In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Vaujn chuckled, and the last of his earlier annoyance dissolved from his features completely.

  “What now?” Osrith said. He was glad that the captain’s foul temper had obviously left him, but dubious that this good fortune was at his expense.

  “Sounds a lot like me settling the matter of whether or not we should trust you, not too long ago. Shaddach Chi doesn’t need to earn our trust, I said, he has it already.” Vaujn slapped him roughly on the back. “So I guess that settles that. Good enough for you is well enough for me.”

  Osrith let the conversation lapse into silence, staring out quietly into the advancing light of morning. Vaujn seemed equally content with the view and the silence. Whatever thoughts drifted through their minds remained unspoken.

  For Osrith, the thoughts weren’t pleasant. The king’s haggard face haunted his memory like the last ember of a stubborn pit fire, his hollow old eyes full of fear and uncertainty. Osrith had been expecting that, but not before he’d delivered the dreamstone and whatever message Gai had locked inside.

  The wizard’s reaction to the rock hadn’t set him any more at ease. Surprise first, then perhaps a small touch of sorrow, and finally the gleam of something between expectation and excitement. Not many of those still lying around, Jir’aatu had said. An iiyiraal, he’d called it, whatever that was. Osrith didn’t want to dwell too much on what significance the rock he’d hung on his neck for so long might have, but he couldn’t help thinking it contained more than a simple warning. Not many words were exchanged in that brief meeting. There were no explanations or revelations from that tight-lipped pair, nothing more than the perfunctory formalities.

  But Osrith read volumes in the mute testimony of their eyes. Something was amiss in Dwynleigsh. Aeolil had alluded to it in the garden, Vanelorn’s manner had suggested it as he played escort and watchdog, but the king and his chamberlain had confirmed it by their conspicuous silence.

  What all that meant for Providayne, he wasn’t sure. In most ways, he didn’t care, either. He wasn’t a native of this kingdom, and he had no personal loyalty to Guillaume, but if the weakness in that old man was a reflection of the nation he ruled….

  Osrith shook the thought off. He couldn’t concern himself with things on that grand a scale. He would take responsibility for himself, maybe a squad of good warriors, but beyond that he didn’t concern himself with the politics of the moment. Even so, whatever befell Providayne would have repercussions on House Vae as well, and though he could abandon hundreds or thousands to his cynicism, Evynine and Aeolil, just those two, he could not.

  He wondered if Symmlrey was still in her own bleak audience with Agrylon and the king. Vanelorn had ushered her in while seeing Osrith out. She’d appeared fairly composed, and he guessed she’d need to be. Unless things had changed completely in the last eight years, the aulden were greeted with guarded suspicion at best. Here in the courts of the East, wilhorwhyr weren’t thought of much better. They didn’t bend a knee to anyone or anything but their god, Ingryst, and that included kings and nobles. Her news would keep their interest, and its importance would keep her safe, but he doubted she’d see much in the way of open friendship here.

  Osrith looked over at Vaujn. At least with the kin, there was some history of trust and cooperation, even if it was hundreds of years ago. While they were thought of as strange and different, they weren’t seen as threatening. The human kingdoms had never warred with the kin, at least not that anyone remembered, and so they were thought of as the jolly little dwarves of legend who happily made toys and gadgets in their cozy mountain homes.

  Both history and legend were less forgiving to the aulden. His own father had believed that every sick pig or blight on his crops was their work. Osrith had never been convinced they worked in such petty ways, but he didn’t count himself among those few who thought of the aulden as noble and good, either. Behind the exaggeration of their reputation, he believed there was at least some truth. Ill will didn’t spring up between the races just as a matter of course.

  “I know I’m an underworlder and all,” said Vaujn with a quick scratch at his nose, “so I won’t pretend to know the customs of those hereabouts, but do you mind telling me how they plan on having a tourney in that kind of weather?”

  The clouds were thickening into a dark shroud over the city, and snow had begun to fall in a lazy flurry outside. “Kaissus Field’s got a roof,” Osrith replied. “It’s all made of some fae wood. Keeps out the rain and snow, blocks the wind, stays warm enough if you’re dressed right. It’s about the only thing left more or less untouched from the old city.”

