In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “You are at leisure to decide that, Your Grace – it is, after all, your test. If I may beg your leave, I have a tourney to prepare for.”

  “Of course,” conceded Derrigin with an overstated bow. “One last thing,” he added, withdrawing a glistening brooch from his doublet. “Your talisman.”

  Artygalle eyed the small winged sword and shield, and his breath caught in a muted gasp. “Thank you,” he said, his voice strangled as both joy and regret stole the wind from his words.

  “Blessed and ordained by the archbishop and Captain General Tuoerval themselves. You are now officially recognized and registered in the lists of the Lance. No more prancing about in your Master’s boots. Quite an honor. Do not waste it.”

  “I will not,” Artygalle assured him.

  “You may pass along your old one to the inkblot, here,” added Derrigin with a disdainful nod at Inoval. “He is forthwith and permanently transferred to your service as a squire of your order. The lists have been so amended.”

  Derrigin turned from the field without another word, but given the sneer on his face, words were unnecessary to register his disgust.

  Artygalle smiled. “He does not like you, either,” he said, turning to the boy and meeting his bright gaze. He pinned the talisman to the squire’s homespun shirt. “I suppose I am in good company, then.”

  Inoval took a knee and lowered his head. “I will serve you truly, sir.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” declared Artygalle. “Now, rise and draw your sword. It is time you learned the Discipline of Steel.”

  “But I know the –”

  “You are in the Order of Andulin, now,” interjected Artygalle, without raising his voice. “Our customs are sometimes out of touch with Mother Church. But – they are our customs, and you must learn them.”

  Inoval nodded.

  “Now, assume first position and repeat after me: as the Dragon, firm of stance and right of balance…”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  FITTING PROPOSALS

  THE evening settled into night, a cloak of gloom trimmed in frost that concealed the omens hanging dread and unforgiving in the sky. But Guillaume knew they were there, and that knowledge weighed on him. It was his fault. All of it. He had done this to them – to his sons.

  Ah, Vingeaux, he reflected. You would have been a mighty king. I should have been there for you when it mattered. They came before we were ready. Agrylon assured me… Guillaume looked across the room at the wizard, who stood arguing with Brohan by the fire. You brought us to the edge, you old fool. Your brother was right. We should have left it alone.

  The chamber was dark, lit with fitful inconsistency by the fires struggling in the hearth and the torches sputtering along the walls. It was an odd assemblage gathered here: the familiar faces of Willanel and Vanelorn offset by a very solemn Aeolil Vae and a somewhat reserved Calvraign at her elbow, looking tired and troubled. Bleys Malade and Osrith Turlun stood on either side of their respective charges, trying to deal death with poisonous glares.

  At least they are human, Guillaume thought, glancing around the room at the underkin honor guard that now wore his son’s livery. He kept the frown from his face with a lifetime of practice. Insanity.

  The king brought his crystal goblet of watered wine to his lips, but the liquid slipped over his tongue without taste. They were talking in circles, and had been for hours. The truth was that they had no idea what to defend against, or even where or how an attack might come. The end could come at any time, from anywhere, and the best his councilors had come up with was a troupe of stunted dwarves to guard his son from doom.

  “Father? Are you well?”

  Guillaume looked up into Hiruld’s concerned eyes, so blue and vibrant, yet so lacking in command. The prince knew how to command, of course, but he still lacked the charisma that had been Vingeaux’s hallmark – that dangerous depth of gaze that drew men in and made them want to follow. For all that Hiruld had, he did not have that.

  He is a pretty one, the king thought. He would have made a fancy bit of bride bait. That was the best I hoped of the boy.

  “Father?” persisted Hiruld.

  “Stop fussing,” reprimanded the king. “It’s unbecoming. Why do you let everyone natter on like that? Take charge. Be a prince. Be a king, damn it. Do something.”

  Hiruld’s concern retreated into puzzled injury. “But it is your council, Father. I-”

  “Bah! You can’t always wait for me to step in for you. Vingeaux didn’t wait in the wings on my whims, now, did he?”

  Hiruld’s countenance darkened.

  That’s it, encouraged Guillaume, get angry with me. Don’t let me chastise you. Put this doddering old man in his place.

