He’d appreciated Du’uwneyyl’s advice but not heeded it. He could no more fly away from his duty than she could shirk hers. And though, at the moment, he did not know what that might entail precisely, the Macc camp was a logical and convenient first step. If he could not watch the Ceearmyltu directly, he would watch their new allies.
Prince Ruoughn and his men numbered about fifty. Not a large battle contingent, and certainly not enough to threaten the Ceearmyltu, but it was a respectable honor guard and enough to dissuade attack. The Malakuuri ambassador was less guarded, with only a dozen knights in his retinue. But one thing of both camps was evident: these were hardened men of battle, not an honor guard of prestige and rank, but blooded warriors all.
The prince and the ambassador had recently returned from the Grove, to much fanfare. The soldiers beat their shields and pumped their spears in the air with loud battle cries. Bloodhawk had not quite gotten close enough to hear whatever announcement brought forth their martial display, but it was clear that they were preparing for battle.
Part of the fir tree seemed to flinch beside him, and Jylkir settled next to him on a parallel branch. The needles of the fir were still thick, and concealed them from the distracted foe beneath.
“She’s near,” whispered Jylkir.
Bloodhawk nodded and pointed to an adjacent tree, where the limbs dipped close. A pair of tree-napes were grooming each other, their dexterous paws combing through molting fur and discarding the dun coat of autumn for the smooth white of winter. Their oddly human expressions were unconcerned with the commotion beneath the boughs, or with the graceful shape that flitted behind them.
“That’s impressive,” Jylkir admitted.
Bloodhawk didn’t answer. He liked Jylkir, and he trusted her, but he saw no gain in revealing how he could expand and extend his senses, or from where he could draw assistance, if needed. Secrecy, silence and mystique had their uses.
One of the napes made a squeak like a giggle as it found a particularly large bug in its mate’s mane, and then sucked the insect into its small, sharp teeth with a crunch.
Thank you, he said silently, touching the bright light of the tree-napes’ minds. In response to his unspoken words, they skittered into the safety of the higher branches, clutching armfuls of collected fur that would soon line their nest.
Du’uwneyyl alighted on the branch above him without stirring so much as a needle. She crouched with her hands between her feet, ready to spring.
“You’re in a hurry,” commented Bloodhawk.
“I’m not trusted, half-man,” she hissed, glaring at him from her bruised and swollen face. “And I don’t know who to trust. Even my Blades…” She finished her thought only with a scowl. “I could not risk sending word by root – the treesingers are under too close a watch. I’m here under pretense of spying on our new friends, so I haven’t long.”
“They are girding for battle,” Bloodhawk prompted.
“They are preparing to strike the humans in Dwynleigsh during some gathering on midweek day. Tomorrow.”
“The Feast of Illuné,” said Bloodhawk. “It is a holy day in their church. But this Midride? It is several days to Dwynleigsh yet from here, even at a brisk pace.”
The High Blade arched an eyebrow. “Not through rainbows.”
“But the Ways are closed to such a long journey,” protested Bloodhawk. “The Sundering–”
“The codex conveniently contains a spell that will open a way-gate,” explained Du’uwneyyl. “Briefly, but long enough.”
“Nothing so suspicious as a convenient gift,” Bloodhawk agreed. “The thars played that hand well.”
“Burn me,” cursed Jylkir. “There will be no means to warn them in time.”
“I go first, with a vanguard of our best warriors. Ililysiun and the main host will follow. Ruoughn will take an honor guard of men through the Way. Men,” Du’uwneyyl repeated in disgust. “If they don’t rot Faerie as they pass, Ryaleyr will take through one final cadre after them.”
“Ililysiun will lead…?” Jylkir almost choked on the word. “But she-”
“Precisely,” said Du’uwneyyl. “She cannot refuse, or she will be cast out. If she lives, she will be broken by her deeds and useless, or so they hope. If she dies, no matter to them.”
“And you?” asked Bloodhawk.
“I will have to trust that some of my Blades remain loyal to me above this twisted cayl we now follow. Still – like as not I will die on the morrow.”