  Vaujn’s face brightened. “We don’t have to sit outside?”

  Osrith shook his head.

  “I might like this place, after all,” decided the kinsman.

  “You might, at that,” agreed Osrith, “but you may’ve picked a bad time to visit.”

  “A bad time,” agreed an icy voice from the door, “and traitor’s company.”

  Osrith saw him there from the corner of his eye, darkening the doorframe, clad in mail, eyes gleaming and lips snarling. Bleys hadn’t changed much, perhaps a little grey speckling his mustache, but naught else. He’d looked much the same standing at the gatehouse the day Osrith took his leave of service from House Vae. It was as if he’d stood around sneering for eight years, waiting for Osrith to come find him again.

  “Bleys. Captal Prentis mentioned you’d been stationed here,” Osrith returned, his own tone not lacking in contempt. He hoped the words cut Bleys like the steel he was forbidden to draw here in King’s Keep, but it was hard to tell through his existing glower if the barb had stuck him. “When you have time, we can settle accounts.”

  “A headsman would settle things fine,” Bleys said, striding into the room. “Or a hanging. I’ve petitioned Vanelorn for both.”

  “As long as they don’t settle it in that order,” Osrith replied.

  Vaujn coughed into his mailed sleeve. “Excuse me, sirs,” he said, interposing himself between the two taller men. “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced. I’m Captain Sul Vaujn, commander of a squad of His Majesty’s Watch currently on loan from the Crown to Sir Osrith Turlun. He is Shaddach Chi. We will die to the last bloody kin to protect him. Well met.”

  Bleys spared a glance down at the kin and quirked his lip. “I’ve dropped scat bigger than you,” he said. “You’re not in the Deeps anymore. I’ll take you and your squad of ugly little trolls if you come between me and justice for Hestan ne Vae.”

  Vaujn sprang forward, but Osrith managed to grab his arm and hold him back. The kin was strong, but without better leverage he could not break Osrith’s grip. And Vaujn was too disciplined a soldier to struggle against an officer, no matter how dented his pride. He eased off, but stood his ground.

  Bleys looked back up at Osrith. “And justice for Hestan’s son, Andrew. Funny how Kiev and Osrith both escaped, though, isn’t it? Everyone always remarked how little Kiev resembled his father – he favored his mother, they said. I wonder. Maybe he did favor his father, but the chip had fallen from a different block?”

  “You think you can bait me so easily?” Osrith pretended calm, but the rage was there, and it was no small effort to keep it bottled. “I’ve heard it before, and time passing hasn’t made it any truer. I failed Hestan. I failed Andrew. I failed Evynine and Kiev and Aeolil and the whole damn House Vae, and I failed Kraye and Hardt that day the Pale Man sent them all to the Dark with Hestan. For that, I might deserve a noose or an axe or worse. But I won’t die to satisfy your lies, Bleys, and I won’t let Vanelorn ease it along for you. You want me done, you’ll have to do the killing yourself.”

  “Good,” approved Bleys. “I look forward to the day. You will have to convince Lady Aeolil to grant me leave – she forbade me to cross blades with you. Until then, I will be waiting and watching. I know why you must be here. But this time, I’ll be here to stop you.”

  Osrith watched Bleys depart, his pulse pounding hot
behind his eyes, and slapped Vaujn on the back. “Don’t get any ideas. He’s mine.”

  Vaujn stood clenching and unclenching his jaws, staring at the empty doorway. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he warned, “or that scurl might trip into a score of swords and roll over onto my spear.”

  “Yeah, funny how those things can happen,” acknowledged Osrith. “And we’ll probably have to watch our step, too. Accidents can happen to anybody – especially when they’re well planned.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A RHYME FOR ALL REASONS

  AEOLIL thought the king’s day chamber looked much less austere when cast by the light of day, even in the wan illumination of this dreary winter morn. The room comprised the entirety of the highest tower in the central keep, affording spectacular views from its four banks of long, high windows. The price of such a remarkable panorama was paid primarily in the cold drafts that infiltrated the room from the seeping boundaries between the glasswork and stonemasonry.

