In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “No,” answered Seth, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. “They don’t. At least, not without leaving fresh ones behind.”

  “Early bit o’ prank, then. Thems like to prank on yous. Always have.”

  Seth nodded. They might be lying in wait, ready for their chance to jump out of the shadows and give him a wet-fright. Or they could be lurking with the torches, hoping he would run to tell Markus, only to return with him and find nothing amiss. He’d suffered most every humiliation at the hands of his fellows, and saw little sign that such unwelcome attentions would ebb.

  “Maybe,” he agreed aloud, but this is a mighty dangerous time to be pranking. He could still hear the crunch of Burton’s neck, still see the blue-and-gold-clad knight throwing him from the balcony like last night’s rubbish. It could be something else entirely, he thought as an anxious quease festered in his belly. “Let’s just be quick about it.”

  Calvraign and Brohan had been back and forth and in and out with the prince, the lord high chamberlain, Lady Aeolil, the young lancer, Artygalle – and just about every other captain and commander of the keep. They had all become increasingly intense as the day wore on, and tempers had stretched and thinned. Although Calvraign seemed almost comforted by whatever had happened in his quarters the night before, and excited by his recent royal appointment, the same had served to set everyone else on edge, most especially his new man-at-arms, Osrith.

  Seth shook himself and drew in a deep breath. Best to get on with it.

  Seth led Faeldor past neatly ordered casks of oak, labeled, tagged and sealed by the royal vintner; past rows of painted clay amphoras, stacked and waiting at attention like troops in reserve; on past the tidy racks of magnums and full, half and quarter bottles from every region of Rahn; back to the far end of the room, down a small open stair to the sunken chill-chambers where the rarest and most delicate of vintages were cellared.

  “Wilderwine,” he grumbled. Master Madrharigal had been very specific. He could still hear the ridiculous words in his head: from the vineyard at Astin Meh Leyr, and nothing but.

  Seth had laughed off the request at first, thinking it a jest. Wilderwine was a bit of clever fancy, a convenient plot device for morality plays to ply bit players into compromising positions, or for trapping unsuspecting travelers in Faerie when daring to sup with the fair folk on the wrong side of the Veil. And from Astin Meh Leyr, no less. There was no vineyard at Astin Meh Leyr – only standing stones, and haunted ones, at that. But his laughter had died on uncertain lips under the unwavering and somber gaze of the master bard.

  “Well, if there’s any to be found, it’ll be here,” he assured himself.

  “Wilderwine, eh?” The accent was foreign, but the voice familiar – deep enough to resonate in Seth’s chest with each word. “What a boy like you need with such strong spirits, huh? Eh?”

  Seth froze. The shadows loitering at the edge of Faeldor’s torch fled before the massive man who loomed forward, a mountain of scale armor sprouting a thicket of tangled beard and crowned with fierce eyes glinting fire.

  “Inulf!” spat Faeldor, his sword sliding from its scabbard with a well-oiled hiss. “Damns me foul bloody bad luck findin’ you. Get’n you back, Seth boy. Back behind me.”

  Inulf smiled his broad, gap-toothed smile, spreading empty hands before him. “If it’s dead I want you, dead you be, eh? Why waste words on dead men? Hmm? But best for you to stay back, sergeant, or my mind may be changing after all.”

  Seth had not moved, save to empty his bladder. Faeldor stood his ground, but did not advance. Inulf leaned forward, his eyes splitting attention between Seth and Faeldor’s bared sword.

  “Can you feel the Dark in your bones, boy?” His breath stank of hemma root, stale and sour. Seth struggled to keep his bile down as the warm odor washed over him. “Did you see its power on the terrace? Eh? I saw you.”

  Seth tried to speak, but his throat had seized shut.

  “Go get it, then,” prodded Inulf, drawing back to the very edge of the torchlight.

  Seth forced himself forward, his breeches clinging wet and cold to his thighs. He searched the racks in silence.

  Inulf chuckled. “I knew that bloody black bard would be after his vintage soon. But you’ll need more than tree sap and aulden blood, now, boy. Tell him that. Tell him I said they wait too long. All of them. Chewing on secrets. Now…” He shook his head and spit over his shoulder. “Now they wait for death.”

