“I don’t know if he didn’t have time to finish me, or if he was just dazed enough not to think of it, or maybe he was rightfully scared of the angry lizard bearing down on him all lit up with magic, but he made his escape and left me there bleeding to grey. The rest you know already.”
Aeolil got up and crossed to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his broad chest. He smelled like oiled leather and stale sweat, and she could feel the angry pounding of his heart.
“Thank you, Osrith,” she said. “Thank you for saving Kiev. For… for everything you’ve done.”
“It’s what I couldn’t do that worries me – that what I couldn’t do then will become what I can’t do now. I barely escaped him.”
Aeolil smiled up at him through her tears. “I’m not so certain that it wasn’t him escaping you. Every day you live is a reminder of his failure, Osrith, not yours.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I got lucky, and you can’t count on luck.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed, hugging him tight, “but I will count on you, Captal Turlun. That, I surely will.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IN DREAMS ALIVE
PANIC.
I’m going to die.
Calvraign hung from his balcony ledge, his fingernails scraping across the ice-slick stone. He tried not to breathe, but even so, breath came, and each breath like a bellows echoing in a forge hall.
A dream – wake up before you fall!
There was a presence above him. Dark, but empty, it hung like a shroud over his quarters, enveloping them. His eyes were closed, pressed against the granite. Or was it marble? He couldn’t remember, and he daren’t open his eyes to check.
Slipping.
Wake up!
A thunder of blood pounded in his ears, his heartbeat like a hammer on the door to waking.
“Let go.” Another voice. Dry, like crackling leaves. Familiar.
Wake up, he warned himself. If you fall in your dream, if you die – then you die in the waking world!
“Let go,” the voice repeated. “You must fall for me to catch you.”
Does that even make sense? Calvraign wondered. Am I talking to myself?
“Look down,” the voice commanded.
Calvraign tilted his head down, cracking an eye open to peer down past his dangling legs to the reaches below. Instead of flagstones meeting the base of the tower, or waves meeting the lake-wall, shadows broke on blackness, the insubstantial meeting nothingness.
Oh, that’s inviting.
“És cal en magh con gòn.”
Upon hearing that phrase, Calvraign released his grip and fell, his eyelids pressed shut and the words following him down to the unknown. It was an old saying of the Cythe: a son is a son until he becomes a man. Marshal Bowen had recited the very same words when handing down his father’s sword, at Ibhraign’s interment.
When Calvraign opened his eyes again, he was no longer dangling, or falling, but standing on a hill. That’s settled, then, he thought. I’m definitely dreaming, or close enough. A sight better than the alternative, I suppose.
There were trees all around, but there was no color. It was a forest of grey, like a shadow of his homeland. A castle rose from the mists at the crest of a nearby hill, pennants streaming in a wind he could not feel, capping an outcropping of stone that pointed to the far-away plains like granite fingers.
Or is that limestone?
“Yes, you know this place,” the voice confirmed. “In a fashion.”
Calvraign followed the trail toward the castle. It bore the same dull transparency as everything else around him, but here, it was not a crumble of forgotten rocks and moldering woodwork. It towered above him, each stone in place, mortar sound, timbers untouched by rot. It was formidable, as he’d always imagined it once had been.
“Car-an-Cythe,” said the voice, still as if a whisper, though not quiet in its speaking. A man walked next to Calvraign. He wore armor and a long fluttering cloak, but his face was featureless and shifting, as if running from human sight. “It has cast a shadow longer and stronger than its source. Did the bard ever tell you its name?”
“No,” Calvraign admitted, surprised at how easy conversation came. He was puzzled, but not afraid, which was a conundrum all its own. “I suppose he hinted at it, though. I didn’t much care to put a name to that mystery, truth be told.”
“Some mysteries we choose. Some are thrust upon us.”
“I was wrong, before,” Calvraign admitted. “You are not the Pale Man. We call you Greycloak, for lack of anything better.”