  There were four hearths, one between each pair of windows, and they were fully stoked to abate the penetrating cold. The furniture was lavish, but the oval carpet in the center of the wood-tiled floor, which bore the elaborate crest of House Jiraud, was undoubtedly the centerpiece. The background was deepest cerulean, set with a roaring lion’s head overlaying the blazing golden sun, holding the smaller silver sun in its jaws. The House motto was written in silver thread around the exterior – Peace through Strength, Strength through Wisdom.

  A table with a dozen high-backed chairs stood atop the rug. Aeolil found that the chairs’ detailed carvings tended to dig into her back, their purpose clearly for opulent show rather than comfort; she would stand for now. Around the room’s exterior wall were several sitting benches and small tables, some set by the fireplaces, others by the windows, but designed with more of an eye for both comfort and style.

  Dozens of swords hung on the walls from various fiefs, nations and individuals allegiant to Providayne, and shields with full coats-of-arms represented those allied but not liege-sworn to House Jiraud. A door was set to the left of each fireplace, each leading to a spiral stair and also to four small balcony gardens. At this time of year, all but the rock garden were bare and typically unvisited.

  Guillaume stood by one of the hearths, one hand resting on the mantle, the other on his hip. He was dressed in his best winter finery, as they all were, with one of his lesser crowns on his brow and his ceremonial sword at his side. His freshly groomed mane of grey hair curled about his shoulders, and his bearded face, though wrinkled from time, appeared more wise than old. In everything but his tired eyes did he appear the perfect picture of a king.

  Agrylon stood just to his side, in his traditional black-robed garb, and today his golden chain of office hung ponderously from his neck. His face was its typical mask of composure, but Aeolil had spent far too much time with the wizard to be fooled by that deception.

  Vanelorn paced the length of the room, attempting no such illusion of calm. Within the privacy of this chamber his worry and frustration were plain to read on his scarred face. The lord high marshal bore the weight of his responsibility like a true warrior, but he was honest about the burden.

  Kassakan stood to Aeolil’s right, and the young noblewoman took comfort in the hosskan’s presence. As a child, Kassakan had been both her friend and tutor. Long before Agrylon had seen her potential in the ways of the Craft, Kassakan had gently encouraged it. She had never doubted the hosskan’s intent or motives. The day Kassakan left Castle Vae had been as heartbreaking as Osrith’s departure earlier that same year.

  Most mesmerizing and disturbing of all the room’s occupants was the wilhorwhyr, Symmlrey. Aeolil had heard all the rumors about the aulden and their disarming beauty, but she’d never expected to witness it herself, let alone be influenced by it. She felt her gaze drawn back to those sapphire-violet eyes, embraced by them, fulfilled by them. To look away meant emptiness.

  Aeolil was at a loss. She’d never been moved by anyone’s beauty before, male or female. She did her best to ignore the wilhorwhyr, but the compulsion to admire the precision of her form and features was increasingly hard to restrain. She hoped they would get on to business soon, before she embarrassed herself like a gawking child.

  “There’s no sense in delay,” Symmlrey said, her intent face still lovely even as she glared at Guillaume. “You know what must be done. Do it.”

  “Have a care how you address the king!” Vanelorn’s voice was as raw as his temper, but he avoided eye contact with the wilhorwhyr.

  “He’s not my king,” she answered, “and this isn’t the time to mince words. There’s too much at stake.”

  “She’s right, Your Majesty,” said Agrylon from Guillaume’s shoulder. “We must not delay.”

  Guillaume sighed, staring into the fire. “My own dreams have been bad enough of late. I don’t relish this.”

  “Osrith didn’t drag that stone hundreds of leagues for you to wax poetic about your own problems, and I’m not waiting here for want of things to do. You’re wasting time.”

  Aeolil marveled at Symmlrey’s frankness. People who spoke like that to the king ended up in shackles or shallow graves, and judging from Vanelorn’s expression, the wilhorwhyr was avoiding both those fates by the narrow margin these circumstances provided.

  “Still your tongue!” Guillaume spat, turning on Symmlrey, fuming more than marveling at her brash tongue. “There is more at work here than you know.”

  “As is the case with us all, good king,” Kassakan said, “until you read the stone.”

  The king’s head sagged, but he nodded his head in resigned defeat. “Tell me again what I must do.”

