In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “Lady Aeolil hinted that Agrylon might be maneuvering the boy for his own reasons, perhaps to mingle the obviously strong bloodline of Ibhraign and Oona with that of the Great Houses. His father’s line is strong in war, his mother’s with the Gift – it is a powerful birthright. It could be that, or any number of other things.”

  “Is that why you kept this whole business secret?”

  “It wasn’t my intention at first, but my audience with the king was postponed long enough for me to reconsider revealing Oona’s premonition to him. It seems that Agrylon is everywhere Guillaume is these days, even more than normal, and if what Aeolil suggested is true, well, let’s just say I wanted to discover the whole truth before I revealed it piecemeal to others.”

  “Perhaps you and I should have a serious discussion with Agrylon,” Kassakan said. “You part with your secrets, and together we can convince him to part with his own. This is no time to be playing allies against each other, and even Agrylon, with all his mixed motives, should see that.”

  Brohan rubbed his chin, considering the suggestion silently.

  “Meanwhile,” the hosskan continued, “we should resume our research. We have but scratched the surface here, discovered what we need to devote our attention to. We may yet have time – the prophecy did not say that the world would fail on Ebhan-nuád. Only that it would begin to.”

  Brohan had no choice but to concur. His vocalization of that agreement never came, however. In its stead, from somewhere above the library wherein they sat, there came a loud, shrieking scream that was cut off with disturbing abruptness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  …QUESTIONS PURSUE

  SETH couldn’t believe his eyes or his bad luck.

  The Prince’s Guard! he thought in dismay, still struggling with the very notion of it.

  His mind raced back over the last half hour, as if that would shed light on what he’d just witnessed. With his work in the Malminnion apartments complete, he’d reported back to Markus, wishing to recover some of the Chief Steward’s respect. Although the Feast of Prince’s Bread was under way, there was still the matter of the king’s more private feast for the knights and nobility. There should be plenty of work yet to do.

  Markus had no need of him, however, and showed no sign of being impressed with Seth’s offer. “Go find Burton,” he’d commanded. “He’s all worked up over something or other. He’s ranting about unwanted guests and self-important bastards, but he didn’t stay around long enough to explain. All the better, ‘s far as I care. Now get going!”

  So he had, running about from place to place, always one step behind the furious castellan, following in his maddened wake. Then, at last, he heard Burton’s voice bellowing from the Suns-set Terrace, just ahead. He’d slowed then to catch his breath, more than content to let Burton finish his scolding without deflecting any of the ire onto himself.

  “…don’t care who you are,” the castellan was raving. “You cannot simply authorize this without going through the proper channels! I can’t be expected to accommodate this sort of request without word from Vanelorn or Willanel!”

  Curious, Seth had crept a little closer, peering through a small window to squint at the figures arguing on the Terrace outside. Normally a popular enough spot, especially among young courting couples, the Suns-set Terrace was closed due to the high winds of recent storms. Lord Belmont’s daughter Meg and Sir Geoffrey Demaoul, her betrothed, had almost been swept off to an untimely and doubtless messy demise just a ten-day gone. Seth could see Burton clearly enough, but all that he saw of the person he was addressing was the occasional flap of a gold-trimmed blue cloak from around the corner of a damnably opaque support column.

  “You won’t need to concern yourself over it any longer,” replied the other. The tone was cold, the accent educated, but the voice was not a familiar one to Mister Briggin.

  “I will concern myself with what I wish, sir!” the castellan spat. “Now, where is Willanel? You expressly said that–”

  Seth swallowed at that memory. A mailed hand struck out and grabbed Burton around the throat like a serpent, dragging him forward off his feet. That in itself had surprised Seth, because the castellan was not by any means a slender man. Then there was that scream. He could still hear it echoing in his memory, a shriek of mingled shock, fear and pain, a sound cut off almost before it had begun by a loud and chilling snap. Worse than the scream, in Seth’s memory, was the gurgling rasp that came after.

