In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Aeolil felt a surge run through her, racing along her nerves from every extremity to meet like a whirlwind in her chest. She slumped onto her hands as the statues began to shift and spin around her.

  “Milady?” Stefan approached from his post, a discreet distance from the pool.

  She held up a hand to quiet his concern, but left the other on the ground for support. She adjusted to the shift in the iiyir, calming her body even as her mind reeled. What was going on? She had always felt it stirring here, like a self-contained current within the greater flow of the tides. But this was more akin to one of Agrylon’s greater spells – a summoning or invocation of considerable power.

  “Stefan,” she said, recovering her breath. “Find Bleys or Vanelorn, and tell them something is amiss. Bring them quickly!” No sense sending anyone for Agrylon, she thought. She was certain he felt the disturbance already.

  Stefan didn’t pause to question her. “Yes, milady,” he said, “right away.” He left at a sprint, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Chadwick knelt next to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Get back,” she said, regaining her feet.

  Chadwick swallowed his protest as a bright golden light erupted like a captured sun from the reflecting pool. He tripped on his feet as he drew his sword, landing on his backside with his blade out before him.

  Aeolil took a careful step backward, her hands already weaving the beginnings of a basic spell of warding. Standing there, silhouetted by the pillar of light that now lit the garden, she felt the futility of the gesture. She didn’t have the means to combat whatever this was. If she could but hinder it long enough for Agrylon to arrive….

  Chadwick scrambled to his feet in front of Aeolil, the terror kept from his face by years of discipline. “Run!” he shouted, pushing her back with his free arm.

  Aeolil struggled to maintain her concentration on the spell as Chadwick inadvertently disrupted her gestures and thus her focus of the iiyir. But it was too late. She could already feel control of the magic slipping away from her, even as the light before her grew to a blinding intensity. Just as she reached up to shield her eyes, a shadow sprang out from within the light – an inhuman shadow. She heard a loud thump as it landed not five feet from them, and the hiss of Chadwick’s sword cutting through empty air. There was a grunt of pain and the clatter of steel on stone, and Aeolil began counting the last precious moments of her life. She blinked, trying to make sense of it all, squinting through her fingers. All she could see was the gigantic shadow holding Chadwick off the ground with one arm and another, considerably smaller shadow leaping out of the water to land in the garden with a cat’s grace.

  “Peace! Peace!” a throaty voice begged. “We mean you no harm!”

  Something about the sound of that voice was familiar and calming, and the edge fell away from her burgeoning panic. Chadwick was gently lowered to the ground, and the light emanating from the pool dimmed. Color began to bleed back into the figures, and she realized with profound shock that the voice was indeed known to her.

  Before she could say anything further, there were more forms appearing out of the pool’s dwindling brilliance. But instead of diving from the water, they shot from the pool a yard or more into the air, feet first, and then fell back with a multitude of splashes. A shimmering vortex sucked the remaining light back into the pool with a resounding peal like a thunderclap. In the aftermath, the dim pre-dawn glow seemed dark as deepest midnight.

  Aeolil stared wide-eyed at the reptilian figure that stood dripping a few feet in front of her, looking with concern on the unconscious Chadwick at her feet. “Kassakan?” she whispered, afraid she would wake herself from this odd dream.

  “Oh dear,” the lizard lamented, bending down to examine the fallen guard more closely. “I hadn’t intended to knock him out.”

  “Kassakan?” repeated Aeolil, the questions of how or why buried beneath the shock and exultation of the who. She ignored the ribald curses hurled back and forth by the splashing figures in the reflecting pool and was only dimly aware of the woman behind the hosskan turning back to help them.

  Kassakan looked up, cocking her head. “You know me?” she asked. “I’m afraid I don’t recall you.”

  Aeolil smiled and reached out to touch the scales on the lizard’s snout. The slick cool surface was real enough beneath her fingers. This was no illusion. “I have changed more than you over the years,” she said.

  Kassakan sat, cradling Chadwick’s head in her lap, her double-lidded eyes blinking rapidly as she sniffed the young noblewoman. “Merciful Creator!” she said. “Aeolil!”

