In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Seth found himself watching her a little too intently as she smoothed the cloth of the dress against her skin. It was fitted just slightly too snug for her figure, probably a hand-me-down of some sort, and his imagination began to take liberties with the rather flattering results. He started building up a fire to distract himself, arranging the kindling with unerring and well-practiced precision before laying the first layer of heavier wood.

  “I’ll go for the next load,” she said, and headed for the door.

  Seth’s gaze lingered for a moment on the swaying of her slender, girlish hips as she left the room, then turned back to the beginnings of his fire. He took the flint and steel from his tunic pocket and struck them several times over the kindling, with a little more vigor than normal. It didn’t take long for the sparks to catch, and he nursed it along patiently until the draft from the chimney caught hold and drew the flames upward.

  He sat and watched the fire burn more steadily as the two sisters and Deirdre went about their business behind him, talking quietly amongst themselves. He didn’t know if they had noticed his exchange with their companion, but that wasn’t a great concern of his at the moment. She had heard it, and that was all that mattered. He’d developed a crush on the nameless girl and then made an ass of himself in the space of a click. It had been a while since his last crush, the obligatory pubescent infatuation with Lady Aeolil that all of his friends had gone through, and he thought he’d safely outgrown that stage.

  Wrong again, Mister Briggin, he thought wryly to himself, wrong again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE PRICE OF FRIENDSHIP

  THE High Blade of the Ceearmyltu was not known for her easy humor, so there were no comments from the assembled nyrul cayl or their guests when she entered the Great Tree almost five fingers past highsuns. Prince Ruoughn wore a haughty look of impatience, but Lombarde’s thin lips were close to his ear, whispering words of distraction or appeasement. Jylkir doubted if Du’uwneyyl cared which. If these humans had a dispute with the High Blade, her sister would welcome the chance to settle the account in blood.

  Jylkir had seen the prince and the ambassador at practice with their blades the morning before. Ruoughn’s sword was too big for him to use in a balanced stance, and he favored a high, arcing attack, which left him vulnerable to a quick thrust. Against Du’uwneyyl he might last two strokes. Lombarde, though more thoughtful in his strikes, had a predictable pattern of defense. He might last four.

  Stop daydreaming, she chastised herself. As tempting as it would be to watch Du’uwneyyl do away with them, that was not how things were developing. Meimniyl saw a use for them, and Jylkir knew her sister wouldn’t betray her duty by disputing the lyaeyni’s will.

  “Welcome, High Blade,” Meimniyl said. “Please be seated, and we will commence our council.”

  Du’uwneyyl took the empty seat to the right of the lyaeyni without comment. The council room of the Great Tree had been sung into an oval shape, and the chair-like depressions in the bark all faced inward to the empty heart of the chamber. The caylaeni spread out from either side of the lyaeyni’s seat in descending order of seniority, leaving the position directly opposite Meimniyl for their human guests. Jylkir stood off to the left of the humans, serving as a page for the council meeting, at Ililysiun’s suggestion.

  Feylobhar stood. As the eldest amongst them, it was her honor to call the meeting to order. Her face was still smooth, and her eyes still bright, but over the centuries her soft snow-white skin had gained the hint of copper that revealed her age. “Let us voice the knowledge of our minds and the truth in our hearts,” she intoned. “Who will speak first?”

  Meimniyl waved away her right to make the initial address to the cayl, and Ililysiun’s voice entered the awaiting silence. “It was my understanding that we had agreed to leave the humans to themselves,” she said. Her emotion was plain in the quaver of her speech, plainer still since she had spoken out of turn. The elder caylaeni looked in disapproval at their youngest member. Though not strictly forbidden, it was custom for age to precede youth.

  Ililysiun met their stares with some degree of trepidation, but there was no apology in her eyes. Jylkir admired her for her strength and bravery, although she was alarmed by her lack of caution in such a delicate matter.

  “You should understand your place in this council,” shot back Hlemyrae, jabbing a finger like a nocked arrow across the room. “Keep your place!”

