In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Aeolil felt a little ill at ease. “It’s a cemetery, then?”

  “Not in the human sense. The Veil is not so uncompromising for my kind as it is for yours. At times, the spirits of our dead may bridge the small gap between our world and the next, but they are trapped completely in neither place.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Aeolil said. She thought back to the glittering illusions that danced across the water, knowing now what they must be. She felt a lump in the back of her throat. If there was only a place such as that where she could visit her father and brothers.

  The torches fluttered as a sudden wind sprang from nowhere, and the flames of the hearth died away to the barest flicker. In the growing darkness, Aeolil double-checked each window to ensure it was closed. They all were. She shivered in the cold and dark that descended over them, pulling her woolen cape about her shoulders. She watched as her misty breath floated away from her lips only to be whipped away by the ever-increasing wind.

  “It is time,” Symmlrey said, her expression retreating to subdued neutrality as she nodded at the king.

  Aeolil turned her own attention back to the reclining monarch, whose rest was now fitful. His lips were quivering, trying to form words, but only a faint whimper issued forth. The dreamstone was alive with the invisible fire of active iiyir, growing in strength with the mysterious wind, and Aeolil was alarmed at its intensity. A dreamstone was a rare enough thing, but it was not a talisman with this sort of power.

  “Speak,” whispered Agrylon into the king’s ear, his right index finger tracing a pattern of command in the air.

  The king’s body shook, his arms and legs flailing in a spasmodic fit. The old eyes stared up at the wizard by his side, wide and bulging, but rolled up so far into the back of his head that only the whites were visible. Guillaume moaned, his lips drawn back across his face in a horrible grimace, the sound of his cries like an echo of the wind that howled through the room, low and mourning.

  Aeolil felt bile in her throat, and her knees went weak. A strong arm held her steady, looping under her armpits as the world went spinning around her. The dreamstone was a hot coal in her awareness, diverting and swallowing the iiyir tides like a whirlpool and then expelling them again like a waterspout. Her abdomen cramped, and she sucked in a ragged breath.

  Center, she told herself. Find your center.

  “Where…?” The king’s voice was distant and not his own, the veins on his neck and face swollen and blue across the flat pallor of his face. “Where is this place?”

  Aeolil shuddered, trying to concentrate, redirecting her thoughts from the pain. As a woman, this time of the month was of the greatest bother and vexation – unclean and unwelcome, as the physics said. As a mage, it was also the peak of her power, the cresting of her personal iiyir tides. And this day, in near perfect conjunction with the world tides as well.

  For a man the shifts were not so great, the adjustments not so dizzying. For him, the ebb and flow of the tides was steady, measured and constant. Ripples on a pond, each day the same as the next. For a woman, it was the raging crash of surf, building slowly and breaking with fury and abandon.

  Center, she reminded herself yet again, frustrated with her lack of control. She was no little girl, flustered and helpless at the unwitting changes in her body, caught unawares. She could – she would – master it.

  Aeolil disengaged herself from Symmlrey’s supporting arm, unsteady but standing on her own. She found her focus and grabbed it. The spinning slowed, but didn’t cease. The pain eased, but didn’t vanish. She felt her body once more her domain rather than her prison. And even as she managed to compose herself, so the dreamstone calmed its own raging storm of iiyir.

  Aeolil saw the king’s shuddering body and sensed the rift, invisible though it was, as it stabilized around him: a tenuous connection between this world and the next. She realized what was happening with mingled awe and disbelief. This was no dream being filtered through Guillaume.

  “Speak, and then to your rest,” Agrylon said, his voice almost tender.

  The king’s face contorted, his head lolling one way and then the next, his hands clawing into the cushions. A voice not his own spoke from his throat. “Agrylon,” it said, “I’m not… long… for this world.”

  Agrylon smiled briefly, stroking the king’s brow. “Do the best you can, Gaious.”

  The name was a familiar one to Aeolil, though she’d never met the man. She’d heard Agrylon mention Gaious many times, but mostly with an addendum such as that old fool in the mountains.

