Calvraign stared through Brohan as he continued his impromptu dissertation on the quality of spice bread versus wintercakes. Normally he would find the topic fascinating, as he was fond of sweets, but this morning it simply wasn’t enough to hold his attention. Brohan, having years of experience in lecturing Calvraign, wasn’t fooled for long. The master bard stopped in mid-sentence and crossed his arms.
“Hello?” he mocked. “Is there anyone in the castle, or have you just left a light burning in the tower?”
“I’m sorry, Brohan,” Calvraign lifted his neck so Seth could finish straightening the collar of his thick winter doublet. He found the raised collar of the garment very uncomfortable, but knew he would appreciate it once out in the cold. “I had a bit of a start myself, this morning.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Brohan. “I told Seth to keep you away from the looking glass until after you’d bathed.”
“I hate to ruin your good humor, but I don’t think you’ll find this amusing.”
Brohan adopted a more serious expression, mirroring the concern on Calvraign’s face. “Out with it, lad. I don’t like waiting for bad news.”
“All right, then,” agreed Calvraign, with an extended breath. “I was paid another visit by our elusive phantom.”
Brohan bolted out of his seat, his hand falling to his sword hilt. Seth jumped back a little and swallowed somewhat nervously, his eyes flicking back and forth between the other men. “What do you mean, Cal?”
“He came to me this morning, in my chambers, and issued some sort of cryptic warning. He was gone in the space of a few breaths. Good thing, too, for I was in no state to do him battle.”
“You’re certain it wasn’t the wine that saw him?”
“Aye, I’m sure,” Calvraign said. “If anything, he was more substantial than before, not less. He’d never spoken to me before, after all. I don’t think I could’ve dreamt this up had I wanted.”
“Nevertheless,” Brohan mused, scratching his chin. “The Pale Man is a dream-walker. He may have come to you in your sleep, invaded your thoughts.”
Calvraign shook his head. “I was awake, and surely so. I woke up screaming before he came. But I am less troubled by the how than the why, Brohan. I’ve been thinking on it all morning. I was at his mercy, by the gods, and not for the first time. If my mother’s dream were true, I’d be dead now. He wants something else from me aside from simple death.”
“That is certainly a possibility, Cal. What did he say, exactly, in this cryptic warning?”
“Excuse me, sirs,” interjected Seth, looking not much better than Calvraign had fifteen clicks earlier. “But if you’ll not be needing me further….”
Calvraign and Brohan both looked at the young man as if just remembering he had been privy to their entire discussion. Brohan recovered first. “Of course. You may be on your way, Mister Briggin. You have our leave and our strictest confidence, I trust?”
Seth inclined his head, and his voice was not much more than a whisper. “Even if you didn’t, I wouldn’t speak such names openly.”
“A wise enough course, Seth,” agreed Brohan. “Wiser than us, no doubt.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Seth,” added Calvraign, walking the steward to the door. “You know how we minstrels can be. More imagination than we know what to do with. Certainly more than will do us any good.”
The door closed behind the shaken attendant.
“We should be more careful in the future,” Brohan said. “I think Seth is trustworthy, from terror as well as honesty, but we really shouldn’t be testing Oghran’s good graces like that.”
Calvraign agreed with a shallow nod.
“Now,” Brohan continued, “you were about to tell me of this warning?”
Calvraign described the incident as best as he could manage. Though he’d been somewhat addled by the effects of sleep and drink, the shock of the encounter had left him with a vivid recollection. He took the opportunity to describe the apparition in great detail, as well as its speech and manner. Unlike the previous visits, this time Calvraign had seen it clearly, and he intended to use that to his best advantage. Knowledge alone wasn’t power, but it was a strong foundation.
Brohan paced the room as Calvraign spoke, chewing at his well-manicured nails. Even when his apprentice had finished, he continued to pace in silence.
“Brohan?” Calvraign said, trying to provoke a response. He was met with a silencing finger and an irritated shake of the master bard’s head. Undoubtedly he was busy mentally reciting every piece of text, verse and rumor he had ever learned about the Pale Man.