  He’d watched in disbelief as the figure stalked from the concealing bulk of the column, dragging the limp carcass of the castellan behind him. Seth couldn’t have moved, or even breathed, even though he’d wanted to run screaming, calling for old Sergeant Faeldor and all his men. He was a statue, frozen in place as surely as the Sentinels of Rivers’ Run, watching but unable to act as Burton’s body was hurled from the rampart.

  The Prince’s Guard! he repeated to himself, his thoughts back in the present. That realization still alarmed and confused him, but the blue cloak with the prince’s golden stag and lion crest was unmistakable. But why? Why?

  How long his retrospective had taken, in actual clicks, Seth had no idea. In practical terms, it was evidently just long enough for the murderer to turn away from his crime and stride across the length of the empty terrace to the door, which was now opening just ten or fifteen feet from the hapless and suitably terrified servant. He was torn for an instant whether or not he should attempt to flee or remain, hoping to avoid notice.

  The instant passed quickly, and he found himself fleeing back the way he had come, crying out desperately for help. He could feel the eyes of the murderer on his back, knew in his heart that he was but footsteps behind, but couldn’t force himself to turn and look. If he looked, he might actually see the doom closing on him from behind, and Seth much preferred the ignorance of his blind panic to that possibility.

  Seth reached the stairs he had only recently ascended and jumped down them two at a time, thinking only of escape. His shaking legs somehow managed to navigate the steps without incident but were unable to slow him before he ran headlong into a massive green shape halfway down the flight. Seth slammed into the hard scales of the hosskan and flew back against the unforgiving surface of the spiral staircase. Stars swam before his eyes as the air rushed from his lungs, stilling his screams for help. His lips worked uselessly, trying to form words as he gasped for air.

  “Seth?” a familiar voice said from behind the towering lizard. “Gods Above, boy, is that you?”

  “Ma … Master … Mad … Madrharigal,” Seth managed in between his halting breaths. “Huh … help me!”

  “What’s going on?” Brohan asked, squeezing past Kassakan. “What’s wrong?”

  “Be … behind me!” Seth cried, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He could feel unbidden tears dribbling down the side of his cheek. “The Prince’s Guard!”

  Brohan and Kassakan exchanged a truly confused look. “Take a breath, lad,” advised Brohan. “Gather your wits before you speak. You aren’t making sense.”

  This doesn’t make any sense anyway! Seth thought angrily. He took the bard’s advice, however, breathing in slow and steady until he could speak in a complete sentence again. Their presence helped calm him down some, for despite the tall murderous knight somewhere behind him, Seth took comfort in the fact that the giant, scaly hosskan was on his side.

  “Burton’s dead,” he said. “One of the Prince’s Guard killed him.”

  The two stared at him in open disbelief. “The castellan?” asked Brohan.

  “Yes. Back there at the Suns-set Terrace. Broke his neck, I think, and tossed him over. I saw it, and now he’s after me.”

  “Well, he’s not here now,” said Kassakan, helping Seth to his feet. “Why don’t you show us where this happened.”

  Seth rubbed his lower back, which felt like it had been split in two, giving the hosskan a dubious frown. “You want me to go back there?”

  The lizard
prodded him forward, nodding. “Yes, if we’re to find out what happened.”

  Seth shook his head. “But I just told you what happened!”

  “Show us,” insisted Kassakan. “It’s all right. You’ll be safe with us.”

  Seth relaxed. Something about that calm, steady voice subdued his panic and soothed it into a sort of relieved excitement. He swallowed, his fear dissolving and leaving a sense of security in its place. Safe, he thought, I’m safe, now.

  “Back up this way,” he said, turning and leading them up the stairs. Though his fears had been somewhat abated, his nerves were still very much on edge. He wiped his sweaty hands on his breeches repeatedly. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he kept repeating, but neither the hosskan nor the master bard offered him any easy solution.

  The wind blew strong and cold over the Terrace, and Seth hovered as close to the security of the door as possible while Brohan and Kassakan poked about for anything suspicious. The hosskan had become tense the moment they neared the door, sniffing the air intently. She was no more at ease on the Terrace, though Seth would be surprised if any scent but the lake’s were on this powerful wind. Brohan stood at the very edge of the balcony, leaning his body over the railing and peering down toward Burton’s doom below.