“As good as any name to call the nameless.”
“Who are you, then? What do you want of me? Why have you-?”
“You are full of questions,” interjected Greycloak, “but I have only one answer.”
“Might I know it?”
“You might.” Greycloak stopped at the massive gates. “If you ask the right question. But the hearing and the knowing are not the same – you will forget the answer upon waking. The Wards are weak, but not broken outright. There is much I cannot say. Better that I help you answer your own questions.”
“But you do say more than you ever have,” Calvraign said. “And you have brought me here to say it. You are no longer content to linger in my shadow. What has changed?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Ebhan-nuád,” Calvraign breathed, remembering the verse that Brohan had just taught him:
“On Ebhan-nuád, from evernight,
the Dark will shroud the realm of Light.
Where perilous thin ‘tween death and men,
and the Wards of Ghaest in ruin.
When Dead may walk and Life chagrin,
under light of the baleful moon.
In dreams alive, in sleeping wake,
the Hand of Death your soul to take.
On Ebhan-nuád, from evernight,
the Dark will shroud the realm of Light.”
“There is much truth hidden in the old rhymes.”
“Brohan always said that riddles were the way to cheat the wards, and rhymes the way to remember them.”
“Yes,” agreed Greycloak, entering the ghost of Car-an-Cythe and beckoning Calvraign to join him across the threshold.
“This isn’t symbolic of anything, is it?” Calvraign asked, eyeing the darkened portal with some trepidation.
“Everything here is symbolic,” dismissed the wraith. “How you act defines what it symbolizes.”
“That’s circular reasoning,” said Calvraign, unconvinced, but he entered, regardless.
“Life and death are a circle. Sometimes reasoning follows suit.”
“You’re certainly taking advantage of your chance at conversation,” Calvraign commented as they climbed a spiral stair into the heights of a tower. “You’d better hope this is a long dream.”
“I’ve waited a long time for the chance, and likely I’ll not have another. I’ll take what I can while I may.”
Calvraign watched the back of the apparition that led him through his dream. Knowing now that he was not the Pale Man, that he indeed seemed an ally rather than a foe, his identity was yet more intriguing. For now, he kept silent, watching and hoping for any further clue. He tried to stem a growing hope for fear of disappointment.
They entered the keep’s great hall, and Calvraign was surprised to see that they were not alone. In fact, were the occupants not for all appearances merely the cast-off shadows of missing lords and ladies, he could easily have been in a feasting hall at King’s Keep.
“This is an odd dream,” he remarked.
“Dreams are doors to otherworld. Most only linger in the archway. We have passed through.”
Calvraign stopped, looking around, eyes wide and apprehension creeping in to crowd out his curiosity. If this is not my dream….
“Am I dead, then? Did I really fall? Is this the greylands?”
“You sleep, but you do not dream. There are many shade
s between Light and Dark, Calvraign. The naming of the greylands is no accident in its plurality. We now inhabit that which I call home, not so far removed from your own, and yet a world apart.”
“Does everyone here talk like this?” Calvraign said, wondering now for the first time how he might escape this dream, or vision, or whatever trance he was in. Not knowing where I am, it’s hard to get where I’m going.
“You only hear me as the wards permit, regardless of what I might say. It is by design, though I do not know its purpose.”
“Aggravation of the living?” ventured Calvraign under his breath.
Greycloak had led him through the great room, and they now ascended another spiral stair. If his memory were true, a tower had stood thereabout in the living world, though the one he recalled had long ago fallen. A moment later, his recollection was vindicated when they entered a many-windowed room at the apex of the tall watchtower.
“I did not bring you here to discuss the wards or the rationale of my lord. Even here, I will not be safe for long.”
“You will not be safe?” Calvraign said, bewildered. “What about me?”
Greycloak turned to him, and Calvraign was drawn into the shadows that lurked and spun within the cowl of his hood. He could hear the sounds of battle: swords clashing, cries of death and victory, the sound of flesh ripping and blood spilling.