  “As you wish, father,” Hiruld said, his lips tight about the words.

  Guillaume watched in disappointment as his son walked away. Weak, he lamented. My beautiful, laughing, wonderful boy has always been weak. And it will be the death of him, and perhaps the death of us all.

  Hiruld pounded his fist on the table, rattling the silver trimmed tableware and toppling a candelabrum. A servant swept in from her station to right the candles. Hiruld cleared his throat.

  “The king has brought us here to agree upon our course and set it in motion. When he feels inclined, he may lead that conversation. It will be nice to know what the old man is doing about anything for a change, other than whispering with other old men and tripping on each other’s robes.”

  The outburst quieted all conversation among the gathered peers, and Guillaume almost feared even to think in such profound silence, lest his very thoughts be overheard in the stillness.

  Guillaume straightened and gritted his teeth. Losing your temper is not command, he fumed. Vent your anger with me, man to man, prince to king. Not like this. Stupid and weak. What worse could I bring to the throne than this?

  “A poor time for jests, Hiruld,” he scolded with detached hauteur, hoping to dispel the edge of his son’s words with indifference.

  Hiruld didn’t acknowledge the effort at abeyance, save perhaps to raise his voice further. “I cannot replace my brother. He was a better man, a better prince, and a better son than I will ever be. But,” he said, nodding to Guillaume, “I can and will replace my father. Times being what they are, I will need an heir of my own to replace me, and to that end I have chosen a wife.”

  Guillaume stopped in mid-step, his irritation at the veiled insult consumed by surprise at this revelation. The object of Hiruld’s heart was no mystery, but the king had made it clear she was not to be pursued for marriage.

  He couldn’t be so –

  “The House of Vae has consented to release the hand of its proud daughter, Aeolil, to mine. The kingdom needs happy news. I shall provide it tomorrow at Saint Kaissus Field, and announce our union before the peers, the commonage, and the Holy Mother Church.”

  – bloody stupid.

  Guillaume tried to hide any sign of approval or disapproval. He avoided even a glance at Agrylon. The king’s tired eyes watched the beautiful young lady as she transformed her own surprise into an understandable blush of excitement or embarrassment, sidling up to Hiruld with a radiant smile.

  She is capable enough, Guillaume observed, but her House is already a close ally. Tianel would have better suited us, or Jocelin of Mneyr, or even Xhidraxes’ pouty little princess-in-exile. What is he thinking? Guillaume noted Aeolil’s blossoming figure and her penetrating blue eyes. Perhaps the problem is what he’s thinking with.

  “The kingdom also needs an heir, as does the Lion’s Line,” Hiruld continued. “If the prophecy is to be believed, we are running short of lions. The quicker this is remedied, the better for all of us.”

  “Not too quickly, for the lady’s sake,” Brohan quipped, abandoning his heated discussion with Agrylon to offer congratulations to Hiruld with a firm and far-too-familiar pat on the crown prince’s back. “Gods bless your chosen bride and your union.”

  Hiruld was taken somewhat aba
ck by the gesture, but smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. “Thank you, Master Bard.”

  What’s he playing at? Guillaume had known Brohan since he himself was crown prince. He did not breach the protocols of court lightly. The king searched the room with a quick glance. Everyone was surprised, but most were smiling or laughing at the news. Most. But not all.

  Calvraign. The boy stared in shock at the back of Aeolil’s head, his mouth pursed and his face just a shade pale as he watched her stand with Hiruld. Yes – she is a good match for you. Better for her. Better for you. Guillaume clenched his jaw as he turned back to Hiruld. Better for House Jiraud.

  “Your Majesty,” called the King’s Herald, tapping his staff. “Kassakan Vril and the wilhorwhyr have returned. In their company, may it please you, the Baron Ezriel Malminnion and High Vizier Rel Aevmiir of Mneyr.”

  “Yes, yes, let them all in.” Guillaume waved dismissively. “See yourself and the servants out, Yauncey. Thank you. We are not to be disturbed.”

  The herald bowed. “And if the archduke answers your summons, Sire?”

  “Rian?” Guillaume blew a noisy puff of air through his lips. “Not likely. He’d skip his own coronation if it were I who invited him. We’ve what we need here already, for all the good it’ll do us.”

