In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “Left at fifty hetahrs,” he instructed, but it was for the prince’s benefit more than his squad. They’d seen maps. They knew the tunnels. “Then straight on.”

  No aulden had come underground, and there were no humans in the royal passageways. But Vaujn was anxious to exit the quiet, deserted areas for the bustle and panic of the main underlevels. If the aulden intended assassination then they would know where to intercept the squad’s retreat. They had sung this tree in ages gone. There would be no secrets from them here. If the kin could reach the stables, however, just beyond there was a well – and the well reached down below the giant ilyela grove’s root system, down beyond the influence and memory of the aulden, down to the comforting stone tunnels of the aquifer.

  “Empty,” reported Läzch from up ahead. “Nothing here.”

  “Take it slow anyway,” grumbled Mueszner. “Slow, and keep your eyes open for shimmer. They can pop in from rainbows.”

  “Damn aulden,” muttered Darrow.

  Hiruld looked over his shoulder, working up another protest.

  “I know,” Vaujn said, and nudged the prince around the corner.

  The smell of stale straw and fresh manure wafted down the passage. Along with the stench came the cool, wet hint of deep air from the well house. There were screams of panic, both human and equine, but the sounds were comforting. It meant they were closer. That much closer…

  Then there was a crash, a distinct sound of a sword screeching against armor.

  “No!” a voice yelled from the corner of the next intersection, still thirty hetahrs shy of the stable entrance. “A trap! ‘Tis a trap!”

  Vaujn and his squad raised their crossbows. There was more yelling, more din of battle, and an aulden body fell into the passage ahead. Her ruined chain shirt framed a bloody wound from chin to pelvis. A human knight backed into view, his blue cloak whirling, engaged with another aulden swordswoman. The knight was covered in blood, and his chain was torn across his chest and arms, but he fought hard and fast, and after trading strokes, he found his mark and sent his second attacker to the dirt.

  When he turned, Vaujn recognized the blue and gold cloak and the face beneath the iron cap, but Hiruld was the first to voice it.

  “Bells!” The prince jumped, his face alight with joy and relief. “Thank the gods! I should never have let them-”

  “Steady there,” Vaujn interrupted, stepping in front of the prince.

  “What?” Hiruld gave the kin a dangerous look.

  “Sjhtojr,” Vaujn ordered. The squad formed up into the stinger formation in two ranks, the first on its knees, all crossbows aimed at Bellivue. The knight halted.

  “My Prince,” Bellivue said, breathing hard. “You are betrayed. The aulden were awaiting you here.”

  “So were you, apparently,” said Vaujn.

  Chloe and Hæschp set down their crossbows. Chloe removed her scrying bowl, and Hæschp filled it with water from his skin before retrieving his weapon and returning to his place in formation. Chloe waved her hand over the bowl, chanting softly.

  Hiruld pushed forward, but Vaujn held firm. “Just a moment, My Prince.”

  Chloe dropped a small onyx chip into the bowl and studied the ripples.

  “Why aren’t you in the tower?” Vaujn asked. “How did you get here?”

  Bellivue sagged, shaking his head. “We’ve no more time for questioning loyalties, sir. Inulf is loose in the castle, and I’m afraid most of the guard have perished. I’m under geas by Agrylon’s own hand. The bond is very strong. It called me here to his aid – led me to him.”

  “I’ll bet it did.” Vaujn spared a glance at Chloe, but her attention was still strictly on the bowl.

  “We’ve little time left, Hiruld,” Bellivue said, approaching.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Vaujn warned.

  “He just slew the aulden,” Hiruld argued, struggling against Vaujn’s staying hand. “Damn it all, I’ve known him longer than you. Release me, dwarf!”

  Bellivue sheathed his blade. “The kin do you great service. But-”

  Chloe looked up from her bowl. Vaujn saw the answer in her eyes before she uttered the word.

  “Dhûnorihm,” she said.

  Vaujn didn’t have to issue the command to fire. Mother Chloe’s proclamation was enough. A dozen bolts of kinsteel were loosed with a resonant twang, and Bellivue was struck with no less than eight. The impact drove him backward, and he stumbled. He cried out, but one of the bolts had entered his cheek and shattered his jaw, and he couldn’t form actual words.