  Burton is dead. The thought rang like a bell tolling midnight, unwelcome and persistent. Burton is dead.

  Seth had always hated Burton at least as much as he’d respected him. He was domineering, unappreciative and quick to anger. Unlike Markus, who was severe because he had to be, Burton had always been cruel because he liked it. He tormented his underlings because he had the power to get away with it, and Seth had always resented that. But now, with the memory of that thick neck snapped like a chicken’s, his body thrown off the Terrace like garbage into a refuse heap, all Seth felt was sorrow. He was shocked when the first racking sob hit his body, unaware that he’d cared enough for the castellan to mourn him. He crouched down by the doorframe, crying into his sleeve. Whatever Burton had deserved, it surely hadn’t been this.

  The door opened, and Seth startled with a yelp. Before he could consciously cry for help, Kassakan was there, covering the distance between them in a blur to block the doorway. Seth was amazed that anything that big could move so fast.

  So was the guard.

  “Gods!” he exclaimed, flinching as the hosskan appeared as if from nowhere to confront him. He composed himself quickly, straightening his back and lifting his chin, “What goes on here?”

  “Murder,” Kassakan answered, standing aside to admit the guardsman. “And worse is sure to follow.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  AN UNPLEASANT DUTY

  THE Graveyard was called thus not because it was a place of burial but rather because the ilyela of this grove had perished, victim of a terrible blight a thousand or more years ago. It was a place silent and empty of the life that infused the rest of the Ceearmyltu Sacred Grove. For this reason it was an area that most of the tribe avoided, finding it a sad and lonely place. Jylkir decided long ago that these same qualities brought her sister here when she sought time to be alone within herself.

  Du’uwneyyl sat high in the branches of dead wood, facing north – toward the human kingdom of Providayne. She ran one of her slender digits down the length of the sword in her lap, catching a glimpse of her somber reflection in its subdued blue-green shine. This weapon had been passed down from one High Blade to the next since the Great War, and it had seen near every conflict in between, perhaps even some before. To count the number it had sent unbidden to the greylands would defy reason. It should not balk at one more battle.

  Not to say that the sword had any awareness. Jylkir knew better than that. It could not think, or speak, for though it was most certainly magical, it was not with such a powerful enchantment as that. Its edge was ever sharp, quick and light, and it struck truer than most. It was impervious to flame, undaunted by cold, but always cool to the touch. It was, in particular, a bane to Shadow. Its light alone could burn away the dark essence of the lesser shadowborn. It was all that, and just one small thing more.

  “In battle, let its edge be your will,” High Blade Q’thriel had advised Du’uwneyyl, a century past. Jylkir would never forget that moment, when her sister’s predecessor had handed over both her blade and her duty. “In peace, let its light be your guide.”

  It was, quite literally, her moral compass. And now its ever-bright surface was dimmed to a dull, somber, grey. Du’uwneyyl stared out into the crisp winter that penetrated the dead grove, her mood not much warmer than the ice that clung to the barren tree limbs. Jylkir was one of the very few in the Ceearmyltu who could discern the subtle changes in the stark expressions of Du’uwneyyl’s face that identified her moods.

  “Sister?” ventured Jylkir, looking up from the base of the tree.

  Du’uwneyyl glanced downward, but didn’t seem surprised at her sister’s appearance. “Are you speaking to me again?” she asked dryly.

  “Out of necessity,” replied Jylkir with a spite she didn’t truly feel. As much as she hated the High Blade’s words, her actions, even her beliefs, she loved her sister more. “What happened? Will it be war?”

  Du’uwneyyl blinked, which was the equivalent of an exasperated shrug on her perpetually expressionless face. “You saw the Codex. What do you think?”

  “It is war, then,” hissed Jylkir, doing her absolute best to restrain her volume if not her temper. “And I suppose you went along with them? You’ve got your war with the humans now. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  The High Blade looked down at her sword-of-office, grey as granite across her lap. “Humans disgust me,” she said, her measured tones almost masking her rancor. “Even the slaoithe I understand more than humans. Slaoithe are born to evil. From the moment of conception, their wills are bent to violence and death. Not to eat, not to survive, but because it pleases them. Humans are worse yet. They aren’t born to evil, no divine curse twists their hearts or shapes their destiny – they choose it.”