  Ezriel entered with a bow. “Your Majesty,” he acknowledged, respectful as always. Ezriel was competent, driven, and had shown unswerving loyalty to the Crown along with his devotion to Mother Church. He was a vast improvement over Haoil and certainly preferable to the glowering, petulant Garath.

  Guillaume hated him, all the same.

  A pity he missed Hiruld’s news. I’m almost tempted to rehash that business just to see him squirm.

  The hosskan and the vizier came next, making slight but tolerable deference to the king. Though thin, Rel Aevmiir was near six feet tall, with a shaved pate and shorn brows and bright golden eyes that surpassed even Agrylon’s in intensity. She was so pale that the blue tracery of her veins was unnaturally prominent. He would have to be careful what he said. Having the duke’s pet wizard here was akin to having Curisinian himself loafing amiably in a chair.

  The wilhorwhyr came last of all, her half-nod half too little. Guillaume frowned but let it pass, sure to avert his eyes from her beguiling gaze. The sooner we’re done with her, the better. There were entirely too many of the fae about these days.

  Guillaume cleared his throat, wresting any lingering attention from the new arrivals or Hiruld and his announcement. “It’s good you’ve joined us. We are a hasty council,” he said, “and we must make hasty plans.”

  “Perhaps a hasty explanation would be in order,” Rel said, her voice low and cold. She looked past Guillaume, locking eyes with Agrylon. She then glanced at the king. “At Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

  Agrylon didn’t wait for permission to respond. “The Tides have turned, and a shadowyn is loose. It means to kill the crown prince.”

  The pair of wizards regarded each other in silence for a moment. Guillaume repressed a shiver. He preferred thinking of their time as one past and better forgotten. Tales of wizardry are better than wizardry itself.

  “You’ve been well and truly occupied,” Rel said. Neither her voice nor her eyes wavered as she spoke. “I was wondering why your chair was empty at Ahtur-Dan. Perl thought mayhap you’d joined your brother in the mountains, or chased after Dmylriani. I see you’ve just been busy weaving our doom.”

  “It is always good to see you, Rel,” Agrylon answered, though his sharp tone indicated otherwise. “Whatever my actions bring, at least I am acting. Sitting and waiting and whiling away brings nothing. That is the greater doom.”

  Rel shook her head. “I remember you and Gaious making the same argument about the Devastations. I wonder if the Maccs agree that the worst we can do is nothing.”

  “Victory came at a price,” agreed Agrylon. “But it was victory.”

  “If you might forgive me pointing it out,” interjected Calvraign, fixing Agrylon with a fiercer look than Guillaume anticipated, “that victory brought down the Empire. If the cost of victory is defeat by another name, perhaps it’s not victory at all.”

  “Enough,” the king said simply, though in truth he didn’t mind seeing Agrylon squirm on the hook. That it was Calvraign doing the baiting only made the squirming a bit sweeter. How surprised is the puppeteer when his playthings pull back on the strings? “You’ve all got in your barbs – let’s leave it at that. We’ve a real enemy to fight without wasting time quarreling with each other. We’ve wizards and wilhorwhyr and bards enough to talk till dawn, but let’s not be that long about it.”

  “What is left to discuss, Sire?” questioned Willanel with a frown. “This shade from netherwhere will strike at Hiruld on the morrow. We must remain between it and the prince, with swords at the ready.”

  “Swords?” Symmlrey almost laughed the word, but her tone was too dark to be called laughter. “Is your sword of mage-metal, or bonded, or forged with silver and moons-light? Or perhaps you’ve a sung-sword of ebonwood in your armory? Do you think steel or iron will pierce its skin?”

  “What? I…” Willanel’s voice trailed off into a flustered grumble.

  “Do any of you possess such weapons?” asked Symmlrey. “Aside from the wizards and kin, have any of you even seen a shadowyn, let alone fought one?”

  Vanelorn raised one hand, the fingers of his other tapping the hilt of his sword. “Aye, we’ve such weapons. A few. And the archbishop will consecrate the day with the Three Swords themselves. They will be ensconced at the royal pavilion. We should be ready to use them. Even this shadowyn you speak of should fear the divine swords, yes?

