by Jenna Rhodes
Riding ahead of him, Gilgarran wore a hooded cloak against the climate, fastened sturdily in front with a series of cloak pins, each a small golden masterpiece of craftsmanship, holding the cloak tightly shut even in the face of the ever increasing wind. Lacings kept the hood secure as well, and although Sevryn had once laughed at the garment, he realized now that his own greatcoat and leather hat served him more poorly, and left his legs bare to the cold and what had been, for days, a frigid, driving rain. It would take him a month to dry out and he doubted that the weather would hold more than another candlemark or two before the sky opened up again.
City-born, he still did not like being out in the open, although he had gotten used to it over his years spent with Gilgarran on one trail or another, in pursuit of goals that often seemed obscure. He did not complain. What lay behind him, in city sewers and middens and back alleys, had always been far worse, and he bore the scars to remind him. However, a midmorning fire and warming brew would be welcome as the weather closed in about them, Stocking month indeed, before the snows and harsher times descended. “How much farther up the mountain lives this friend of yours?”
Gilgarran reined to a halt, and turned his horse toward Sevryn. “I am not sure.”
Their gazes met. “He is a friend,” Sevryn said, his voice rising slightly, almost making a question of it.
Gilgarran dropped his gloved hands to the withers of his mount. “Actually, he is more of an acquaintance than a friend. If that.”
“Which explains why the directions to his abode have been a bit obscure.”
“Indeed.” Gilgarran’s mount twitched slightly as if betraying a nervousness under his equine skin that his rider’s neutral expression refused to convey. Gilgarran had the agelessness of all Vaelinars, along with the high cheekbones, the slightly pointed ears, the eyes of brilliant gem-like colors, his of green and blue-green, a nice counterpoint to his amber hair. He wore an ear stud of a two-carat aquamarine as if to accent his eyes further. “Does that concern you?”
Sevryn’s dapple-gray gelding stamped the ground, telegraphing further what neither man allowed to ripple through their eyes or slightly smiling mouths. Sevryn stretched his legs in the stirrups and resettled as Gilgarran teased at his loyalty. “I would ask, does it concern you?”
“It does.”
“Then it worries me, for what concerns you can devastate me.” Sevryn grinned then, wryly, one corner of his mouth lifting as it had the habit of doing.
Gilgarran turned his face, glancing up the rough mountain scape, its peak hidden by the lowering cloud banks of blue and ever darkening grays. “This,” he said slowly, “is why I found and began to train you.”
Sevryn felt his crooked grin fade. Nearly twenty years under Gilgarran’s tutelage and he no longer asked why he’d been taken in and trained, grateful only that this one Vaelinar did not look down upon him or question his half-blood lineage or wish him dead. His hand tightened imperceptibly on the reins, and he shifted his weight slightly, taking stock of the various weapons in holsters and sleeves placed discreetly about his body.
Gilgarran gestured with his gloved hand toward the broken peaks. “Up there, if I am right, we will enter into a supposed alliance or, if I am wrong, we’ll make a formidable enemy. I shall know where we are going, but you have to mark it, too.”
Few words, but enough to quicken his pulse. No more questions now.
Gilgarran worked alone, save for him, and there would be no rescue to follow, and if there were recriminations to be had by their actions, the two of them alone would bear them. He knew this and had agreed to it long ago. The astiri, the way, would be but a single thread among all those that were natural in the elemental weaving of the world, and ought to shine through to him like a newly minted copper bit tossed in a clear pool of rainwater for a midsummer’s wish.
Sevryn took a shallow breath to steady himself, then opened his senses as Gilgarran had been teaching him these past decades, and let the essence of the elements about them fill him. The moment came with awe. He would never grow used to it, the rushing wealth of sensory information filling him. He felt the tiny creatures huddled underground against the storm in their crooks, caves, and boles of the world. The trees below hugging the stony mountain in the thinning air and water, their roots going deep even while their gnarled branches waited for whatever sun might strike them. He knew the birds in their nests and holds, wings tucked in sleep. He could feel the seeds which would stir to life in the spring, and he could hear and taste the river that ran through the roots of these peaks, underground, through cave and cavern and deep into the broken rock of the earth, before it tumbled free onto the greening valleys and became a true river. All this and more, he felt in an instant.