  “Are you all right? How did you – no, what are you doing here?” Aeolil bit down on her quickly expanding list of questions. There would be time for all that later. She knelt down on the opposite side of her guard, facing Kassakan. “Chadwick…. Is he hurt?”

  “Not badly,” the lizard said, her claws both dexterous and delicate as they lifted his eyelids. “But he’d do well not to exert himself for a day or two. As for us,” she indicated the woman, and the companions she was helping to pull from the water behind her, “we have news to impart. Can you take us to the king?”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Aeolil said. “Half the King’s Guard shall be arriving here shortly. Things are rather on edge of late, and I didn’t know what to think.”

  “A wise enough course,” agreed Kassakan, “things being what they are.”

  “Your news is not good, then?”

  Kassakan only shook her head. Aeolil began to pry further, but her eyes caught the movement of a dripping, muscular man approaching them from the reflecting pool. She blinked twice, in case her eyes had deceived her, but he did not disappear or take on another form. He only came closer.

  Captal Turlun, she thought, her mouth going dry. Osrith.

  Older, grayer, slightly less limber, perhaps, but it was certainly him. She supposed that made some sort of sense, considering Kassakan’s presence, but it unsettled her. What brought him from his self-imposed exile? Certainly it was no trifling matter.

  “Worry about him later, lizard,” the familiar voice grumbled. “I want to get this over with. He’ll be all-”

  Osrith’s sentence fell off his tongue as he caught sight of the young Lady Vae. Aeolil knew that he recognized her immediately. His eyes dropped, his lips curled downward, and the color drained from his face. After all these years, still the guilt held him in thrall. She could understand how it haunted him, to a degree. She wished that day had faded more into the haze of her own memory.

  “Osrith,” she said, her smile more melancholy than she would have liked. “It is good to see you again.”

  “Milady,” the mercenary replied, his voice flat.

  Aeolil reached out and grasped his hand firmly, squeezing it between both of hers. Then she heard the tramp of iron shod boots at the door and turned, prepared to ease any belligerence or suspicion. Vanelorn’s harried visage came into view through the doorframe, taking in the whole scene with one efficient glance.

  Aeolil gave Osrith’s hand another reassuring squeeze, relieved that it hadn’t been Bleys who’d come upon them first. That reunion will be unpleasant, at the very best. She straightened as the lord high marshal approached, gathering her wits to answer his coming barrage of questions. She didn’t begin to know the answers just yet, but she knew that another piece of this elusive puzzle had just fallen into place.

  Calvraign threw away his down coverlet and sprang from bed in one violent motion, shouting something unintelligible even before fully awake. He wheeled uncertainly on his feet, his head heavy on his shoulders and his stomach knotted and uneasy. He fell against his dressing table and slid to the floor, trying to keep down the vomit that was creeping up his throat. The room spun around him, which wasn’t much help, but he kept control with some careful breaths.

  Too much wine, he thought to himself. He’d partaken of both ales and mead in generous portions on occasion,
back in Craignuuwn, but he had no experience with the strong sweet wines served at King’s Keep. Definitely not in the quantities available last evening at the Feast of First Night. As Aeolil had not been in attendance, he had fallen in first with Calamyr, then Prince Hiruld and finally, and with more disastrous consequence, Stuart adh Boighn.

  Hiruld’s young friend had strong opinions concerning each of the wines at the table, and shared both his feelings and the beverages in question with Calvraign first hand.

  The events of the night rushed past his eyes in an incoherent jumble. Had he really danced the shepherd’s jig with Stuart on the prince’s table? He ran his tongue around the chalky interior of his mouth, trying to recall what else he had done. A particularly salacious bit of verse was running through his head, and Calvraign squinted away the memory of the drunken sing-a-long. There was always a chance the others would be too drunk to remember it. He groaned and crawled back toward his bed. If he slept late, he would only miss the bake-off of wintercakes and spice breads; the Opening Melee did not start until highsuns, or thereabouts.