  Seth paused in his search when he came upon a silver label on the lowest row of the rack. It was etched with a stylized tree and a circle of un-capped dolmens. Astin Meh Leyr, he marveled. He pulled a wooden bottle from the rack, turning it over in his hands, puzzled. There was no cork, no stopper – only one solid piece of smooth polished wood.

  “Aye, that’s it, boy – bottled and aged in songwood. What else it be, huh? Eh?”

  Seth took a tentative step back with the bottle, closer to Faeldor and whatever protection he might provide. Very little, he guessed.

  “Right then,” drawled Inulf. “You got your wine, huh?” He stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Now give it here.”

  Since the only other option seemed to be dying for it, Seth handed the bottle to Inulf. Brohan hadn’t mentioned that he should guard it with his life, so he made no hasty assumptions.

  “Damnit, boy!” hissed Faeldor, but he made no move to fight.

  Inulf brought the bottle to his lips and whispered something over the tapered end where a cork would normally sit. The wood opened, and he quaffed a measure with a loud gulp.

  “Tell Brohan that I liked his wine.” Inulf held out the bottle, once again whole, and Seth’s quivering hand accepted it. “And tell him I’ll see ‘im in hell. Now run along, boy,” he said, retreating into the shadows until only his haunting bass voice remained. “Run along.”

  The raven flew on ahead of Callagh in short bursts. Following quarry that wanted to be caught was no strain on her skills. Instead, she directed her attention to marking her way, noting the landmarks as she passed them and filing them away with a hunter’s diligence. Callagh had once insisted to her father that she could never be lost, only out of place. He hadn’t been impressed with the distinction, but then he was a man rarely impressed.

  They wound down the stairs and left the tower, crossing the empty yard to arrive at the Temple of Swords and the bier of the deceased castellan. Callagh wasn’t surprised. Not much of the counsel she’d received of late had come from the living. The raven paced along the wooden framework that supported the corpse for its customary viewing period. Burton had not been a man of the sword, or of nobility, but none-the-less he was an important man in his own way, and respects were due. Wrapped in oiled linen and sprinkled with fragrant herbs, the mostly frozen remains were not yet offensive to sight or smell.

  The bird finally settled on the cadaver’s head. It pecked at the wrappings on Burton’s mouth, rending the fabric with the delicacy of a surgeon until the blue lips were free to snarl naked at the night.

  “At least this one’s not on fire,” muttered Callagh.

  Air hissed from Burton’s mouth, and Callagh wrinkled her nose at the stench of rot.

  “Aldhal hag dé, ahn cranaoght,” greeted a thin familiar voice from the dead man’s lips.

  Callagh looked around slowly, but there was no sign of life in the temple. She kept her voice low just to be safe. “A bit formal, don’t you think?”

  “It’s only proper to show respects on such an occasion. It has been a generation since we have appointed a new warrior to the ranks of the madhwr-rwn.”

  Callagh’s wit fled and left her with pursed lips and crumpled brow. “Calvraign?” she ventured.

  “No,” it answered. “He does not honor the old ways.”

  Keep to the old ways.

  “Oh, bollocks!”

  “You are the first to accept the honor just so, little ghost.”

  Callagh could hear the scolding in those words, even in a voi
ce bereft of inflection. There was no greater honor than serving the Cythe as madhwr-rwn – and no greater responsibility.

  “You can’t be serious!” She forced a laugh, but it died a quick, quiet death even as it began. Talking with corpses was taking the fun out of conversation. They had little motivation to joke, she realized, let alone the desire.

  “You know the words,” prompted Old Bones.

  “I do.”

  “Say them.”

  “What? Like in the stories?”

  “Where do you think stories come from, ahn cranaoght? Say them.”

  “Ach. This is daft. Did Cachaillan feel this bloody ridiculous?”

  “No,” it answered. “He said the words. As did we all. As will you.”

  Callagh rolled her eyes. “I will, will I?” Of course I will. “You said them? Who were you, then?” she said, mostly to delay the inevitable.

  “One of many,” it dismissed. “Say the words, now. Time is short. Say the words and make your oath.”