  “No!” shouted Hiruld, “Bells! No!”

  Another volley struck the prone body of the Prince’s Herald. He twitched once more and then lay very still.

  “What have you done?” raved the prince, and this time he pushed past Vaujn and his guard. “Bells!”

  Läzch tackled him, and he kicked at her, trying to break free.

  “Have you all gone mad?” Hiruld yelled. He had almost gained his feet when Mueszner put a heavy boot on his ankle.

  “Stay down, you blessed fool,” Vaujn snapped. “Who knows how long Bellivue’s been dead, or possessed, or whatever. That’s the shadowyn. And it might look dead, but right now it’s just inconvenienced, so don’t… get… any… closer.”

  “Impossi–”

  “He is still bleeding traces of Shadow, My Prince,” Chloe explained, her tone more patient than Vaujn could hope to muster. “He shadow-walked right to your person. Just like the aulden walk through rainbows. He’s not of the mortal world.”

  “I knew it,” Vaujn said, nodding. “Osrith was right: put them all in the tower and kill whoever shows up to help. Best friend of the prince, an inviolate knight under geas, pure and noble and all that – even Agrylon comes to his defense. Then here he is, nice and convenient, saving the prince. Had to be him.”

  “You’re very cynical,” remarked Chloe.

  “He looks nothing more than a dead man to me,” Hiruld said, the defiance gone from his tone, replaced by something more resigned. “A dead friend.”

  Vaujn shuffled his feet. “You’re sure, right, Chloe?”

  She nodded. “He’s waiting for someone to go check his body, preferably the prince himself. Then he’ll pop up and unleash some horrible shadowfire on him. Remember Dathliil?”

  Vaujn grunted. Taantun had lost half his squad to that one.

  “This, at least, I prepared for.” Chloe reached into her satchel and withdrew a large, pale gemstone. “I can inter it,” she said, rubbing the stone with her thumb and then dropping it into her scrying bowl, “but the spell takes time, and it might get tired of waiting. If it gets up, keep killing it until I’m finished.”

  Seth stumbled again, and then scrabbled his way back to his feet. The fighting was not far behind, but desperation proved effective fuel. He ran to the next intersection and waited, panting, for the others to catch up to him.

  You know the way best, Calvraign had said. Take us to the faerie garden.

  “I know the way best,” he repeated aloud, as if to convince himself, catching his breath.

  It was the only thing he could contribute to their survival. He couldn’t swing a sword or heft a bow, not with the intent of hitting anything. More often than not he froze in terror at sight of the hrumm, and Inulf and Osrith terrified him only slightly less.

  A door slammed shut behind him, and a bar clanged into its bracket. “That’ll hold the bloody bastards,” Foss was saying.

  “Not for long,” Osrith added, as the voices drew nearer.

  Seth bit his lip, waiting as they came into sight at the end of the hallway and ran in his direction: Foss, with a few of his surviving men; Inulf and his; Osrith, Markus, Calvraign, and Callagh Breigh. The sight of her – sweaty, blood-stained, and glaring her ferocious glare – quickened his heart. Indeed, she scared him most of all, but for mostly different reasons.

  “Down straight here, through Black Mirror Hall and up to Aventus Terrace. The door to the haunted g
arden is there, sirs.”

  The guardsmen made warding signs, and even Foss balked aloud. “Black Mirror Hall.” He said the words as if simply speaking them was explanation for his concern. “Why not go out and around along Atrevus Terrace – it meets up with Aventus, too, don’t it?”

  “The hall is quickest, and there are two doors to bar behind us that way.” Seth shrugged, puzzled by Foss’ demeanor. It’s the haunted garden he should be worried about.

  The pounding on the door behind them produced a sharp crack.

  “I go through there every Celanday,” Seth insisted.

  “All right,” Foss acquiesced reluctantly. He turned to his men. “Straight through. Don’t look at nothin’. Don’t touch nothin’. Old magic in that hall. Black magic. Look in a black mirror, and it’ll take your soul right out o’ your body.”

  Seth swallowed. Black magic? “Well, um, the mirrors are all boarded up. I’ve never, um, it seemed safe.”