  A cold draft of air blew across his back and he hunched his shoulders in a miserable shiver. “Blood and ruin,” he muttered, dragging himself up to his unsteady feet and stumbling toward the window. To his surprise, it was already tightly shuttered.

  “Calvraign.”

  The voice cut through his cloudy awareness like an icy dagger, sending another shiver through his bones. He turned slowly, knowing already that when he did, he would face the same dark apparition that had haunted his shadow in recent days. It had never spoken to Calvraign before, but still he knew. Even so, when he met the gaze of those expressionless black eyes, he leaned back heavily on the window ledge.

  “I know who you are,” he said, forcing each word from his fear-tightened throat.

  “Beware the Ebhan-nuád,” it said, grey robes flowing and tattered in an ethereal breeze, “or share your father’s fate.”

  Calvraign swallowed. The mention of his father both angered and terrified him. “Then I would die a hero.”

  “You would die a fool,” the empty voice corrected.

  “Ibhraign was no fool, Pale Man,” Calvraign spat, tensing his muscles and readying for what he guessed would be the last, and most idiotic, act of his life.

  “Is that what you think?”

  Its tone was so devoid of expression Calvraign couldn’t tell if the remark intended surprise or mockery. Whether one or both, he didn’t much care. He made a clumsy leap and sailed through the fading apparition, catching only a handful of air and a lingering chill. When he regained himself he was alone. The room was spinning again, and his stomach heaved. This time he didn’t have the strength to fight it.

  As he emptied his stomach’s contents onto the edge of the carpet, Calvraign wondered why he was still alive. Either the Pale Man was powerless to harm him in that ghostly form, or he was being toyed with. Either way it didn’t make any sense. If he couldn’t harm him, why visit him, why warn him? More puzzling, if this creature were as powerful as both Brohan and legend described, why didn’t it just kill him, if that’s what it wanted? He would have to ask Brohan at his first opportunity, but another spasm brought his full attention back to his physical distress.

  Calvraign wasn’t sure how long he’d lain on his elbows, retching, before Seth arrived at his side. His steward grabbed him under his armpits and lifted him up and away from the stinking pool on the floor. The room was still tilting around him as he took a seat on the edge of his bed. A mug of water was pressed into his hand and he drank it, washing away some of the bitter taste in his mouth.

  “I’ll have someone in to take care of that straight away, sir,” Seth was saying. “Come, lean on me.”

  Calvraign obeyed, leaning on the younger man as he was led out of his bedroom and through his chamber’s small receiving room. Seth was nudging him toward the door to his small bath and privy in a fashion the shepherd should have been quick to recognize. Inside, Calvraign found the copper tub already brimming with steaming, scented, water. Seth moved aside the bucket he had used to ferry in the heated water from the fire and helped Calvraign out of his soiled garments.

  “I need to speak with Brohan,” Calvraign said, stepping over the rim of the tub. “Right away.”

  Seth nodded indulgently. “He said much the same about you. That’s why you need to clean yourself up.”

  Calvraign accepted a thick bar of soap as he settled into the soothing warmth of the tub. The tension in his muscles lulled somewhat, and he settled his head against the padded headrest. He resisted a compelling desire to return to the oblivious peace of sleep, to some place, any place, where he could pretend his visitation was just the stuff of nightmare.

  “Brohan said what?” he asked, feeling as if someone else were manipulating his lips. No more wine for you tonight, young Askewneheur, he added to himself.

  “We’ve had a rather eventful morning, sir,” Seth said as he stuffed Calvraign’s soiled nightclothes into the empty bucket. “There was some commotion in the king’s chambers last night, or so says Burton, and rumor has it a messenger arrived in the wee hours with some sort of dire news. Master Madrharigal has been in twice already to see if you’d recovered.”

  Calvraign rubbed his throbbing temple with the balls of his fingers. How much could possibly go on in this damn castle within the space of a few days? “The king? Is he well? Why didn’t you wake me?” he snapped, none to graciously.