  “And which choice do you think the Malakuuri made, Du’uwneyyl?” argued Jylkir. “You would choose them as allies?”

  “That’s not for me to decide,” Du’uwneyyl answered. “I command our forces in battle, sister, but I don’t decide when we go to war, or with whom. That’s the ken of the lyaeyni and the cayl alone, and they have already decided their course. They passed the Codex around from one to the next, and each in turn agreed to it – all except Ililysiun, of course. She stormed from the chamber before so much as touching a page.”

  “And you?” persisted Jylkir. “Did you paw over their bait with the rest of them, while Lombarde and his deathless master laugh at your naïveté? They mean to betray us, Du’uwneyyl! You yourself said as much at council!”

  “One human’s the same as the next,” dismissed the High Blade. “We start with them.” She pointed to the north. “And we deal with the others when we can.”

  “I’ll have no part in this!” Jylkir didn’t share her sister’s need to mask what she felt. Her rage blossomed on her face clearly and honestly. “And I am not alone! The ilyela wish no part in it, either, nor do most of the treesingers. But don’t listen to us, Du’uwneyyl. Don’t listen to anyone. Just look! Look at your sword, damn you, and tell me then that this war is just!”

  The High Blade ignored her sister’s command and continued to stare out into the emptiness of the Graveyard. “I know all about your plans, Jylkir,” she said softly, “you and Ililysiun and your half-man. Llri is old and weak. Too weak to hide any secrets from me.”

  Jylkir’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t form words through her emotions. Fear, for herself and her friends. Sorrow, for poor old Llri and whatever she’d gone through to protect their secret. And hatred. A growing, burning, blinding hatred for the woman who sat serenely in the branches above, who was drowning in bitterness and taking the rest of them down with her.

  “Don’t worry
, Jylkir, I didn’t betray your foolishness to the cayl,” continued Du’uwneyyl. “I don’t want to see you cast out, or worse. It’s a moot point now, anyway.”

  Jylkir found her voice, if barely. “What…? What do you mean?”

  In her heart, she already knew, but she had to hear it for herself. Sweat trickled down her face, despite the cold, and she felt light headed and unsure of her feet. So, this is panic, she thought. She’d never had occasion to panic before. Not like this.

  Du’uwneyyl sheathed her sword and descended from the heights. Standing expressionless, Jylkir felt her eyes lured in and caught by her sister’s intense gaze, like a moth drawn to flame. “Your half-man is considered a danger to this alliance. He’s been sentenced to death.”

  “No,” protested Jylkir, her voice no more than a whisper. “No,” she repeated, somewhat louder.

  “Their decision is final.”

  Jylkir closed her eyes. She couldn’t allow this to happen. She had to stop it, whatever the cost. Even if it meant her life – or her sister’s. “I won’t let you,” she stated, the calm and assurance of her voice startling her.

  “Don’t be a fool,” chided Du’uwneyyl. “Why do you think I lured you out to the Graveyard?”

  Jylkir looked around herself, at the cemetery of dead wood that surrounded them, her realization turning from astonishment to fury. There was no living ilyela for her to call upon, to reach down and subdue Du’uwneyyl while she rescued Bloodhawk. She was too far away to warn Llri. And she was no match for her sister in hand-to-hand combat. They were both well aware of that.

  She lured me here? Jylkir raged at herself. Of course she did, a calm, almost mocking part of her mind answered. She knew you’d be curious about the outcome of the council meeting. She knew you’d seek her out here, in her most private place. She knew you’d try to stop her. She beat you, like she always does.

  Jylkir’s next cry was unintelligible. She threw herself at Du’uwneyyl with all of her strength, striking out with her fists as best she knew how. But her sister was High Blade. Jylkir’s blows were shunted aside with ease, and she screeched in pain as her arms were twisted behind her back, immobilized in a merciless, iron grip. The treesinger kept struggling, despite the pain and the obvious futility. She wouldn’t give up – she couldn’t.