When Brohan finally did speak, it took Calvraign by surprise. “We may take some small comfort in one thing, Cal,” he said. “This thing you saw was not the Pale Man.”
“But, Ma’s dream,” stuttered Calvraign.
“No,” insisted Brohan. “Two different things. The figure in your mother’s vision was most certainly the Pale Man. I have no doubts about that. But this shadow you’ve been seeing is not he. You described his skin as ashen and his cloak tattered. Neither are traits of the Pale Man. And the sword. In all the lore he darkens with his presence, in every vision or dream he has appeared, that sword is there with him. Ilnymhorrim. It is his token. I made a careless assumption.”
“Then what is going on?”
“What indeed? The Pale Man still wishes you dead, or will in the future, but this other – this Greycloak we’ll call him. About him, I can only guess.”
“Please do,” insisted Calvraign, taking a seat. “I’m beginning to wish I was still hung-over and dull-witted so this wouldn’t frustrate me so.”
“Well, whoever Greycloak is, be pleased at who he isn’t. It’s still quite possible he is one of the Pale Man’s pawns, a shadowyn or dream-walker of some sort, but it is not the Walking God himself. Of that we should be thankful. And there is the other possibility that whoever he is, he means you no ill.”
“Don’t be daft, Brohan.” Calvraign made no pretense of his irritation. “He may not be ready or able to kill me, but it doesn’t mean he’s friendly.”
“No, it doesn’t. But why the warning, then?” Brohan held up his finger. “Think on it. He said to beware the Ebhan-nuád, lest you die like your father. You, of course, retorted that it would do you proud to be butchered in the prime of your life in exchange for the nebulous honors of a martyr’s heroism. To which Master Greycloak responded, quite accurately, that you would die a fool. Then, flustered by the assumed aspersion on your father’s name, when in reality it was only you he insulted, you indignantly informed him that not only was Ibhraign no fool but then addressed this Greycloak as the Pale Man. And he said…?”
Calvraign was familiar enough with Brohan’s lecturing technique to respond without delay, “Is that what you think?”
“Which you took to mean?”
“He was mocking my father and the way he died.”
“Or he was expressing surprise that you thought he was the Pale Man. You said his voice was emotionless, so no meaning can be conveyed through inflection. Since you believed his intentions hostile, that is how you interpreted his words – a warning and threat all in one. But, if his motive is not hostile, his intent might only be the former.”
Calvraign’s head was beginning to hurt again, and he doubted more of Baeson’s potion would be much help, this time. “Why do you have to make everything so complicated, Brohan?”
“I’m not making it complicated, I’m just looking at it less simply.”
“Another choice turn of phrase for the master bard,” Calvraign said, grinning despite his headache.
“I’ll be sure to write that one down,” returned Brohan. “I rather like it.”
“So, which is it? Friend or foe? What do I do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shall visit the royal archives while you enjoy the tourney this afternoon. If I can steal a moment of Agrylon’s time, that might also prove helpful. Whether the warning is benevolent or
just accurate, we have some time, at least. Ebhan-nuád comes but once every forty years or so, and it’s another few before it’s due again.”
Calvraign looped his sword belt around his waist and straightened the old scabbard that housed his father’s sword. He took an extra moment to ensure that the braided silk cord of his peace-knot snugly secured hilt to scabbard, then looked back up at Brohan with a tired smile. “Aye,” he said. “At least there’s that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WHISPERS OF DEATH
THE Undying King sat astride a beautiful roan destrier, gazing out past the twilit canyons and withered trees of the high desert that surrounded his hold on High Rock. Once, he had simply been Uaigh Malagch, the high king of Maccalah. But that was before he had made his desperate bargain, before ransoming his soul to the Dark for the gift of eternal flesh and a hope of revenge.
A gift not without price, the Pale Man considered as he kicked his nameless black courser up the rocky slope, feeling the weight of ilnymhorrim’s scabbard against his thigh, not unlike my own.
Malagch looked off to the east, toward the Ridge, the shadows of approaching night reaching like fingers out across his wasted lands, harbingers of his will. Anger brimmed in those eyes, day or night, summer or winter. Anger fueled his will, nursed his vengeance, and as Dieavaul had only recently convinced him, anger had colored his judgment, obscured his strategies, and unhinged his patience. The Undying King still saw the world through his anger, but he was no longer blinded by it.
