In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “You have your duties, Jylkir,” Du’uwneyyl said, her breath was hot in her sister’s ear, “and I have mine.”

  Jylkir was thrown to the ground hard. A knee dug into the small of her back, holding her relatively still while a thin cord was secured about her wrists, then her ankles. Jylkir continued to fight her sister and her bonds, cursing and sobbing in her despair.

  “Your duty,” Jylkir scoffed. “And what is that? Murdering a defenseless man? Are you so sure of your duty, sister?”

  Du’uwneyyl rolled her immobilized sister over onto her back and shoved a wadded piece of cloth into her mouth. Jylkir looked up, tears of rage dribbling from her eyes, as the High Blade gripped the hilt of her sword and drew it a quarter of the way from its sheath.

  A gleaming blue-green light lit the severe features of her sister’s face. Jylkir felt the last of her hope disintegrate.

  “I’m sure,” said the High Blade of the Ceearmyltu, leaving the bound form of her sister to weep in the silence of the dead grove.

  Jylkir found it somewhat ironic that it was Du’uwneyyl’s own perception that she was useless and weak that contributed to her escape. All her life, she’d been reminded again and again that she didn’t measure up as a warrior. As a treesinger, there was no dispute. Jylkir’s iiyir tides ran very close to the ilyela, and her skill at crafting was equal to those twice her age and experience. But she was only a passable shot with the bow, and a truly horrid fencer. Indeed, children routinely outfought her during exercises. A mere boy of fifty had very recently thrashed her soundly, much to her shame and Du’uwneyyl’s embarrassment.

  And so Jylkir found her restraints not quite tight enough, the knots hasty and simple. If she’d been a stranger, she might well have been hog-tied or beaten unconscious. Or even dead, she thought with a chill.

  Despite her luck, Du’uwneyyl had already been gone for some time. Jylkir tried to guess how long it would take her to catch up with the High Blade, even as she started sprinting toward Llri.

  You’re too late. Too late.

  She ignored the mocking chant and ran, swift and silent, pushing everything else out of her mind except for her determination. It wasn’t long before the Graveyard was behind her, and the refreshing scent and feel of life surrounded her. She could feel the chorus of unheard song from the ilyela, encouraging her to run.

  Yes, she passed this way, they sang to her. Run! Run to Llri!

  She slowed only enough to avoid attracting any undue attention as she penetrated deeper into the inner rings of ilyela in the Sacred Grove. As it was, there were precious few paying attention to anything about them. Word had spread quickly, and most of the tribe seemed engaged in the debate over the war. Jylkir was pleased that despite the exhortations of revenge and recompense, at least some of her kind were opposed to the coming bloodshed.

  Then the Guard Tree loomed in front of her. Duybhir stood just inside the entryway, watching Jylkir’s approach with a disapproving shake of her head.

  “You’re too late,” she said, both chastising and irritated. “Du’uwneyyl already went-”

  The song sprang from Jylkir’s lips as she closed the distance between them, and the rest of Duybhir’s sentence was smothered in living wood. The guard sank into the now yielding bark as if it were mud, until she was completely silent and immobile. Only her fingertips, nostrils, and the toes of her boots still protruded from the coagulating trunk of the ilyela. Jylkir didn’t spare her a second thought. She sang the word of closing, shutting herself and the imprisoned Duybhir from sight, then sealed the door with a word of binding.

  The treesinger sprinted up the stairs, silent and determined. There would be no easy escape for her sister this time. She and Llri would see to that. She could feel that Bloodhawk was still alive. His life force yet resonated through Llri. But her sense of Du’uwneyyl was indistinct and uncertain. The High Blade was no more treesinger than Jylkir was a warrior, but they did share the same bloodline, and she was attuned to the ilyela just enough to confuse things. But once in her line of sight….

  Jylkir realized too late that she could have sung a different door into the cell, and potentially taken her sister by surprise. But, as she had so recently reminded herself, the tactics of battle were not her specialty. Even as she breached the doorway, Du’uwneyyl’s arm intercepted her neck, knocking her backwards and to the floor of the tree. Jylkir’s vision shimmered, blacked out, and returned. She sat in a daze, choking for breath, too disconcerted to summon the help of Llri.