  “You… you’re in it deep… Agrylon.” Each syllable was its own separate struggle from his tortured lips. “You and your king. The Prophecy of the Darkening.”

  “Tell me,” Agrylon squeezed the words from his tight pressed lips. He drew a sigil in the air with his finger, and the rushing wind stopped, the king’s convulsions stopped, Aeolil even feared for a moment that her heart had stopped.

  “Tell me,” he repeated, his words now charged with magic. “Tell me of the Darkening.”

  In the ensuing silence, the otherworldly voice seemed even more out of place. To Aeolil, Guillaume’s body, limp in the aftermath of his hard fought struggle to speak, resembled nothing more than a talking corpse. That was fitting, she supposed.

  “No, Agrylon – dust off your own tomes, I’ve no time for the stale verse of prophecy. It is enough to know you are in its midst. Left to your own, this you would not have known until too late. If not too late already.”

  “What is your message, then?” Agrylon’s tight lips belied his impatience.

  “Message?” The word was a throaty rasp from the king’s throat. “You misunderstand. I’ve given you all the message I have to give – the Darkening is nigh. You must dispel it.

  “This is no dreamstone meant to impart a vision. This iiyiraal is a gift, and a warning, and your hope and your doom. The Undying King and the Pale Man seek not simple conquest. Ewanbheir has sent them for the secret of the Fifth Devastation.”

  Agrylon paled. Aeolil looked to Symmlrey for explanation, but she merely shrugged. The Twelve had unleashed the Four Devastations upon Malakuur to end the Second Realmwar. Earth, Air, Fire, and Water – one Devastation for each of the Elements.

  A Fifth, she wondered, but what?

  She turned to Kassakan, but the lizard paid her no mind. Instead, in one swift step, she loomed over the king.

  “Gaious, speak swift,” Kassakan implored. “How can the dreamstone help us? How can we stop the Darkening?”

  “The irony, Blessed One,” the voice in the king replied, “is that the plain answer is hidden within the very artifice contrived for your protection. You will have to read the Prophecy, I’m afraid. And, well, you all know how Prophecy is writ – it will be fulfilled through one interpretation or another. Such vagueness is a handy way to tell the future – a shell game. Would that I could speak plainly.”

  The king grasped at Agrylon’s black robes, clutching the fabric at the gold-trimmed cuff between his fingers. “The glamour you crafted was a dense weave, Agrylon – and dangerous. I cannot defeat it. Were I to speak the truth of it, it would tumble as nonsense from my lips under ward of your stolen Word. You may live to regret your clever deceit. Myszdraelh will not be the last She sends to bring it home.

  “So – I will say it as I must.” The king’s face slackened; his chest trembled. “Tell the prince,” he managed. “Tell him, and give him the stone. Ebhan-nuád is but the start of it. The rest will be upon you to decipher from the Prophecy.” His eyes closed, and then opened to focus on Agrylon once more. “But you must tell the prince – or it will all be on your head.”

  Exhaling deeply, he unclenched his hand and dropped the dreamstone to the floor. Then Guillaume slept, his body slack with exhaustion, and the ethereal presence of Gaious was gone from him.

  Aeolil almost stumbled as the power of the dreamstone left the room with a silent, invisible rush of iiyir. She drew a ragged breath.

&nb
sp; “Go to your rest, now,” said Agrylon, and Aeolil heard a note of brimming but controlled emotion as he continued in a strained whisper. “Be at peace.”

  Trembling, Aeolil moved beside the wizard, placing her hand on his shoulder. She realized she had never really touched the man before, in friendship or anger, despite the many years she had known him. “Was he your friend?” she asked.

  “He was a Black Robe of Dacadia. The First among the Twelve.” Agrylon clenched his jaws tightly and swallowed with an effort. “And he was my brother.”

  Aeolil was shocked. Before today she would never have guessed they were even on good terms. In fact, the last time Agrylon had visited the seer, he’d returned in the foulest of tempers, cursing his name from the Pits to the Heavens. She watched as he mutely retrieved the dreamstone from the floor, running his thumb and forefinger across its smooth surface.