  “As for experience, well, it’s a fair assumption that none of the knights in this room has ever crossed paths or swords with such a thing.” The old warrior gave Symmlrey a frank appraisal. “You have,” he said. His eyes met hers without flinching, honest, and with not a hint of beglamoured fawning. “If you can help us, we are indebted to you and your order.”

  Symmlrey shrugged. “Weapons are only the beginning. We’ve little sense how it will attack, or where, and only a notion of who and when based on scraps of parchment and prophecy. It has been among you for days or weeks – possibly months or years – but only strikes now – on Ebhan-nuád. It must yet be vulnerable in human form and waits for its power to peak.”

  “No,” Calvraign mused, almost to himself.

  The aulden quirked an eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat. The king waited in rapt attention. Calvraign had remained mostly silent. Guillaume had begun to wonder if Brohan had overstated the boy’s strategic acumen.

  “Killing a prince is not such a difficult task as that,” Calvraign clarified. “No offense to Your Majesty intended. If this thing has been masquerading as the prince’s own guardsman, the hard work has been done, and a dagger to the back would suffice. Why wait until it is in the most danger to strike – when it is surrounded by not only the most powerful wizards and warriors of the realm, but with the Three Swords at hand to strike it down? There is a deeper plan at work here. There must be. Put the prophecy out of mind, for a moment. Its divination of the future may be blinding us to more immediate concerns.”

  “You think we should ignore this prophecy?” exclaimed Willanel. “If the saints send us warning, we should raise our shields, by the Swords, or we are fools!”

  “Not ignore it, no,” soothed Calvraign. “But I have great hope that not all prophecies and foretellings come precisely true. There are wards that guard such things and hide truth, and sometimes the doom of words is more subtle.”

  “You sound like a wizard. Are you Agrylon’s apprentice or Brohan’s?” Willanel strode across to the prince. “You can sit and talk and mince words and truths. I will guard the prince.”

  “Sir, you sell the boy short,” said Brohan. “He makes a valid point. I have spent my life studying stories and prophecies and the muddy places where they mingle. If you’ll entertain a v
ery brief example?”

  The knight shrugged, his deference only slightly more obvious than his indifference.

  “In the Far West, in the lands of Ish, they tell a story of a sword-dancer named Ulmuadeh Z’yuul. She was a rogue and an assassin, but a champion of the downtrodden against the depravities of Jildi’im, the infamous Golden Padrah. In one of her final exploits, Z’yuul was captured by the padrah and faced with what the cruel despot hoped would be an impossible choice. Z’yuul couldn’t be killed outright, you see, for she had safeguarded her soul in a ruby and flown it to the far shores of wasted Anduoun on the back of the dragon queen Orhm herself.”

  Brohan paused. “Which is also a good story. Perhaps later we can tell some of the Nine and Ninety Tales in their fullness -”

  “Brohan,” Guillaume warned. “Get on with your little parable, if you must, but make it quick. We’re here to a purpose.”

  “Yes,” the bard agreed with some reluctance. “So, where was I? Yes: the impossible choice. You see, Z’yuul had a somewhat forbidden fondness for the padrah’s own daughter, Riazel. She had, in fact, wooed the princess’ affection away from her father and his tyrant rule. In addition, his Counselor Spirits had warned Jildi’im only by the sword of Ulmuadeh Z’yuul could he perish. He was desperate to reconcile with his daughter and defeat his nemesis once and for all, so he summoned a pair of Arbiter Spirits and sealed a pact with her.

  “Z’yuul agreed never to do harm to the padrah again, to leave his lands and never return during his rule, and to never again court or seek the affections of the Princess Riazel. The Spirits consecrated the oath, and Z’yuul was now trapped by her words. Or so thought the Golden Padrah.

  “Z’yuul handed her sword to Riazel, who killed her father with the magic blade right where he stood. They lived happily every after. Well, until the nine and ninetieth tale, at any rate.”

  “So, she lied her way out of death.” Willanel struggled with his temper. “She wouldn’t be the first. The Ishti’in have no honor. I don’t see how this makes a bit of difference to us.”