A last rasp of rattled breath.
“I died a warrior,” Greycloak said. “But as I drew my last and looked into the eyes of Pheydryr for her judgment, I knew only bitterness. Peace was stolen from me by betrayal. I struck a bargain then with Pheydryr and Her Lord.”
Greycloak paused, and though the sounds of death and battle had faded away, it left a lingering disquiet. “I made that bargain for you, to protect you; and I am at odds with my lord now for the same reason. Alas, Calvraign – there is no place you will be safe. Never again safe. Even now the threads unravel, exposing the truths that lurk in the hidden weave. But I will guard you from whatever I can.”
Realization spread from Calvraign’s gut. As unsettling as were Greycloak’s words, an excitement grew in him that he could not deter. Did not want to deter. A hope…
“Are you…?” Calvraign faltered. “Are you my father’s shade?” he finished, searching the swirling absence that was its face for any sign.
“No,” answered Greycloak.
No, Calvraign repeated. That simple syllable of denial was a dagger thrust to his burgeoning hope and childish fantasy. For one beautiful moment, it had all made sense. Ibhraign had cheated death for his son, to watch over him and protect him when he needed it the most. Saved him on the plains, warned him at King’s Keep, brought him here to see him one last time and pledge his protection. But this was no tale of Brohan’s, waiting for its happy ending to arrive.
“I fought with your father at Vlue Macc,” continued Greycloak, “and you are closer to my heart than ever you may know. It is your mother’s memory I honor in defense of you, not his. If I were capable of sorrow, I would offer it.”
“They must have left you out of the legend,” Calvraign said in a forced levity, struggling against tears.
“Legends leave out many things. The truth, mostly.”
“Was this why you brought me here? So that I could learn this about you? To know I could trust you?”
“I don’t know. I only knew that at last I could, and I did. But that is as good a reason as any.”
“Are you the same spirit that talks to Callagh? Old Bones, she calls him.”
“No. Though we serve the same lord, this Old Bones and I. The girl is taken as a tool of broader purpose than I put myself on your account. Your fate means little to them, but everything to me. And the reverse is true, for her.”
“It cannot be chance that we are both so favored as pawns,” Calvraign said. “So to what –?”
Greycloak interrupted with a wave of his hand, his hood tilted as if the invisible head inside listened for something. “Our time has run out. They have found me, and I must go if I am to be any further use to you. You must take your leave of my world, but I will return to yours on Ebhan-nuád, and I will be the sword in your shadow.”
“How do I –?”
“The same way you came,” answered Greycloak before Calvraign finished asking. He raised his hand, and with an icy blast of air, Calvraign tumbled down into the night, the sound of howling wolves echoing in his ears.
CHAPTER FIFTY
A SHORT ORDER
VAUJN stared up at the roiling clouds and caught a snowflake on his outstretched tongue. It had been a dark night, the moons cloaked in grey. The muted colors of dawn looked little different as they seeped through the haze. Shadows jumped in sputtering torch flames across the masonry walls that embraced the small courtyard. Vaujn let the snowmelt dribble down his throat and stuck his tongue out for another.
“If you’re thirsty, there’s a cistern around here somewhere,” teased Mother Chloe. She stood at his left, the rest of the squad at attention in the rear. “Hunting this dhûnorihm isn’t boring you, I trust?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, in earnest. “I’m surprised how good it feels. We were rotting away at Number Nine.”
“Yes,” she said, but there was no agreement in her affirmation. “Rotting safely away.”
Vaujn gave his wife a sidelong glance, but then turned back to his vigil over the courtyard. “Is it the hunt that has you on edge, or my attitude?”
“Neither,” she said. “And both.”
“I know I’ve led us to danger, and I don’t believe in destiny, but the deeper we get into this mess of Osrith’s, the more right it feels.”
“I know,” she agreed, deflated. “That’s what worries me.”