The gathered nobility of Malakuur watched the Pale Man warily as he approached. He found it ironic that they were liege-bound to a dead king, and yet somehow felt disquiet at his own presence. It had not been he that launched the war against the Empire, not he who had lost that war, not he who had lashed out in petty vengeance and lost the lands of their fathers and grandfathers in recompense. In fact, though he had served in the legions at the time, it had not even been he who had brought down the Great Devastations upon them. Still, intimidation and fear could be useful tools, especially with the highborn, and he cultivated it carefully.
Even so, highborn was a courteous term for the vanquished chieftains that passed for the noble houses of Malakuur. These were but the descended sons of the banished clan lords of Old Maccalah, those who had followed High King Gareath Malagch into defeat, and then repeated their folly when his son Uaigh sought his vengeance in the second of the Realmwars. It had won them only disgrace and exile at the hands of the Dacadian Legions.
The Great Hagh Mac had been sent to the fertile Southlands, the honorable Cal Calha, to the rocky hills south of Paertym in Callah Tur. But Emperor Lucian had saved banishment west of the Ridge for his most hated of enemies, and so the Clan Malagch was exiled beyond the East, to the unnamed and unknown lands now called Malakuur. Roughly translated from the old Dacadian tongue, Malagch’s paradise.
Dieavaul ascended the slope toward the small mounted retinue. It was no accident that he must pass each lord in turn on his way to Malagch. The thar enjoyed reminding his loyal host who it was that acted as his right hand and with what dread weapon enforced his will. The reminder served the Pale Man just as well, reinforcing the fact that many and deft sworn swords protected Malagch from harm. Dieavaul admired that. Uaigh had his moments.
As if sensing his thoughts, Malagch turned briefly. His face was still smooth, sun-kissed copper, though carved from hard lines. His dark eyes still glittered in the waning evening light. His black hair fell in thick waves about his ears and neck, held back from his face only by the slim circlet of prismatic metal that crowned his brow. Indeed, there was little to show that he was dead, that he had been dead for more than a century. At least, not to the common eye.
Dieavaul didn’t need his eyes for any such observation – his memory served just as well. The Black Robe Esmaedi had lived through Malagch’s last fateful attack against the might of the Empire. That time, in defeat, there was no Dmylriani to counsel peace; there was no shared respect with any of the foe; there was only Agrylon and Gaious, and the rest of the Twelve. When the Devastations were released upon Malakuur, thousands upon thousands had perished in the indiscriminate fire of their retribution. The sky had fallen. The air had burned. The ground had risen up and crashed back upon them.
Malagch had burned with rage and taken the vows of a thar, a priest-king. Not to Oa or the Three Sisters, not even to bloody Kazdann, but to the Dark God, Ewanbheir.
These were the heirs to broken dreams and long lost promise, sworn to a banner that had led them to ruin. And here they stood, ready to follow again, poised to reclaim the lands once lost by their great-grandsires these hundreds of years gone.
Caedgh Mailéion was the first of the Malakuuri lords that Dieavaul rode past. His ice-blue eyes were steady, observant, and ever brooding beneath his pale brow and jet-black tumble of hair. In his dyed-black wolverine cloak, he bore a striking resemblance to the man whose conflicted loyalties had shamed his Clan and led them to exile. Doona Mailéion had refused to bend a knee with his clan lord, Kieyr adh Boighn, when Kieyr spurned the Maccs to swear fealty to the Imperial Crown. But Doona’s loyalty to the Clans was also a betrayal of his liege-lord, and the family was forever tainted as oath breakers – even by those who had welcomed his steel and his war banner to their cause.
Honor is such a fickle thing, Dieavaul mused. I trust young Caedgh to always do the right thing – even if it is the stupidest.
But the young chieftain of Clan Mailéion commanded respect in the rank and file of the Malakuuri army. He had charisma, and therefore he was useful beyond whatever misguided sense of personal honor he might also bring with him into battle. And, whatever might be said of Dieavaul, he did not squander his resources.