  Inulf laughed. “Old it be, and black – but just the glass, eh? Not the magic.” He laughed again. “But never safe.”

  “I’d worry less about the hallway, and more about what’s waiting for us at the other end.” Osrith motioned them on. “Move.”

  Seth ran down the steps, passing between the double doors and beneath the great stone archway into Black Mirror Hall. On the surface, there was nothing remarkable about it. Most of it, in fact, was hidden in the shadows thrown by the scant torchlight. Inulf closed the doors behind them, and his men dropped a heavy black bar across its width, settling into brass brackets with a satisfying thunk.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and Seth jumped. He was relieved to find Calvraign’s apologetic, if strained, smile at the other end of the clasping hand.

  “Lead on, Seth,” he said.

  “Of course,” Seth agreed, recognized the underlying order hidden in his master’s gentle encouragement. Calvraign’s eyes still had softness in them, and his voice still held kindness, but there was a hardness forming at the edges, caked in the blood of his friends and enemies. “Sorry.”

  Somehow, this time it seemed a sinister and foreboding place. The nondescript black velvet curtains that covered the mirrors, six to each side of the hall, rustled as they passed, revealing glimpses of the carved shutters beneath. He saw or imagined details in the intricate designs that he’d never noticed before – twining dragons, flying gryphons, a winged skull spitting fire. The shadowplay gave them all an unsettling illusion of movement.

  “What was this place?” whispered Callagh, stopping in front of one of the mirrors. She parted the curtain, and traced a pair of squinting emerald eyes inlaid above the snarling snout of some horrid hellhound.

  “I don’t know,” Osrith said. “If Kassakan were here, she’d give you some wonderful story about it. Keep moving.”

  Despite Foss’ misgivings, and his newfound nervousness, or even Callagh daring to touch one of the mirror coverings, the hall proved as uneventful as any other time Seth had passed through, and he was thankful for that. Sometimes it seemed as if the moment someone noticed something, even when it had been around him without incident his whole life, it suddenly became a horrible and present danger.

  Seth climbed the broad steps leading up out of the hall, glad to put it behind him. He waited by the door.

  “Thank you, Seth,” Calvraign said, just as the pounding began at the other entrance. “You’ve been very brave. Now…. Is there a place you can hide?”

  “Hide?”

  Calvraign pushed the doors open. Cold wind greeted them, and the scent of smoke. “The hrumm behind us will break through soon enough, but the last place you need to be is inside the garden.”

  “Yeah, and this would be the second to last,” Osrith observed, looking around the manicured hedges and tarp-covered trees as they entered the terrace. “You could climb up there and hide under the canvas, maybe, and hope they don’t smell you out.”

  “It’s a little smoky,” agreed Markus with a half-hearted smile.

  “Good luck, boy. I wish you that. You be needing luck today.” Inulf laughed and moved past them all to the garden door.

  He laughs a lot, thought Seth with some irritation.

  They couldn’t bar the door from the outside, but it seemed the hrumm were making slow progress with the thicker doors and stronger bracket at the other end of Black Mirror Hall. They filed past, one by one, giving him a pat on the back or nod of thanks, but their minds were already on the battle ahead. Callagh came last of all, and Seth watched after her, a lump forming in his throat. She turned back, meeting his awkward stare with a wry smile.

  “Ach,” she said, walking back to him and leaning in close.

  Seth thought she might give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and was surprised to find her dry lips pressing against his, firm and sure. She lingered long enough that when she broke the kiss, it was with a moist pop. He felt a little light-headed.

  “I know you’ve been wonderin’, poor thing,” she said, tilting her head with an innocent look. “An’ I thought it a shame if you were to die a-wonderin’.”

  Seth stared after her again as she joined the others. Calvraign had blushed, and split a glare between Callagh and Seth. Seth licked his tingling lips, and smiled. You should not be smiling right now, he told himself, but to no avail.

  “What?” Callagh snapped, tapping Calvraign’s chest with the tip of her bow. “D’you have a claim to make? No? Besides,” she said with a wink, “when you’re facing down death, it’s nice to have something to live for.”

  “The scurryway!” Seth exclaimed. He would have to climb over the balustrade and lower himself to the roof of the grounds house, but from there it was not a long drop to the Summer Gardens. “I’ll hide in the scuryway!”