He also felt the moment that was coming upon them and what it could mean, as well as where it would happen. The prescience danced upon the raw nerves of his body. There were moments when everything in life could change, and one of them approached.
Sevryn opened his eyes, reflecting only the gray of the stormy sky overhead, and nodded to Gilgarran. He had the astiri firmly in his mind now and knew the path leading around and above to the man-made holdings they sought. Moreover, he tasted the soot of the stronghold’s forges in the air, heard the pound of hammer and tong, and knew the bite of hot iron being cooled in troughs of water drawn from the mountain’s underground streams. He could feel the flesh huddled, tired and sore, in the work camps riddling the caverns above, enslaved and miserable.
Formidable enemy, indeed. The forge which lay above them, hidden among the twisting crags and buttes, was not the simple ironworks of the Kernans on the eastern plains, devoted to basic breastplates and short swords for the ever quibbling Bolger tribes or the independent Galdarkans. No. The enclave he felt moved in full production, amassing weapons and armor, in direct violation of the Accords. No wonder the secrecy.
“It is not a good place we ride to,” Gilgarran acknowledged, meeting his stare. “Once up there, stay with me, but be quiet. Say as little as possible, do as little as possible.”
“Attract no attention.”
Gilgarran nodded. “I will not be shielding you otherwise.”
“All right.”
Gilgarran lifted his reins. His horse shook his head. “Anything to tell me?”
Surprise shivered through him like the fingers of the wind swirling about them. His teacher had told him once never to prophesy for him. Never had he offered or been asked before. His Kernan blood, Gilgarran said, tainted the Vaelinar in him, and his talents were likely to be muddied through no fault of his own. Because of it and his eyes, no one had ever offered to teach him, not even those Vaelinars who had recognized their blood in him, although Gilgarran had been pleasantly surprised at his abilities. Still, his mentor had made that request of him at the beginning and had never gone back on it. It was said the Vaelinars recognized their own by the eyes even more than the ears, the longevity, the agility, and the slenderness of build. It was also said that Talent passed with Vaelinar eyes, but he had proved that axiom wrong. Gilgarran said Sevryn was the only one he’d ever run across who manifested Talent though his eyes were perfectly ordinary, making him even more valuable to Gilgarran’s intrigues. There was an advantage to being discounted in the scheme of things.
Sevryn began to shake his head quickly to Gilgarran’s question, then the words tumbled out in spite of that. “Be careful.”
It happened like that. A darkness filled with sudden lightning, a flash of thought or word. He snapped his mouth shut, teeth biting off his words.
Gilgarran smiled thinly. “That,” he responded, “goes without saying.” He turned his horse about and began to pick his way uphill again, following the hidden trail their elven senses had marked.
“Wait,” Sevryn called, but the howling wind tore the sound from him and swallowed it down, and if Gilgarran heard him at all, he gave no sign of it. He gathered himself to follow, and do what he had been trained for.
Chapte
r Two
Earlier That Day
FYRVAE STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, back bowed, head down instinctively, knowing where the cavern roof dipped low, his body protesting as he moved, rising from sleep, and braiding his hair back from his face, fingers gaining nimbleness as he worked. The stone crouched about him like the skeleton of another body he knew intimately, cradling and caging him as one might a lover. He listened. The inner mountain no longer beat like a drum, bass vibrato resounding in the bones of the earth and inside his bones, and that meant the thunder and rain outside had ceased. Too soon! Too soon! His jaw clenched upon the lamentation yet he could not quell his dismay. The river nearby swelled and tumbled downward in its rock-cut path through the underground, but not powerfully enough. Not deep enough, swift enough, for his needs, even when unleashed by the Vaelinar who drove it here, who had coaxed it into the caverns of this mountain, away from its natural bed, and kept it tamed for the master who owned them both.