  Niealihu shifted in her seat next to Du’uwneyyl, giving Hlemyrae a sharp look. “Her words were hasty, but she at least kept a civil tongue,” she admonished. “And, I must admit, her question is valid. I, too, thought this matter decided. Let the humans do as they will. We owe nothing to either side.”

  Chastised, Hlemyrae remained silent, but Ryaleyr was quick to weigh in. “The question is not what we owe them, my sisters, but what they owe us. These humans,” she said, indicating Lombarde and the Macc prince, “can help us reclaim that debt.”

  “What is this debt you speak of, Ryaleyr?” Ililysiun turned to the caylaeni at her left, gesturing with empty palms upturned. “What debt would be worth such a war?”

  “Dwynleigsh,” responded Ryaleyr calmly. “Dwynleigsh and Meyr ga’Glyleyn.”

  “They only took what we gave them!” Ililysiun’s voice was filled with a rare fire. “Your shallow excuses reveal the depth of your ambitions, Ryaleyr. A war, even a victorious one, will not bring back the past.”

  “I don’t care to re-live the past. I propose to take the present firmly in hand. Not just for ourselves, and not for my so-called ambition, but for the generations of Ceearmyltu to come.”

  “She speaks truth,” agreed Hlemyrae. “We have a duty to the future of our tribe. If we do not stop the humans now, when we have the opportunity, we will cease to exist. Our traditions, our culture, our Sacred Grove – all of it gone into the pages of history, if any even care to remember us.”

  “Yes,” mused Meimniyl, “but though there is some truth to your words, what of these humans? Why trust them any more than we trust the others?”

  Ruoughn’s face reddened. “How –?”

  “If I may answer that, respected Lyaeyni,” cut in Lombarde with a placating pat on the angered prince’s shoulder. “I believe I may explain away your fears and suspicions.”

  The hair on the back of Jylkir’s neck shivered to attention on her skin. Lombarde was a thin man, tall and bronze-skinned, with what passed for handsome traits on a human: angular features, intense dark eyes, and an even smile. Too even. Too controlled. She shared Ililysiun’s feelings about this one: his passion is intense, but his intents are passionless.

  “We come to you out of need, not out of strength,” he said. Jylkir noted his legs shift almost imperceptibly. He wanted to stand for his speech, but he knew better than to rise before the nyrul cayl. “Malakuur and Maccalah do not have the means to conquer Providayne without you. How many times have we met defeat on the plains of Paerytm or between the steep granite walls of Ten Man Pass? Without your aid, it might well turn out the same. Don’t trust us because we say you should, trust us because we need you more than you need us.”

  “Allies of the moment. Friends of opportunity.” Feylobhar said the words with disgust. “These are not reasons to give our trust. What of the aftermath? You will not need us after your war. What’s to prevent you from making us your enemy as suddenly as you now call us friend? Your masters in Malakuur have never been much for keeping their word before.”

  “I cannot answer for our past, respected caylaeni, only for our present. But let me remind you that as a nation, Malakuur has never made war upon the Ceearmyltu, only on your human neighbors. Can Providayne make the same claim? We want nothing more than what was taken from us, much like you.

  “As I have said before, our animosity for Providayne does not stem from envy or greed, but simple justice. The lands north of the Caerwood were once those of Old Maccalah, of both our peoples –” Lombarde tightened his gri
p on Prince Ruoughn’s shoulder in a show of unity “– just as Dwynleigsh and the northern wood were yours. Why not send these descendants of the Dacadian usurpers back to the coast from whence they came? Why not let things be as they once were?”

  “As they once were?” scoffed Ililysiun. “How far in the past shall we go? Perhaps to the days when you cowered under the heel of the Old Foe? Or maybe to the days of Cachaillan and Lalc Malcha, when it was both your peoples who slowly ate away at our lands through treaty and trickery?”

  “Be still, young one,” said Hlemyrae with mocking sweetness. “You overstate your objections, as usual.”

  “No,” disagreed Feylobhar with a slow shake of her head. “She understates it. I remember the exodus from Dwynleigsh, and the butchery of the Blood Wars, and the desperate treaties with the Maccs of old. The ylohim drank deep of your kinsmen’s blood, but even this was not enough. Still you came. I remember turning even the ilyela to murder, and so deep were they in the lust of the bloodsong – may it remain forever unsung – that we near lost them to the Dark, forever. These were sad times. What reason have we to think it will be any different now?”