  Seth’s eyes widened a little, and he reined in the grin that had been growing on his perpetually serious face. “Yes sir, all’s well, sir. And we did try, sir. Waking you, that is. Master Madrharigal suggested we let you sleep it off. So you would be more, um, co… co…”

  “Coherent,” provided Calvraign, just before submersing his head underwater. He rubbed his hands through his scalp vigorously, wishing he could stay in this sheltering warmth all day. He didn’t think the extra sleep had done him much good. He came up for breath reluctantly, and then set about cleaning himself.

  Seth came and went, taking away the bucket of clothes and returning with towels, some lilac oil for his hair, and fresh woolen undergarments. Calvraign didn’t feel much better after his bath, but he did feel somewhat refreshed. The advantage to this was that he felt his thoughts were clearer and sharper. The disadvantage lay in the fact that he felt his discomfort a little more acutely as well. His eyes felt dry and swollen, his throat sore, and his stomach was still an unsettled mess.

  When he returned to the sitting room, he found Seth awaiting him with the rest of his clothes and a small cup. Calvraign immediately refused the latter with a quick shake of his head. Even the thought of food and drink made him ill.

  “You should try it,” insisted Seth, holding up the cup once more. “Baeson swears by it.”

  “Who?” Calvraign frowned skeptically.

  “Prince Hiruld’s steward. He claims it will take the edge off.”

  Calvraign accepted the cup but peered at the clear liquid with obvious reluctance. Its odor was strong, reminiscent of charcoal and sulfur, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This is supposed to help?”

  “Baeson said it works best if you don’t taste it,” Seth handed him a pair of spearmint leaves. “Just drink it down quick and start chewing on these.”

  Calvraign closed his eyes and swallowed all of the drink in one mighty gulp. The spearmint helped, but even so he felt a cold sweat break out on his brow as he fought back a fresh wave of nausea. With an effort, he un-puckered his mouth and licked his lips. “Gods, that is a foul concoction!” he exclaimed.

  “The trick, my lad,” said Brohan from the doorway with a smirk, “is not to be so deep in your cups you need such a remedy to help you climb out.”

  “Your advice is about a day late,” Calvraign answered, relieved to see the master bard.

  “Yes, well I tried the same line on you last night, but you received it rather coldly. I believe you claimed there was not a cup you could
not climb out of, and challenged me to a contest of dueling gwythirs.”

  “I said that?” moaned Calvraign.

  “You did. And you lost a few bars into the duel, by the way. Not your best performance.”

  Calvraign winced, happy not to remember after all.

  “You’d best be getting dressed,” Brohan said, his tone more serious as he shut the door behind him. “We have an appointment with Lady Aeolil before we head to the royal pavilion.”

  “Is it about the king? What happened?” Calvraign asked, “And what about these messengers?”

  “Now where could you have heard about all that?” Brohan looked sidelong at Seth, who was suddenly quite engrossed in smoothing Calvraign’s chemise. “I don’t remember mentioning all that much about specifics, earlier.” He returned his full attention to Calvraign. “It’s always good to have multiple sources of information in King’s Keep. Be sure to reward as well as guard them. But, that is not what concerns you, my lad. She spoke with Agrylon about you, and wished to relay her information personally.”

  “What did she find out?”

  “I haven’t the faintest, lad,” Brohan laughed. “She wouldn’t tell me, regardless of my charm and persistence. As I said, she wants to tell you personally. But don’t dally too long, other matters are quickly becoming a priority for her.”

  Calvraign fidgeted as Seth assembled the multiple layers of his formal garments, which earned him a disapproving frown from his young steward. It was hard for him to concentrate on Seth’s irritation or his own appearance, however, with thoughts of the Pale Man running rampant through his slowly clearing head. He didn’t think Brohan would receive the news well, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he should bring up the subject.

  “You haven’t really experienced the Winter Festival until you’ve had fresh spice bread,” Brohan was saying, taking a seat and stretching casually. “And not the ones they bring you at the pavilion. Oh no, you’ll want the real ones, lad. I suggest the vendors along Saint Hedhrian’s Way or Peddler’s Row.”