  “Damn it, Jylkir!” spat Du’uwneyyl, all pretense of control gone from her face and her voice. “I didn’t want you to see this!”

  Bloodhawk was bound securely to the wall of the tree, standing spread-eagled and helpless. He was not gagged, but silent, staring with quiet intensity at the High Blade who stood with sword bared before him. The light from the blade was blinding, casting everyone in the room with an unnatural blue-green hue.

  Jylkir was more familiar with the feeling of panic as it spread through her this time. She didn’t have the vocal control to sing a spell, and though accomplished, she was not yet on a level with the ancients who could sing to the ilyela with thought alone. She just managed to speak a few sputtering words. “Don’t. Don’t do it,” she rasped, her voice unrecognizable. “Please.”

  “Silence!” snarled Du’uwneyyl, “You know nothing!” She wheeled on the prisoner, her sword coming to rest on his breast. “We are allied to Malakuur. Your life was forfeit from that moment on.”

  “So I gathered when they prepared me for execution,” stated Bloodhawk. Then, as calmly as he might decline a drink, “I won’t beg.”

  “Please,” Jylkir repeated, grabbing for her sister with what little strength she had.

  Du’uwneyyl ignored her. “I have no love for you, half-man,” she said with a conviction impossible to doubt, “but I have less than that for the likes of these Priest Kings.”

  The sword flashed, severing the bonds of first one arm, then the other.

  Bloodhawk blinked, his implacable veneer chipped if not cracked. “Thank you.”

  “Be still,” interrupted the High Blade. “There’s no time. You must strike me a blow to feign a struggle.” She slit the bindings on his legs with her sword. “And none too gent -”

  Du’uwneyyl reeled backward as Bloodhawk landed a solid blow to her delicate face. Blood welled from her lips and tongue as she stumbled back against the wall. Her cheek was already swelling. “Good,” she said, blinking away the resultant dizziness. “Now fly like the wind, half-man!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE INEVITABLE BY SURPRISE

  AEOLIL sipped at her honeyed tea, hoping some innocent warmth might find a way under her skin. The temperature had dropped with suns-set, even as the winds had picked up, and the conditions outside had gone from uncomfortable to dangerous over the last hour or so. From her window, Aeolil watched the guards as they walked the walls outside. They were bundled in heavy overcoats, their faces swaddled in thick scarves, and most were happy to spend a little extra time examining each guard house that happened along their route. She supposed Vanelorn and Willanel would frown on that, but she’d seen winters like this in the Marches and knew the consequences of exposure first hand.

  “I would excuse them from duty, were I able.”

  The voice surprised her, and though she recognized it instantly, she spun in alarm all the same, spilling some of her steaming tea to the floor. She recovered her composure as quickly as it had gone, and bent down in a deep curtsy. “My Prince,” she said, “you startled me.”

  Hiruld smiled, and the uncommonly serious lines of his face softened. The sparkle in his blue eyes had dimmed to a tired gleam, his carefree nature strangled into something more appropriate for the Heir Apparent. Aeolil had wished for this change for so long that she felt both guilty and relieved to see it finally take hold.

  “I’m sorry,” the prince said. “It wasn’t my intent. I am… distracted, by obvious matters.
”

  “Burton?”

  “No, not that. Poor man. He was a bastard, I know, but I was accustomed to his nature, and it simply became what I expected of him. King’s Keep won’t be the same without him.”

  Hiruld walked over and sat at the window seat, inviting Aeolil to join him with a soft pat of the cushions. She did. She’d seen him like this once before, upon receiving the news of Vingeaux’s death, and sensing he had more to say, remained silent.

  “This morning, I thought I understood my place in the world.” His eyes dipped to his hands, which were wrapped tightly around each other. “Now, I’m not so certain.” Hiruld shifted his focus to some indiscernible point out the window, still refusing to meet Aeolil’s eyes. “I’ve always known the realm had enemies. And I don’t just mean the Maccs – their enmity is a given – I mean the clever ones, the quiet ones. The economic maneuvers of the Maeziir, the plots of the grand and arch dukes, even the small treasons of those within the kingdom, like the archbishop. I’m not blind to it as some believe.”