“Caedgh,” greeted the Pale Man, informally. It was not an accidental gesture of respect.
The Mailéion nodded in return. “M’lord.”
“You keep your own counsel tonight?”
“Aye,” he acknowledged. “This is the third night we’ve so gathered to gaze upon our armies.” Caedgh shook his head. “I find no use in it.”
“Even so, best not leave Thar Malagch in the unattended company of the Baign or he might march off to war prematurely.”
A thin smile spread on Caedgh’s lips. “Perhaps.”
Dieavaul left him with that, moving on to the next tier of Malagch’s liege-sworn. Ciarn adh Connla and Orden Fuar Laeig watched the Pale Man pass, lips drawn tight, eyes wary. Unlike Caedgh, they bore little resemblance to their ancient namesakes, in appearance or disposition. Ciarn was thin, face drawn and eyes hollow, and a less-than-remarkable warrior. Orden was stout enough, but he lacked the skill with Craft or blade that had made his great-great-grandsire the greatest of Macc wizards, and the most respected councilor of their kings.
All for the best, the Pale Man reflected. He had killed the first Orden Fuar Laeig during the Realmwars, and he’d been trouble enough. If this man were even a shadow of his progenitor, he’d prove more a rival than an ally. Some lineages are best left to rot.
Dieavaul wasted no breath on them, proceeding to the crest of the hill. First, past Eilis, Malagch’s young concubine-of-the-moment, sitting a braided parade mare. She was at least five moons full with his child, eating a spice cake. He admired the strong line of her jaw and her wide, brown eyes. There was no concern in them at his presence, no fear that she sat here nibbling while the Undying King and his lieutenants planned their conquests.
She was a favorite of Malagch, and blinded by that favor, as her late predecessors had been. She wore a flowing velvet gown of midnight black with a jeweled brocade and lace trim. A tiara of diamonds and heart stones was centered upon her brow, and a necklace of threaded gold dangled from her neck. Her face was plump and flushed from her condition, her hair long and lustrous, her breasts swollen with mother’s milk she would never need.
She was a fool to think this could last, more of a fool to want it to. What lie had Malagch told her? That she would be his
eternal queen? That the unnatural seed his ever-dying body had planted in her would one day be heir to the world? He wondered how anyone could be so gullible, and gave her a charming smile.
Dyar adh Baign was the only clan lord at the summit, side-by-side with Malagch, a sign of the Undying King’s respect, if not his trust.
He is showing his age, now, Dieavaul noticed. His hair was greyer, his skin wrinkled in deeper creases. Not that Dyar had ever been handsome. His face scarred by pox, his nose half-eaten by a wolf, his hair thinning on a reddened scalp – he was not pleasant to look upon. But it was not charm or beauty he offered the thars. As his men often joked around their cook fires: Aye, his nose is half gone – but you should see the wolf!
“What news?” asked the Undying King without turning from his reverie.
“The wilhorwhyr infiltrated your lines. Azgur was seen with the armies,” Dieavaul stated, waving at the massed forces far below, “and Azgur and one of Shakah’s priestesses were tracked back to the iiyir well. Mejul reports that all this news and the iiyiraal have been delivered to Agrylon. But-”
“So you failed,” Malagch interrupted.
“Let’s not quibble over failures, Uaigh,” Dieavaul countered evenly. “What you lost, I could not bring back. Keep better track of your dreams, and I will keep better track of those who walk them, and we’ll both be better served.”
“What they know, they know,” Dyar grated out before his words choked off into a strangled cough. He dabbed at his lips with a kerchief, adding one more crimson stain to the silk. “Knowing,” he continued, when he recovered his breath, “will not be enough to save them.”
“Perhaps not,” conceded Dieavaul. “It might be enough to kill a few more of us along the way, however.”
“And so it goes,” scoffed Dyar. “It’s a bloody war, not a gods-be-damned coronation ball.”
Turlun, realized Dieavaul. He reminds me of Osrith Turlun. No wonder I don’t like him.
In Siege of Daylight Page 42