  Agrylon lead the king to the nearest settee. “Recline here and clear your thoughts. I will place you in a trance, and Gai’s message will be made known to you.”

  The king was at rest in short order, attended closely by Agrylon and Kassakan while Vanelorn looked on warily from a distance. According to Agrylon, the dreamstone was keyed to the king’s iiyir, somehow, and would allow whatever message Gai had enclosed to be dreamt by proxy.

  Symmlrey looked away, uninterested and unconcerned with the process. This was once a common method of communication between aulden bards, and her impatience was clear from her tense stance, the shuffling of her feet, and the crossing and re-crossing of her arms.

  “Milady,” Aeolil said, stepping closer to the aulden, her pulse quickening. “May I have a word?”

  The aulden seemed surprised that someone was addressing her. “I have no honorific. Just Symmlrey will do. Your mother proved most kind to us in the Marches. I should be no less kind to her daughter.”

  “Yes, I suppose first I owe you thanks for all you did at Castle Vae. Kassakan told me your own journey has not been without sacrifice. My House is in debt to you and to the wilhorwhyr. Truly. Many lives were saved, including Osrith’s. So – thank you.”

  “Most of that thanks is due my companions, not myself. I am but the last of us left to accept it.”

  “Well, I, regardless.” Aeolil flushed. “I am glad you are here.”

  Symmlrey quirked an eyebrow, then frowned. “I am sorry,” she explained, pricking her index finger on the edge of her thumbnail. A small bead of blood welled up, which she then dabbed on Aeolil’s finger, muttering something in auldenish under her breath.

  Aeolil felt a small charge, barely discernible, in the tides. “What…?”

  “Take the blood like this,” she said, putting her own finger to her mouth. “Freely given, it frees you from the glamour. I daren’t undo the charm altogether. Not here in this place.”

  Aeolil put the blood to her lips and tasted it, uncertain. It was slightly sweet, as if tinged with sap rather than iron, and as soon as it touched her tongue a surge of heat flashed through her, head to toe. She blinked. Symmlrey might still be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, but gone was the unnatural magnetism of her presence.

  “I suppose thos
e legends are true, at least,” Aeolil said, swallowing hard. “Somewhat disarming to know you had me in your thrall.”

  Symmlrey’s hard visage melted into a small snicker. “No, no. The glamour is only a small shift in il’iiyir. Those affected are merely brought into tune with my tide. Those who are strong with their own tides may be drawn to me, trust me more easily, but the charm would be short-lived. I cannot influence anyone of strong will to do much that they’d not normally do.”

  “So, of what use is it here, then? If you cannot use it to influence the king, or Vanelorn, why bother?”

  “Have you ever tried to fight someone you cannot look at? Since most of your warriors are men-folk, it serves me well that they constantly avert their eyes. They feel the glamour, even if they do not understand it, so they fear it.”

  “But it affected me as well.”

  “Differently. With you it is fascination, for them something more like infatuation. There is a difference. But, no matter – my aulden charms weren’t what you wished to speak with me about.”

  “No,” Aeolil agreed. “It is the garden – the place you and the others arrived. It is said to be of aulden crafting. I’ve long been enchanted by it. What is it?”

  “Meyr ga’Glyleyn,” Symmlrey answered, her expression softening. “A most wonderful and sacred place.”

  “I sensed a sort of peace there,” Aeolil explained, “but I couldn’t discern its intent. I knew it was not simply a plot for flowers.”

  Symmlrey smiled. “There is nothing simple about Meyr ga’Glyleyn. It is an ancient and powerful source of iiyir, much like the place we traveled from in Oszmagoth. And it is a plot of sorts. A resting place.”

  Aeolil sensed she did not mean a place of repose. “What do you mean?”

  “Long ago, when Dwynleigsh was yet the city of the Ceearmyltu, Meyr ga’Glyleyn had many uses. It is a convergence of iiyir, a rare meeting of ley lines, and so a place of great power. The lyaeyni of the Ceearmyltu decreed that the departed souls of the tribe’s children be interred there, to imbue it with innocence and peace, and discourage the abuse of its power. A golden stone was committed to the pool for each so honored. Their spirits linger there even to this day. I sensed them from the moment we stepped out of the Wellspring.”