  The bloodsong. Jylkir shuddered. May it remain forever unsung, she agreed.

  Ryaleyr raised her thin arm, bowing slightly across the empty room at her elder. “With the greatest of respect, venerable one, I must point out that in the past we made war upon our sister tribes as well, while now this would be unthinkable. We must accept that change is possible, even for the likes of humans. Regardless, the monarchs of Providayne have given us no reason to show them any greater deference than these Maccs. If we must choose between our enemies, why not choose those best able to further our own needs?”

  “Your words are not entirely unreasonable, Ryaleyr,” said Niealihu, “but Ililysiun’s concerns are not yet addressed. What do we gain from this alliance if we are victorious?”

  “Yes, ambassador. What indeed?” asked Meimniyl.

  Lombarde smiled, an action that caused Jylkir’s muscles to tense. She knew what he would say even before his lips parted to seep the words. Like a well-executed feint, he would dangle a fruit impossible to resist, one so tempting that it would cloud their reason. It had to be….

  “The city of Dwynleigsh,” he said, “will be yours, and the majority of the Caerwood. As the respected caylaeni mentioned earlier, it is a debt too long unpaid. We will need only a small portion of what you now call the thinwood for ourselves, and the lands north of the forest.”

  Jylkir watched the effect the words had on the cayl. Meimniyl, Eleulii and Feylobhar all were stunned into open-mouthed shock. Niealihu frowned, as if disbelieving the words she had just heard. Ililysiun’s eyes were wide with terror, for she saw that all her flowery protests were now hidden behind the shadow of that one devastating word. Dwynleigsh. The High Blade was composed, as always. Jylkir noted the lack of response on the faces of Ryaleyr and Hlemyrae with great interest. The very absence of surprise told a story all its own.

  “And why would you surrender us such a prize?” Niealihu still frowned at the humans, as if trying to sift through their unspoken thoughts.

  Prince Ruoughn could hold his silence no longer. Brushing off the hand of the Malakuuri ambassador, he spoke. “Why would we want it? That place ne’er brought us anything but ill luck. We want you to take it. We’ll be happy enough with Vespa and Leyh. If you want Dwynleigsh so awful terrible, then help us set them out!”

  Jylkir almost found the barbarian’s rough, uncouth manner refreshing following Lombarde’s cloying display of sincerity. But with one look at the Malakuuri’s face, still so composed next to the bluster of the prince, she stopped herself short.

  Of course, she thought. How better to seal the edges of their ruse?

  The humans had to know that Lombarde’s smooth, diplomatic speeches would leave lingering suspicions. Ruoughn’s outburst was counterpoint to Lombarde’s well-measured words, more believable because of the perceived honesty in his rashness and ignorance, and thus doubly effective. By convincing the Ceearmyltu that their would-be allies had no interest in Dwynleigsh, it would allay their misgivings about the alliance itself.

  “Your promises are empty,” Du’uwneyyl said, breaking her long silence. Her cold voice sent a ripple through her fellows, drawing them back to reality. “You ask us to pay in blood for something that isn’t yours to give.”

  “I must beg exception to your words, most respected High Blade,” said Lombarde, turning in her direction without pause. “Though you are certainly correct that Dwynleigsh is not ours to give, I must point out that we never proposed to simply give it to you at all, but to reward you with it when we are victorious. I believe our offer is made in good faith. If we claim the day, the prize will be yours. If not, quite frankly, we would owe you no debt.”

  “We would demand a token of some sort regardless of the war’s outcome,” stated Ryaleyr. “As an assurance of your good faith.”

  Lombarde nodded. “You are a shrewd negotiator, respected caylaeni. We came prepared for such a request.” He drew out a bundle of gold and green cloth from between his legs. “Their Holy Majesties, the Thars of Malakuur, offer you this in recompense for you alliance. Win or lose, it is yours.”

  “Jylkir,” said Meimniyl, her curiosity clearly piqued, “bring it here.”