  The soldiers didn’t appear to notice his revelation. They waited as Inulf cracked the door and peered into the garden. Calvraign still stood staring at Seth, however. He wondered if he might not pay a dear price for Callagh’s recent show of affection. He backed slowly to the edge of the terrace.

  “Hrumm,” Inulf said, wiggling his fingers around his eyes. “Graomwrnokk.”

  “How many?” asked Foss.

  Inulf held up three fingers, but shook his head. “I’m sure more be sneakin’ and hidin’, yes? Hmm?”

  “Aye, that’ll be the way of it,” agreed Osrith. “Coming down that stair, there won’t be any sneaking or hiding for us.”

  “No, there won’t,” Calvraign said. “Not on the stair. Seth!”

  Seth waited at the railing as Calvraign ran at him with Callagh, and Reime, the smallest of Foss’ crossbowmen, trailed not far behind.

  “As it happens,” Calvraign said, “we’re coming with you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  MEYR GA’GLYLEYN

  THE scurryway was a narrow passage hidden behind a delicate facade of polished wood, carved in intricate twisting vines and leaves, backed with a thin lining of grey porous cloth. From a distance it was opaque, but with her eye pressed against it Callagh could see out into the garden courtyard. They were downwind of the graomwrnokk, although the whirling winds inside the small courtyard made this an uncertain enough thing.

  Calvraign and Reime stood ready at the door with sword and crossbow. Seth had the sense to hide, and was huddled near the entrance of the scurryway. Callagh expected Osrith and the others would attack very soon, before the hrumm dogging their retreat caught them from behind. She kept her body still and breath quiet, as if stalking prey in the Ad Craign Uhl.

  A familiar black shape settled onto a redberry tree, oily black wings folding in as it found its perch. She felt a chill in her bones, and her amulet burned, like when she’d sealed her oath, and not for the first time since her induction into the madhwr-rwn. When Inulf appeared, when she’d rescued Calvraign, when they’d passed through Black Mirror Hall.

  The raven cocked its head.

  She thought, for a moment, that a man stood with them in the crowded enclosure, but in a blink he
was gone.

  The raven quorked.

  Yes, the voice said, like an itch tickling the inside of her ear. It wasn’t Old Bones. It was the voice behind the shadows of the madhwr-rwn. The other voice. Her voice. See him, she commanded. See my wayward son.

  The wound on Callagh’s hand throbbed. A trickle of blood escaped her makeshift bandage.

  The apparition swirled into being like smoke from a dying fire, coiling into the shape of a man, standing in the lee of Calvraign’s shadow. Reime didn’t appear to notice the specter, and this only confirmed the suspicion growing in her gut. He stood – half man, half shadow – like the ethereal patrons of the court that had presided over her blood pact with Old Bones.

  This is Greycloak, she thought. Calvraign’s shadow. He’s madhwr-rwn?

  Yes, hissed the quiet voice in her head. The amulet pulsed against her breast, in time with her pulse. He of the Cythe. My knight. My promised. My very Hand. Bring him home to me, Callagh Breigh. Bring him home.

  Greycloak turned toward her. His face was one of welcome, a distant recollection darkened by shades of clinging grey, a shrouded warmth like the midday suns obscured by clouds. Callagh’s mind reeled at the familiar memory that stood before her. Not her memory, exactly – she’d been too young when he’d left Craignuuwn to recognize him. But they told her. They whispered his name to her, over and again, memories not her own echoing in her thoughts.

  Ibhraign!

  “What?” The word was little more than a sigh.

  Reime looked at her curiously. Calvraign was intent on what lay ahead.

  The stairway door burst open, and Inulf led his men down into the courtyard, swords and shields at the ready, Osrith at the rear. As the hrumm jumped to defend themselves, Foss and his crossbowmen took position on the landing, taking aim at the charging enemy.

  He must fulfill his oath. He is promised to me.

  The voice filled Callagh’s head. She watched herself slack the tension in her bowstring as if a spectator to her own actions. She drew the razor tip of an arrow across her wrist once. Twice. Bright red lines of blood glimmered on her pale flesh.