  Callagh drew her belt dagger and sliced her palm with a subdued wince. A thin line of blood followed the blade as it tracked across her flesh.

  “Deeper,” rasped the voice on Burton’s lips. “The oath’s as binding as what you give over to it. And swear it upon my talisman, for your own sake, mayhap I can ease your way.”

  Callagh hesitated. For a symbolic blood oath, a few drops freely given would suffice. If he wanted more than that, more than just symbolic fealty to the Macc-an-Cythe, and sworn upon his token…

  Not just any blood oath, she reconsidered, with some concern, it’s blood magic.

  She licked her lips. It made sense. Joining the madhwr-rwn was not a pledge of friendship or exchange of goods at a woodsmote. Her da’ always joked that the madhwr-rwn only met in secret circles as an excuse to drink undisturbed. He never believed in the mystique. But then, he didn’t believe in much. She herself might have scoffed at the suggestion of some magical bonding ceremony not long ago, but her life had taken a decided turn toward widdershins, of late.

  So, there it is, then, she decided.

  Callagh cut again, pressing the edge hard to slice deep. She closed her eyes, gripping the brooch in her bloody hand, and recited the lines that Old Bones himself had taught her through his endless tales. It was the same oath spoken by the like of Cyhlt or Cuaihln from the age of heroes, or the somewhat less legendary madhwr-rwn of her own time: Faille and Gabhougn. And Ibhraign.

  “On my blood I swear my heart and bind my soul,

  To the will of Father Earth and Mother Suns of Sky”

  Callagh shivered, a chill emanating from within her bones, and a burning heat from the trinket in her palm. Blood dripped in a steady pit pat on the veined marble floor. She took a knee, suddenly lightheaded. Air sighed from Burton’s dead lips but Callagh couldn’t make out if he said anything. She drew her bloody palm across her face, dabbing crimson on each cheek and her brow, and then finally down her lips and chin.

  “With painted face I greet the dawn,

  as the gods’ own edge, the madhwr-rwn.”

  The cold deepened. Callagh blinked away an afterimage of shifting shadows, a phantom audience that filled the small chapel in grey, surrounding her. It was so fleeting, she wondered if it were her imagination. She certainly hoped it was.

  “You were listening,” said Old Bones, with a long creaking exhalation that approximated a chuckle. “Your oath so sworn, how long shall it abide, Callagh Breigh?”

  “Until the suns fall from the sky, until the Deeps open up and swallow me, until the seas arise and drown me, you have my oath.”

  “It’s done. Your blood is spilled. Your words are spoken. The Old Gods bless you. The old ways keep you.”

  Callagh stood, her legs still trembling, releasing the brooch and squeezing her bleeding hand tight into a fist. “What about my great deed?” she asked. “Aren’t I s’posed to slay some beast or defeat a demon army or some such thing?”

  “In your case, ahn cranaoght, the cart is put before the horse. You are young and untried, but needs be you’re bonded to the madhwr-rwn before you can earn your place.”

  “It needs be, does it? How needs it be, exactly?”

  “On Ebhan-nuád,” it said, “there will be Shadows within shadows.”

  “Is that another bloody metaphor?” Callagh cocked her fists on her hips. “Can’t you just talk to me now? Did I have to chop my whole damn hand off to get a straight answer? It’s no wonder the world’s gonna end –”

  “Don’t. Be. Petulant.”

  The voice was not Old Bones. It was not louder, but it was stronger, commanding, and it whispered in her head without the need to move dead lips. Callagh’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart stilled in her chest for just an instant. The blood roared in her ears, the surf of her pulse crashing impotently for release. And then heartbeat and breath returned, and she sucked in a grateful, slightly terrified breath.

  “I am ever your friend, little ghost,” Old Bones said. “But do not test Her patience. I am not the only one peeking through the crack in the door.”

  Callagh swallowed an angry response, narrowing her eyes at the corpse and screwing up her face into a scowl. Her. She did not need Old Bones to tell her to whom he referred. She knew the patron of the madhwr-rwn. Pheydryr. The Grey Lady. Death Herself. Callagh wondered if she had just gained purpose and power through the brief ritual, or if she’d fastened a leash around her neck. Either way, she knew how to avoid a beating. Her Da’ had taught her that much.