“No,” Jylkir cried. “No. Then do not go.”
“I am High Blade. I lead the tribe in battle.”
“But–”
“Jylkir,” rebuked Du’uwneyyl. “Do you think I have not considered this?” She tapped the hilt of her sword. “I am guided on this course. I freed the half-man, but I am not free myself. I go to war, for whatever purpose.”
“That you must go may be clear,” Bloodhawk said. “As to warring, perhaps somewhat less?”
Du’uwneyyl nodded. “Perhaps. I must go now. If you choose to follow, wait until tomorrow at dusk. The watch will be light and the tribe distracted to a one. Come through the Graveyard.”
The High Blade reached out, cupping her sister’s cheek, her lips drawing tight. Then, in a blink, she was gone the way she came, a phantom of the wood.
“I love you, too,” whispered Jylkir.
Bloodhawk watched the treesinger for a moment before turning back to the Macc camp.
“We’d better sleep while we’re able,” he said.
“I don’t suppose that War Master you’re always quoting has any useful advice?”
Bloodhawk fished out a small pouch of nuts and dried vegetables from his belt. Now that he knew the timetable of the attack, rationing was the least of his concerns. He chewed for a moment before answering.
“Don’t go to war on an empty stomach.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A MOMENT ALONE
CALLAGH sat across the table from Calvraign, her cheek cradled in her hand. She’d left her third cup of mulled wine steaming untouched in front of her, the first two cups having brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks already. For Calvraign’s part, he’d avoided the wine and stuck with hotblack.
Seth had invented some undisclosed matter of general upkeep, and Lord Malminnion had granted him leave to borrow Callagh for a short time. It was difficult to refuse such a request, considering the help Seth had rendered Ezriel’s household. But there was no real work to be done, of course. Seth had delivered her to Calvraign, served them drinks, and left them alone. They had taken advantage of the chance to recount their rather memorable journeys to Dwynleigsh.
Calvraign watched the candlelight play across Callagh’s face, gleaming with a strange sort of mischief in her eyes. Hers was not a beauty sung by bards or writ in histories, but in those dark eyes there had always been some spark that set her apart. She was his closest friend, closer than any of the boys in Craignuuwn or even Brohan had been. She knew him better than anyone could ever hope to know anyone. He did love her. As he looked upon her, he knew that he did and that he always would.
But then there was Aeolil. Even the thought of her made his heart race and his gut wrench. His infatuation burned bright with raw emotion, if fouled with lingering guilt.
I could just about write this song, he thought, and it will end on a sour note in minor key.
Vaelyhn had chosen death rather than choose between her two loves. In Calvraign’s case, there were no warring faerie realms or magic phials of gods-light to complicate matters, and truthfully – he didn’t know if Aeolil felt anything for him other than kind affection. Regardless, love, like fording a river, was most treacherous where two powerful currents met. And, if it wasn’t enough that Calvraign felt carried away in the confluence of such waters, he suspected his boat was leaking.
“You’ve gotten quiet,” accused Callagh. “I’ll be summoned back to chambers, and you’ll not have said another word. Of course, talking isn’t the only t
hing we could be doing.”
“Callagh,” admonished Calvraign. “We aren’t playing Lords and Ladies in Padhrag’s strawbed. We’re at King’s Keep now!”
“Well, I’m sure they have a stable, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she said lightly. “And I thought maybe tonight we could get beyond the playing.”
Calvraign rolled his eyes, making a good show of dismissing her playful invitation, despite its appeal. “Oh, do you think that’s what your spirit guide meant when he said keep to the old ways? Things aren’t that simple.”
“I think it’s pretty simple,” she countered, taking another sip of wine. “The parts are made to fit together, you know.”
Calvraign could only shake his head. His throat constricted, suddenly very dry, and perspiration beaded wet on his brow. He forced himself to breathe and tried not to remember how good her embrace had felt.