  Aeolil shook her head. “I’m sure that’s not the -”

  “Aeolil, please,” the prince countered, catching her eye for just the briefest of moments. “Let’s not play the court game. I know the gossip, and some of it is probably worse than gossip, because it’s true. I’m not the charismatic general that my brother was, or even my father in his day, and that is simply the way it is. I don’t dispute it. Regardless, I don’t come here seeking your consolation, or courting your affections. I came here because, aside from Stuart, you are the only one in this blasted world I trust. Even my father is content to play his little games with Agrylon. But you…” The prince sighed, and finally looked her in the eyes. “You are my closest friend.”

  Aeolil had heard and deflected most every sickly sweet flattery she could imagine since entering womanhood, and some before that. But this was no cheap confection designed to woo her senses away from her heart and cover the less pleasant taste of insincerity. Perhaps that was why it touched her, so genuine was the feeling and intent of that simple statement. A rare glint of tears shimmered in her eyes but, almost to her disappointment, remained only a glint.

  “And now,” he continued, “I’ve need of friends more than anything else.”

  Aeolil put her tea down on the ledge beside her and covered Hiruld’s hands with her own. His skin felt cold as ice under her warm touch. “That I will always be. My family has always been loyal to the Crown, and I will always be loyal to you – as my prince and as my friend.”

  Hiruld exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since entering her chambers. “Thank you,” he said, opening his clasped hands to enfold hers. He clenched his jaws, fighting off a surge of emotion with visible effort. He blinked several times and drew another deep breath. “Father told me about the dreamstone and the prophecy, about the danger of Ebhan-nuád and the Darkening. Suddenly I find myself in a most awkward position. The world in peril and me its expected savior. Vingeaux would have cherished the role. I’m left to wonder at the sanity of it.”

  Aeolil wondered too. Agrylon had given her a brief and altogether jarring summation of Kassakan and Brohan’s illuminating discovery. The end of the world could be nigh. Hiruld was the last who could avert it. Hiruld.

  “I’m not sure what I’ll do,” he said.

  “You’ll do what must be done, Hiruld,” Aeolil said, eschewing his title for more familiar comfort. “We all will.”

  “That’s why I’ve come,” said the prince, looking away again.

  Aeolil knit her brow. “You know you have my support.”

  “I’m afraid I need more than your support, milady.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I have thought of this often, and under different circumstances, I assure you. I had wanted this to be a question of emotion rather than politics, but I cannot bide my time awaiting that day any longer.” He took another deep breath. “I must consolidate my allies, and strengthen my hand before clenching it into a fist. I will need your backing, and that of your House, as more than just a trusted friend. I must make assurances for the sake of the kingdom. Security, stability. An heir.”

  Hiruld’s hands tightened around hers. She knew what was coming before he said it. “I must take a wife, and that wife must be strong, and intelligent, and capable in matters of court. In you, I have that and much more. You already have my heart, Aeolil – which I’m sure you know – just as I know that I’ve not yet earned yours. But I ask you now to take my name and share my crown, if not for love of me, then for love of this kingdom and for love of peace. In this, you would do me a great honor.”

  Aeolil again felt close to tears. Not from love, though she wished that were so, but from sadness. No, she thought desperately, I’m not ready! Not yet! She was not prepared to relinquish her independence, to forbear her name and freedom. Marriage to a prince meant one thing – producing an heir, and quickly, then another for insurance. Her life would no longer be dictated by her own wishes. It would revolve around her husband, her children, and most demanding of all, the needs of the kingdom. And though her mind screamed at her to refuse, Aeolil knew her duty.

  “Of course I accept,” she said, and lowered herself to one knee. She took the prince’s hand to her lips and kissed it. She imagined Agrylon grinning in triumph, his pairing come to pass at long last, if not by his own arts. “And not just for the kingdom, or for peace. For you, Hiruld. We will stand together, or not at all, from this day forward.”