“Still nothing?” Vaujn said, pointing at the scrying bowl in her hands. Sometimes he found comfort in stating the obvious.
“Just the undercurrent – invisible, but waiting to pull us under. The wards of this place have been bent more than broken, and masterfully so. It knows what it’s doing. I’m wondering what we’ll do if we find it.”
Kill it, Vaujn thought, but kept it to himself. He knew that wasn’t what she meant.
“I suppose now it won’t be a matter of finding it, anymore,” he said.
“This is a big risk you’re taking,” observed Chloe. “Osrith is gambling more than his honor, or yours, or ours – he’s putting Ruuh’s honor up for the taking. If we fail….”
“We won’t. Besides, it’s not like we have a choice. The word of a Shaddach Chi bears the authority of the king his grand self. I’m going to say no when asked?”
“You could have complained more.”
“There’s always time for that,” he pointed out with a smile, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulder in a congenial hug.
Symmlrey’s slender form loped toward them in long strides from the far end of the courtyard, and Vaujn withdrew from the casual embrace with Chloe to receive her news. He felt a kinship of strangers with Symmlrey here in this human land, but she was only the third aulden he’d ever met, so it was all a matter of degrees. Long before written histories were kept by either kin or aulden, before the Sundering, both their people had come here from Faerie. Once, like siblings. Now, perhaps distant cousins.
“Captain,” the wilhorwhyr said with a deferential nod, and then again to Chloe. “Mother.”
Vaujn wasted no pleasantries. “Any trace?”
“Faint,” she admitted. “Too faint. There is a powerful masking at work, and beyond my skill to penetrate.”
“I’ve had no more luck,” admitted Chloe. “A duaurnhuun could sniff it out but I haven’t the nose for it.”
“Will your squad be ready if it sniffs us out, first?” Symmlrey asked. “If I understand things, that’s the new plan, more or less.”
“That’s the plan,” confirmed Vaujn. “We’re just waiting on some wax and parchment to make it all binding and official.”
“Blood makes things official,” mused S
ymmlrey. “Iiyir makes things permanent. Crushed wood and melted wax…?” She shook her head.
“Well,” Vaujn shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, that’s what they’re doing. We’re waiting for Prince Hiruld to come inspect us and accept our appointment as his Guard. And you?”
“Dismissing the Prince’s Guard and holding most of them at the wizard’s tower is sure to be a pebble in the pond. I will watch for ripples.”
“All righty,” Vaujn said. He thought for a moment, trying to find an equally compelling metaphor, but when nothing came to mind, he settled for a traditional saying of the Upper Watch. “Sharp eye and sharp edge,” he wished her.
Symmlrey disappeared as quickly and quietly as she had come. Color bled into the courtyard as more daylight penetrated the cloud cover. Vaujn hoped it wouldn’t get too bright.
“I think we’re the pebble,” said Chloe, dipping her finger into the scrying bowl. “I only hope she doesn’t stand and watch us sink to the bottom.”
“Vershtig!” cursed Vaujn. “How do you do that? We are the pebble.” He shook his head and made a grating sort of growl in his throat.
Chloe rumpled her brow. “Are you worried about being witty?” she chided. “Sometimes I wonder if the All-father wasn’t up to his eyes in a cask of ale when he breathed your soulfire.”
“Everyone else is bantering and quoting like I’d missed rehearsal,” he groused.
“Never mind. Here’s our new charge, and it looks like he’s got his parchment. Stick with the strong, silent soldier bit and worry a little less about being profound and poetic.”
The prince arrived in the courtyard with a moderate entourage, including his herald knight Bellivue, Agrylon, Brohan and Calvraign. Osrith and Kassakan brought up the rear of the quiet procession. Vaujn wondered for a moment why Osrith had discarded the blue and silver of House Vae for nondescript and unadorned greys and blacks. But only for a moment.
In Siege of Daylight Page 61