Calvraign had been putting this moment off for years. He wondered why. If he loved her as he’d admitted to himself, there’d been abundant chance to take advantage of such opportunity over the years. It was no lack of desire on his part. In fact, if anything, his recent surrenders to her had only stoked that flame. So what was it? Was she too much like a sister for him, where Aeolil was a convenient, beautiful and unattainable fantasy?
Do you just think too damned much, perhaps? he scolded himself.
Callagh’s fingers closed over his hand, and she brought his knuckles to her lips, kissing them with a soft, warm touch. “I have waited for you, Cal,” she said. “Gods know I’ve been patient with you. Bevan once proposed to me, did you know? Two years gone, he come to Da’ with an offer, and made good terms.”
Calvraign flushed now with a different emotion, a different conflict. That fat, lazy bastard Bevan? The thought of the furrier’s son pawing over her had his blood pounding. Bevan was dull and crude, with a pig nose and squinty eyes. Jealousy is not the same as love, he reasoned, but reason did nothing to still his anger.
“You said no, I suppose,” he said, but with less of the light mirth he’d intended. He could hear the cold envy in his own voice, chilling away any warmth.
“Aye, Cal. I said no.” She grinned, unaware or unconcerned with his darkening mood. “Aside from a game of show me, show you with Donagh Luhn, I’ve ever only courted one man, Cal – and you know it. You’ve always known it. I only trifled with Donagh on account of you taking such a shine to Bonnie-Leigh that summer. All these years, I’ve been in your pocket. It’s made you a bit lazy, I think.”
Donagh? Calvraign’s jaw clenched. Donagh was from a proud line, a huntsman, tall and strong and a skilled shot. He was a good match for her. Yet the thought of them playing even some innocent adolescent peek-and-blush made him furious. The image of him holding her, laughing with her, even the idea of her looking at that fire-headed lout as she now looked at him, was maddening.
“Did he have an offer for you as well?” This time, there was no mistaking his tone, or the resentment that filled it.
“Ach, if Donagh had offered, I just might’ve said yes,” she teased, with a squeeze of his hands and a dismissive laugh. “Donagh’s done enough bedding, he’s not fit for wedding, I’m afraid. Not for a chaste young thing like me.”
“You’re playing with me,” Calvraign complained, pulling back his hands. He stood and turned from the table, walking over to open the shuttered doors to his balcony. The cold air felt good on his face. Gods, wasn’t I just sparring with an archbishop this very eve, only to mope like a petulant boy with a village girl?
Callagh walked past him out onto the balcony, leaning over the railing to peer into the night. Glowlamps bobbed like fireflies on the distant shore of the city. She looked over her shoulder at him, her grin eaten at the edges by melancholy.
“I’m not a fine lady,” she said. “I’m no prize, and…” She paused, and there was a little fire in her words as she continued. “… I’m no baronette.”
Calvraign’s chest swelled, an emanation from his heart that filled him but choked him like a weed, even as it seemed to sink down to his stomach. His fingers tingled, and his head swam. He’d never quite felt anything like it before. It was as if he’d filled up with a rush of love and been drained of any peace at the same time. Is this what they mean by your heart sinking? Gods. What an accurate little cliché.
Calvraign couldn’t speak, and Callagh filled the silence as she looked back out at the city.
“Ezriel’s girls may not talk, Cal, but there’s ample trade in gossip just about everywhere else in this place. I’ve been everywhere I can manage to be, and heard everything I could manage to hear. Aside from conquering beasts and tricking faeries, you’ve had your way with all the ladies, didn’t you know? Of it all, it’s the talk of Lady Vae that rings true. She lends horses and mercenaries on your account, after all. She’s pretty, I’ll not argue. But she’s not me.”
Calvraign chewed at his lower lip. He remembered the summer that he’d flirted with Bonnie-Leigh, and he remembered how Callagh had lashed out. Not at her. To the contrary, if anything she’d been more civil to Bonnie than she’d ever been. She didn’t cut down her competition; she rose above it – eyes always on her target. Calvraign had been tackled, punched, wrestled and tongue-lashed for a moon of Lucendays.