  “What was all that nonsense about?” demanded Vanelorn. All eyes went to the old warrior, who was approaching Guillaume like a physic approaching a plague bearer.

  Agrylon barely tilted his head at the lord high marshal. “Nothing you would understand.”

  Vanelorn bristled, but didn’t reply.

  “The gist of it is clear enough, if not the specifics,” the wizard continued, turning pointedly away from the knight. “It seems to support the accounts of both Turlun and our wilhorwhyr, here. We must explore the matter in more depth, but not here and not now. I must prepare the king for his appearance at the festival. Perhaps tonight we may study this prophecy at length.”

  “Waiting gains us nothing,” said Symmlrey. “We must act now, if it’s not to be in vain. Disrupting your tournament is a small price to pay.”

  Vanelorn glanced at her with disdain as he walked over to examine Guillaume. “He’s not your king, remember? None of this is your concern.”

  “He’s not my king, and this is not my land, but this is my concern. What happens here will affect East and West alike, without regard for the boundaries your kind are so fond of drawing on maps. My interests and my enemy are the same as yours.”

  Vanelorn nodded, accepting her reply with the same silence he had shown Agrylon. Aeolil saw the conflict in his eyes, and the fear. For thirty years he had been lord high marshal, and he had met the threats to this kingdom with a calm and guiding hand. Both Guillaume and his father had benefited from the experience of this wise and noble warrior. But this was no border dispute or treaty negotiation. This was something beyond his experience entirely. Worse yet, this situation forced him to defer to Agrylon. It was no secret that the wizard was tolerated rather than trusted by the rest of the Privy Council, and Vanelorn paramount among them. He was no fool, however. He might grumble at the indignity, but he would accept it.

  “Your concerns are both real and reasonable,” Agrylon said, “but we do not operate within reason alone, here at King’s Keep. We have politics to consider, as well. If His Majesty were to be absent from the royal pavilion, there would be great unrest. There are those among the Council of Lords who would see the end of House Jiraud’s rule. If we are to meet the threats of our foreign enemies, we must not add oil to these domestic fires.”

  Symmlrey made no pretense of hiding her contempt. “Foolishness. Explain it to them. The salvation of this kingdom is as much their concern as anyone else’s, if not more.”

  “On the contrary,” Agrylon warned, “we must tell no one of this prophecy. It will breed unrest. We will reveal what we must when the time is right.”

  “If I may suggest an alternative,” Kassakan said, and both wizard and wilhorwhyr turned their attention to her. “I think we must do both. While it is a political necessity for the king and prince to attend the royal pavilion for the festival today, and while I’m certain Agrylon will wish to accompany them, I have no such obligation. In fact, I would much rather devote my energy to examining this prophecy more closely. If you give me your leave, I will avail myself of the considerable resources in the King’s Library. When your duties at the tourney and the Feast of Prince’s Bread are complete, and when you feel the circumstance otherwise appropriate, we may reconvene our council and review matters.”

  “Then I will help you with your research,” Symmlrey said.

  “I think it might be best if you were to attend the tourney as well,” Kassakan suggested. “Unobtrusively, of course,” she added quickly, seeing the disapproval taking shape in Agrylon’s eyes. “You would serve our interests better, I think, if you were watching over the king and his heir apparent.”

  “I would be honored to help you, Kassakan,” Aeolil said hopefully.

  Agrylon doused that hope immediately. “No. You will represent House Vae at the pavilion. The prince is expecting you, as is Sir Calvraign, and you, too, have appearances to maintain.”

  “Then perhaps we might ask Master Madrharigal to help,” Aeolil said, managing to put aside her disappointment. “His knowledge of lore is extensive enough in itself to be helpful, and he has always had the king’s trust. Speed should be of the essence, considering the lay of the sky.”

  Agrylon considered the suggestion in silence, his face knotted in displeasure. “Very well. Haste breeds necessity, after all. I’ll send word to the master bard.” The wizard turned to address the rest of them. “If none here have yet seen the portents to which the lady refers, this very Midride Ebhan-nuád will be upon us.”