  I’m not a broken thing, she thought, steeling her nerve.

  “Tell me, then. What am I to do about these shadows upon shadows?”

  “Find Calvraign.”

  Callagh stiffened. I’ll not hurt Cal, she resolved. Not for the Grey Lady, or Old Bones, or anyone else.

  “Calvraign’s no shadow,” she stated with firm assurance.

  “No,” it agreed, “but he casts one.”

  “He… What does that mean?”

  An empty rattle of breath answered her.

  I’ll have to get my bow, she thought. She’d made careful note of where Tremayne’s quartermaster had stashed it in the baron’s armory. His Grace’ll not be much happy with that, t’be sure.

  The raven cawed, and hopped onto her shoulder.

  “Ah, look what I find? Two birds on one gravestone, eh? Ha!”

  Callagh stiffened at the sound of the man’s voice. His accent was thick, and his laugh low and menacing. She turned to see a dark shape at the door. Steel glittered in the torchlight.

  Inulf.

  “The spirits are bold tonight, eh? Shadows and ravens and little painted girls, huh? They let loose the things that eat them things as go bump in the night. Ha ha. But I think, little lass, I think….” Inulf stepped forward, his dirty, bearded face leaning in from the shadows. “I think that this time, the spirits – they wait too long.”

  “They say you were taken by a shadowyn,” Callagh said, keeping the bier between them as he advanced. A handful of men joined Inulf from the courtyard, swords drawn, armor partly concealed by thick winter cloaks. Blue cloaks trimmed in gold. “Renarre says you’re possessed.”

  “Does he now? Me? Juut! The Fox say much, but know little. So busy with rabbits, misses hounds on his tracks.” Inulf’s smile contracted to a fierce grimace. “I never waste time on rabbits.”

  Callagh held her blood-wet dagger in front of her face, and Old Bones’ talisman warmed at her breast.

  “Hah! Silly pup.” Inulf smiled again, his dark gaze locking with Callagh. “None o’ that, eh? Hmm? Say hullo t’ me loyal best – the disappeared.” He waved his arms at his men. “We be the last you’ve time to trust.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  A PAN FOR FRYING

  CALVRAIGN chafed against the unfamiliar weight of the mail shirt, but he supposed it served as counterweight to the surprising lightness of his heart. He turned from the parapet as the mists swallowed the king’s procession at the f
ar side of the bridge to Dwynleigsh. The towers of King’s Keep now loomed above him, grey and wet in the morning.

  Herein is the beast, he thought. I feel it in my bones.

  “Are you drunk again?”

  Calvraign jumped and blinked in surprise as Osrith appeared at the door, frowning.

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  “You’d best wipe that fool grin off your face, then. This isn’t some back-country nape hunt.”

  “I know you’ve more experience,” Calvraign said, trying to sound firm, “but the king did leave me in command. Some small pretense of respect might-”

  “I’m here to watch your back, not wipe your….” Osrith stopped himself, and then smiled sweet as a nursemaid. “Not hold your hand,” he amended. “Sir.”

  Calvraign stared at the older man in silence. Words aren’t going to impress him. “Aye,” he said. “So let’s get at it, then. Did Lady Kassakan make it safely away?”

  “She did. She’ll be back at the garden with help or she’ll not be back at all. Things being what they are, I’m wondering if it’s not best to leave well enough alone and hope for the latter.”

  Osrith continued to make no secret of his distaste for this aspect of the stratagem. Calvraign continued to ignore it. Kassakan agreed with me, he thought, reassuring himself. This was no time to leave pieces on the board. It was all or nothing. “And the men are making their sweep?”

  “Aye. Cleared the bridge house, the kennels, the stables and the other out-buildings. Sergeant Faeldor is heading through the South Keep now, and Sergeant Foss is ready for us at the Central Keep.”

  Calvraign nodded and settled his open-faced helm on his head. With one last look at the empty bridge, he followed Osrith down from the bridge house tower. Foss was waiting with two dozen men. He pounded a fist on his chest as Calvraign arrived.

  Calvraign returned the salute. He’d been saluting so much this morning that it was almost natural. “Sergeant,” he said, “lead on.”