“I’m followed around by some dread apparition, soon to be fodder for the Pale Man, and dancing here and there through court politics,” he said. “You’ve been wandering the wilderness talking to corpses and ravens and indenturing yourself as a housemaid because the spirits moved you to.” Calvraign threw his arms up in the air. “And this is the best way you think we should be using our time? Everyone else is out trying to save the world, and we’re talking of kisses and fancies.”
Callagh shrugged. “Like as not, we’ll be dead in a day’s time, or swallowed by some unfathomable Dark. I don’t need a crown of mistletoe or promise rings, but before you’re all taken up in new rank and new acquaintance, I want the memory of you. And I want you to have the memory of me. I want to know you as a woman knows her man. I’ll not hold you to a handfasting, Cal. But what if it all ends on Ebhan-nuád?”
Calvraign put an arm around her. She nestled comfortably into him, and her own arm circled his waist. “It’s no lack of feeling,” he said, unsure if he lied. There were definitely feelings, even if he wasn’t certain what those feelings were, exactly. “But–”
Callagh turned into him, tightening her embrace and pressing close. There wasn’t any place to escape unless he dove from his balcony, and not as much as a hair between them. His body betrayed any ruse of disinterest.
Calvraign’s resolve faltered, and the image of Aeolil flickered and dimmed in his mind’s light. Callagh’s lips brushed his as she spoke, and her words were laced with the fragrant hint of mulling spices.
“You don’t know what’s good for you, Calvraign Askewneheur.”
She pushed away from him and sauntered inside.
“Let me know when your head catches up with the rest of you,” she shouted back to him. “But I’m not of a mind to wait much longer, Cal.”
The chamber door clicked shut behind her, and Calvraign turned back to stare into the night. He was both relieved and disconcerted to be alone. Love’s not a river, he thought. It’s a bloody quagmire, and I’m chasing bog-lights.
Calvraign moved to the door, ready for the warmth of the hearth and peace of his coverlet, but a shadow detached itself from the wall, blocking retreat. Calvraign blinked, surprised, despite the shade’s familiarity.
Greycloak.
The specter raised a hand, and a blast of air like ice hit Calvraign in the chest, knocking him back against the railing.
“It is time,” rasped its voice without sound.
Calvraign’s head swam, and he felt his body crumble, boneless, against the balustrade, his balance faltering. The world lurched at him from far below as he slipped.
“Blood and ruin,” he spat, and then his world went dark as he fell.
CH
APTER FORTY-EIGHT
THE BITTER CUP
AEOLIL winced, cradling her abdomen with one hand while the other was busy muddling raspberry leaf with orange blossoms and dried bilberries in the bottom of her teacup. The steam carried the fragrance to her nose with but a hint of the relief she hoped it would provide her cramping belly. Here in the plains of the midlands, crampbark was the more popular remedy, but Aeolil clung to this familiar tea to ease her monthly pains, despite the danger of staining her teeth. At this point, blue teeth were not her biggest worry.
Leave out the raspberry, and the tea she brewed was also a favorite to soothe the ills of women with child. Her mother had often joked of sending her father out to harvest bilberries. Blackhearts, the farmers called them – she assumed for their deep midnight-blue color. They grew in abundance north of the castle, where the soil was too acidic for much else but gorse or broom. Custom in the Marches protected the right of every man or woman to pick them, regardless of property right.
Even barons could pick them, her mother would jest with a sly wink. I’m oft surprised you weren’t born blue.
There was a knock at her door, and Aeolil abandoned the memory.
“My lady,” Stefan said, opening the door but a crack. “Sir Osrith is here.”
“Show him in.”
Osrith pushed past Stefan with his customary glower. He was dressed in a loose black shirt and matching breeches, his only adornment that of scabbard and broadsword. He came before her, dipping his head in an impatient bow, his eyes alert but still red from interrupted slumber.
“Milady,” he acknowledged.
“I’m sorry for the late hour,” she apologized. “But I have questions for you – and a favor.”
Osrith spread his arms in surrender. “Here I am.”
Aeolil nodded. She sipped at her tea, providing a moment to gather her thoughts.
In Siege of Daylight Page 59