intruders. She and Ililysiun had discussed that very topic the previous night, though the caylaeni had expressed no optimism that these concerns would be taken seriously by the lyaeyni or the cayl.
The ilyela didn’t wish to wait for the Ceearmyltu. They had come up with a strategy of their own.
“I will do what I can,” she said, still not certain what that could be.
“Good,” the wilhorwhyr responded, looking back out the window. “Then let’s be about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SHADES OF MEMORY
AEOLIL hugged the white shawl about her shoulders and suppressed a shiver. The wool was somewhat natty around the edges, but it had served to keep her warm since she was fifteen, and it provided a familiar comfort along with simple warmth. At the moment, the former was far more valuable, if equally scarce. Sleep had been elusive after her meeting with Agrylon and the king, despite the overwhelming exhaustion that hung leaden on her limbs. The dreams of her childhood had come back to torment her, of andu’ai and shadow beasts gnawing on her bones, given new life by the events of the previous few hours.
Worst of all the nightmares, her father’s horse, rider-less and foam-mouthed, pulling up grass before the walls of Castle Vae. That day had not haunted her memory so vividly for years. Possibly the conversation with Calvraign from a few nights past had sparked the recurrence of those ugly images, or possibly it was only a manifestation of more recent fears. Whatever the reason, she had given up on rest and dressed herself in her warmest garments for a visit to the garden. There she might find a chance at some peace.
Aeolil shooed away her bleary-eyed attendants who were awakened by the stir of her preparations. They were only too happy to return to their adjoining room and enjoy perhaps another hour of sleep. As she stepped into the hall, Chadwick was there immediately to greet her. Stefan stood a step or two behind his elder, both positioned conveniently to block her egress.
“For goodness’ sake, milady,” Sir Chadwick said, already exasperated in his first sentence. “What are you doing?”
“I cannot sleep,” she said with just the right amount of early morning hauteur, “and I wish to visit the garden.”
Chadwick and Stefan were not pleased, if she read their glances correctly. Bleys was not known for his forgiving tongue, and they had received more than enough verbal lashings in the past ten-day. Now, after the assassination attempt on Calvraign, the captal walked a fine line between wary and wrathful. Neither wished to be the cause of pushing him over that line, but of late Aeolil tread within a thin enough margin of her own.
“Captal Malade left very strict instructions regarding your safety, milady,” said Chadwick. His words were cautious, but not hesitant. “I think it would go easier for all of us if we followed them.”
“Am I to infer that he forbade you to allow me leave of my quarters?” she asked.
“The captal requested that you remain in your rooms until such time as he joins us. After the attempt on Sir Calvraign, he wishes you not to take liberty with your safety.”
“Nevertheless,” she said archly, “I am going to the garden.” She knew this put them in an awkward spot, caught between the wishes of their liege-lady and their superior officer, and she regretted that. She knew the quiet young Stefan had already taken more than his share of the captal’s anger, and would take more of the same without comment. She had known Chadwick for some years, and didn’t wish to cause him any undue friction with Bleys. But neither would she allow herself to be confined against her will. “Unless you intend to restrain me?”
Chadwick shrugged at Stefan and spread his arms helplessly before Aeolil. “You know I will not, milady. But please, reconsider this.”
“I appreciate your situation,” she said, “and I apologize for putting you in it, but I am going whether it pleases Bleys or not.”
“Very well.” Chadwick sighed. “Off to the garden we go.”
It was a few clicks before they were on their way. Chadwick had to make arrangements for the relief guards to take up position at her door to mask her absence, and leave a message for Captal Malade in the event he arrived before their return. Aeolil felt another pang of remorse for Chadwick. He was already sacrificing much-needed sleep and he would be fighting in the Champions’ Melee in but two days’ time. She doubted that this added stress would help his mental preparations. She wondered whom he had drawn as an opponent for the first round.
“I believe we’re ready, milady,” he said, almost forlornly.
She swallowed her guilt and nodded. “Very well. Let’s be on our way.”
There weren’t many astir in the castle at this hour, save for the odd servant or two and the guards, who seemed both more numerous and more alert than normal. She tried putting the revelations of the past day or two in perspective. It was hard for her to account for so much happening in so little time. Just yesterday, she had learned of Calvraign’s ordeal and at least some of Agrylon’s plans for him, attended the Parade of the Lists and the Commencement Ceremony, and been awakened from a troubled sleep to learn she hadn’t been nearly as troubled as she ought to have been. If events unfolded at this pace consistently, it could turn out to be the longest ten-day of her life.
Chadwick went on ahead as they walked the last few feet toward the garden door and motioned her to wait. She complied, containing her impatience to avoid yet another argument. The knight spent at least ten clicks in the garden before returning with a nod of approval. It seemed an unlikely place for trouble, but considering recent events, she thought better of second-guessing his caution.
Aeolil hurried down the steps into the garden, holding up the dancing hem of her skirts. The suns yet slept, but even in darkness this was a beautiful place. A beam of moonlight happened through
the clouds, glimmering on the reflecting pool and the statues frozen in a stationary frolic around it. The tree leaves rustled in the lake breeze, whispering amongst themselves. She breathed in the thick scents around her and held the moment in her consciousness. When next she felt the whirlpool of fear and doubt, she would have this moment of uncomplicated peace to steady her.
She circled the pool, winding between the stone children, her eyes wandering across the fluid lines of inscriptions around the perimeter of the water. She wondered if this was a dialect with which Artygalle was familiar. He had spoken some of the aulden tongue. Perhaps he could read their script as well, and translate for her. She would love to know the origin and meaning of this place. From the innocence of the statues, to the choice and placement of the vegetation, to the golden stones that glittered beneath the water, such care was taken with its design, she found it hard to believe that it had always been simply a garden.
When she first discovered the garden, years ago, her entourage had discouraged her from frequenting it. The feeling of peace that she felt translated to unease for some, her fascination to disdain. The illusions that sometimes skipped across the surface of the water were not so much intriguing as terrifying to most of the court. The fact that it was considered forbidden fed her desire to spend time here, and over the years that childish want had evolved into a mature appreciation of its wonder. Here, all the complexities of her life, all the choices, seemed simpler.
Aeolil sat down in front of the pool and shut her eyes, trying to lose herself in that simplicity, to enjoy the luxury of thought and analysis without the distraction of worry or a preoccupation with consequence. This place had served her well in the past to contemplate the intricacies of politics and the ramifications of her marriage to this suitor or that, but now the strands she examined were of even broader significance. Calvraign, Agrylon and Myszdraelh, the onset of Ebhan-nuád, and the apparition that threatened the king. She searched for the connections and their relation to each other. It would all make sense when viewed in the proper light, or from the appropriate angle. All the pieces would fit together.
In Siege of Daylight Page 40