  “You’d best get up, then.” He pulled her up off the floor as he stood. He smiled at her, but the melancholic look in his eye marked him a man all too aware that the answer he’d received was not for the reasons he’d hoped. “I don’t want or expect you to change on my account,” he said. “We don’t need a soft happy queen. I’ll need you to be as headstrong and willful as the day we met. I couldn’t bear to think your spirit chained. Let it be our asset rather than your loss.”

  Aeolil felt the barest trickle of relief ease down the tense muscles of her back. She had never seen Hiruld so intense, and she liked it. Maybe, over the course of the years, she would grow to love him as more than just a friend. Maybe. “In public, I will do what I must for the stability of the throne. In private,” she said, striking his chest a solid blow, “you’ll take the brunt of my wrath for each and every indignity my station imposes.”

  Hiruld’s smile spread, easing away the lingering fragments of hurt and sadness from his face. “I would expect no less from you.”

  Aeolil didn’t allow herself any further self-pity. From this day forward she would have to be strong. She didn’t have a choice. She wondered if she ever had.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  COLD TRUTH

  OSRITH huddled against the shelter of a broad pillar, holding his winter cloak tight about his frame as the wind scoured the exposed surface of the Suns-set Terrace. The sky was dark, the light of moons and stars swallowed by a thick blanket of clouds. It was snowing again, and not the flimsy offerings of earlier flurries, but the thicker flakes of a full-fledged storm. Osrith had spent eight years in the Deeps but thirty before that under the open sky, and he could still read the signs well enough. They would be digging their way out of the keep tomorrow.

  But that was only a minor concern. More immediate was the murder of Castellan Burton, which not only occupied the undivided attention of Kassakan but further delayed his promised payment of silver as well. Osrith had delivered the dreamstone and fulfilled his contract, and even answered the endless questions of Vanelorn, Willanel and Inulf. His openness had been gratis, an attempt to speed along his reward with the ready oil of friendly cooperation.

  But still the exchequer balked. The excuses were quick and well prepared: The king is far too busy to approve the transaction as yet. Unavoidable. Perhaps after the festival. Thoughts of the Gimpy Wyrm danced elusively in his head, of a blazing fire, mulled grog, and a rented harem of licentious women, but he was increasingly certain his long-awaited compensation mi
ght forever remain unrealized.

  Osrith snorted in disgust. He’d decided long ago that there were two things you never mixed with good business: ideals, because they invariably clouded judgment; and credit, because often as not, the coin ended up in someone else’s pocket. Might as well work for free, he grumbled mentally, watching Symmlrey pick over the Terrace’s flagstones almost as thoroughly as the wind.

  “What does she think she’s going to find?” Osrith yelled at Kassakan. Though only an arm’s length away, the wind made normal conversation impossible.

  “She wouldn’t be looking if there was nothing to see,” the lizard yelled back.

  Osrith considered snorting in disgust again, but settled for a frown. He used to think Kassakan made a game of speaking like that – saying something while saying nothing – but later concluded that it was simply the way that her mind worked. She couldn’t look at anything straight on. She had to see it from this angle and that and then upside down and backwards. Sometimes, this delicate and careful analysis was very helpful, but most of the time it was just annoying.

  Symmlrey ceased her examination and motioned for the door. Osrith was only too happy to leave the frigid air for the shelter of the tower. Though the temperature inside was best described as almost warm, that was many degrees better than the bone-numbing cold outside. The guards Willanel had posted scowled as some of that precious warmth hurried out the open door.

  Osrith shook the snow loose from his cloak and stomped his boots. “Did you find anything out there other than frostbite?” he asked.

  Symmlrey pushed the hood back from her face, which remained almost translucently pale despite the vigorous beating of the wind on her cheeks. Her platinum hair was whipped about her head, some of the errant strands highlighted in gold from the flickering glow of the torches. The guards stared at her, transfixed. “Not much at all,” she said, unaware or unconcerned with their fascination, “which worries me.”