  The treesinger stepped over to the Malakuuri ambassador in two swift strides. She took the bundle, feeling its weight and thickness in her hands. It was a tome of some sort, and she could sense the faint disturbance of iiyir at her fingertips. She handed it over to the lyaeyni with a sinking dread.

  What have these animals stumbled across?

  Jylkir heard a startled gasp as the gift was unveiled, then realized with a detached surprise that it was her own. The dark burgundy of the book’s leather bindings was etched with an intricate andu’ai glyph of silver-blue that seemed to dance in a swirling pattern before her eyes. A sudden wave of nausea wrenched at her, forcing her to look away. Not only was it a Book of Power, she had little doubt that it was one of the lost andu’ai codices.

  “It is called the Lloiuan Codex, I believe,” said Lombarde, confirming her fears. “Their Holy Majesties seemed to think it would appeal to you. Apparently it is all but useless to them.”

  Jylkir was no proper mage, but, like all the Ceearmyltu and probably all of the Seven Tribes, she could recite the legends about the codices from memory. Of all these tales, those surrounding the Lloiuan Codex figured most prominently. It was the greatest gift of mighty Thuoringil, the andu’ai qal who had taught the Seven Tribes the true depth and meaning of magic as well as the science of reading the iiyir tides. And this book, his legacy, lost hundreds of years gone even as their freedom from Anduoun was gained, held spells and secrets unknown and undisturbed for centuries. It alone was worth more than any war could possibly cost. Jylkir’s blood raged, an icy thunder in her heart. This was a gift that could not be refused, and Lombarde and his masters knew it as well as she.

  Meimniyl’s fingers trembled as they caressed the Codex. “A worthy gift, ambassador. And while we thank you both for your presence, you’ll understand if we ask some time to consider your offer. Alone.”

  “Of course,” answered Lombarde. “We will await your decision with high hopes.”

  “Jylkir,” commanded the lyaeyni, “please see them out.”

  The treesinger nodded. “As you wish.”

  What is your game, Malakuuri? thought Jylkir as she escorted the humans from the Great Tree. She knew they meant betrayal. There was no other motive that could explain their foolhardy generosity.

  She was only left to wonder how.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DAY FOR KNIGHTS

  CAPTAIN Vaujn was pleasantly surprised by Saint Kaissus Field. The aulden had never been known as architects, certainly not of the same caliber as his own race. They were creatures of the wilderness, nurturers and caretakers rather than builders, and constructs of rigid stone and harvested lumbe
r were anathema to them. But this place might be an exception to that rule. It took a moment to adjust to the fact that the structure was wood, and living wood, no less, but once he got past that, its engineering was fascinating.

  At first glance, he almost mistook the walls and roof for fitted timbers of some sort, albeit seamlessly crafted. On closer examination, however, he could see no evidence of artificial fastenings whatsoever. There were no nails, screws, or socket-bolts, no support lattices or fitted joints, nothing but a graceful unblemished curve of natural wood.

  Ilyela trees, he thought, songwood. Molded by the voices and spells of aulden treesingers to take almost any form imaginable, much the same as the rock of mountain could be coaxed to do the bidding of those kin blessed with the Gift, like Chloe. He’d heard stories of the old aulden tree cities, like Dwynleigsh itself had once been, but he’d never seen any piece of them.

  At their base, each tree had a girth of about six hetahrs, or twenty feet, in that infuriatingly inconsistent human standard of measurement. As they reached skyward, they bent in a convex arc, narrowing and twisting together to form the leafy roof overhead. It looked as if several gigantic hands of wood were sprouting from the earth, palms inward, with fingers entwined. There were smaller branches weaving between each sister tree, bridging the invisible gaps in braidworks so tight that sunlight could only filter through the foliage high overhead. Any other material would have required a much different scheme of support to be viable, especially at this scale – he estimated the Field to be at least one hundred eighty hetahrs in length, and at least half that in width – but the ilyela provided more resilience than stone and considerably more strength than normal wood. Vaujn still preferred stone, aesthetically and structurally, but he could see that this ilyela definitely had its own practical application.