  “I sensed a shifting of the ur’iiyir,” Kassakan said, “but that means… I thought the art of turning the tides long lost, even to the Old Ones.”

  “Evidently not,” Symmlrey muttered.

  The hosskan’s tongue flicked out momentarily to polish the smooth ivory of her teeth. “Vanelorn, Inulf and Willanel should all speak with Osrith concerning the Pale Man. There’s no telling exactly what his involvement in this will be, but they could stand to learn from his experience, however painful the memories might remain.”

  Agrylon studied her face for a moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “Vanelorn, perhaps you should have Inulf and Willanel double the Royal Guard.”

  “Aye,” agreed the lord marshal, grateful for something to do. “I’ll see to it.”

  Symmlrey watched as the knight left the room. “They’ll need more than a contingent of the palace guard to protect them from the Pale Man.”

  Aeolil knew as much from bitter experience. She tried not to think about that. The problems of the present were too demanding for her to be distracted by her past. Like Osrith, she would have to deal with the memories, regardless of the pain. “What will protect him?”

  “A good question,” said Agrylon, his attention on the dreamstone, holding it up to his eyes, as if it held some answer to their dilemma on its polished surface. “This may offer its wearer some limited defense from magical attack, but whatever else Gai meant, I don’t yet know. But the morning grows late,” he pronounced, “and I must prepare the king for the tourney. Let us consider this council adjourned.”

  Kassakan took Aeolil’s slender arm and retreated from the receiving room without further delay, followed closely by Symmlrey. Aeolil relaxed and allowed herself to be led. It freed her mind to think about the situation with the attention it deserved, and with the hosskan, at least, she had no fear of being led astray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CUTTING IT FINE

  “YOU may await Lady Aeolil within,” the young guard said, admitting Calvraign and Brohan with a reserved but friendly smile. It was Stefan, if Calvraign remembered the name correctly, but he didn’t recognize his counterpart.

  Once inside, Calvraign hadn’t time to notice his surroundings. His attention was drawn before all else to the shorter of the room’s two occupants, who frowned back at him with a look that could generously be termed unimpressed. Calvraign stared, his feet rooted to the spot and his breath caught up in the back of his throat, until Brohan’s gentle nudge pushed him forward and broke his trance. He was still wide-eyed and dumbstruck, but at least he’d regained control of his limbs.

&n
bsp; “Don’t mind him,” said the taller one, who wasn’t much more than an indistinct blur out of the corner of Calvraign’s distracted eye. He rested a hand on the shoulder of his shorter companion. “His mother dropped him a lot as a child – but he likes the attention.”

  With an effort, Calvraign diverted his attention to the speaker, a powerfully built, bearded knight in the livery of House Vae. For just a moment, he looked somewhat like Bleys. But this man was older, not quite as tall, and leaner. There was a grin at the corner of his mouth, but nothing to suggest an easy humor in the glimmer of his eyes. Maybe it was in that cold-blooded appraisal that a similarity to Captal Malade could most easily be found.

  Calvraign looked back at the underkin, increasingly aware that his silence was moving swiftly from merely embarrassing to outright rudeness. He sensed Brohan still standing behind him, but the master bard held his tongue. Calvraign found Brohan less and less inclined to defuse this sort of awkward situation.

  Oh, gather up your wits, he told himself. Brohan was only treating him as he wanted himself to be treated – like a man. He forced himself to swallow. “Mishtigge,” he ventured, managing to keep his voice even.

  The kinsman’s frown faltered, and then fell away completely. “Well met, boy,” he said, marching up to the young man and offering both a smile and hand in welcome.

  Calvraign kneeled to bring their eyes level, or started to. A firm hand from Brohan held his tunic tightly, forcing him to remain standing, and Cal took the hint. “I am Calvraign Askewneheur,” he said, grasping the kinsman’s hand as firmly as he was able. The return grip was somewhat more powerful and a little uncomfortable, but not painful. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he’d already used up most of his practical kin vocabulary with his greeting, so he settled for a simple and heartfelt, “I am honored to meet you, sir.”