The woman at his feet stirred as if roused by his thoughts of her, and put her hand out, touched his ankle. “Fyrvae?” She spoke softly so as not to disturb the closed silence of the caves. The fragile tone of her voice belied the strength and hold she had on this one river, the strength and hold she had on his soul.
His anger softened, and he bent over, running calloused fingers through her tangled hair. “Lindala. Pray for more rain. Pray for more than your river can hold.”
“It did stop, then.”
“Hours ago, I imagine.”
“Help me light a small fire. It’s so cold.”
He could feel her shiver under his hand, and it hurt him to answer. “No. We need every scrap of kindling. It’s all we’ve got. I can’t steal any more from the forge fires. They’re keeping track.”
“I know, I know.” She sighed. “I can feel the rain. It’s close, but . . . it’s almost as if it’s watching. Waiting for something.”
He could feel it, too. His kinship lay with the earth and the fires deep inside it, but he could feel the pressure of the storm waiting to break. They needed it. They had no hope without it; indeed, had little hope with it. Flood might do what they alone could not. He stroked Lindala’s face, tracing her fine bones with his rough fingertips, brushing his thumb across her chapped lips. Such a beautiful mouth. He longed to see her smiling again, in full sunlight, the glow of happiness lighting her face.
“I’ll be back soon. Try to keep each other warm.”
“Where—”
“I’ve got to make sure the forge is hot enough. Buyers are coming. They’ve put aside the veil on the mountain. They’re at the talus now, working their way up.” No one found their way to the forge unless Quendius allowed them, and he’d felt their steady progress at the edge of his thoughts. “Quendius will want a blade finished to show the quality, and I want the forge ready. It’s another workday for me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I . . . I understand.” Lindala repressed another shiver, and grasped his hand with both of hers, her strength grown frail over the past seasons, the natural slenderness of her hands now gaunt, and he swallowed tightly as he felt her bones just under the skin in his hold. They both gave food up for the third, but they didn’t think about her, couldn’t, lest Quendius or another sense her. Lindala hid her with all the meager strength of her waning talents, and even that might not be enough much longer.
Rain! Let the storms come again! He clasped her, and brought the fire up in his body, heating himself from the inside out, and knelt beside her, taking her in his arms, warming her. He couldn’t sustain the effort long, but she stopped shivering, her face buried in the hollow of his neck. Little enough to do, and yet never enough. “We are truly the Suldarran, the Lost,” he murmured to her softly. “But I will do everything in my power never to lose you. Believe in me.”
She made a wordless sound in answer, holding him tightly. After a long moment, he began to draw her arms from about his neck, and she whispered to the curve of his ear, “I am with child again.”
He stiffened. She felt it in him, could not help but feel it, and a dampness trickled between their pressed together cheeks. He cursed at himself for bringing tears from her. She tried to draw back from him, but he did not allow her. “It is a joy,” he said to her, finally, his voice and words muffled against her skin. “We are blessed twice over with what many Vaelinars can only hope for. Can you carry it?”
“How can I not? It is as much a part of me as I am part of it.”
“You’re so thin . . .” he stroked her forearm. The birth of the other had nearly done her in, and he did not see how Lindala could do this again.
Fyrvae drew back reluctantly and stood, bowed, under the low ceiling. Lindala curled up, murmuring, and he could hear the prayer in her softly chanted words. All Vaelinars were lost in this world, and some more than others, he thought. No one would look for him or those of his family, for his blood no longer existed, and if his slavery were known, the Vaelinars would simply say to him, “An ironic punishment.”
She had left her people, her lineage anchored securely in the House of Vayernol, to follow him, and he had promised her a life worth living, only to bring her to this. Yet she had done it of her own free will, and for love of him. Their child . . . children . . . had not made such a choice. He leaned down, and tucked the soft rags of her tunic and skirt about her. His father Briban had destroyed his family by attempting to raise a Way, to establish a House for his lineage, centuries after the Accords had abolished magical meddling with the elements. Those of the DeCadils who’d survived had been hunted down by the Council and dispatched. He’d barely escaped both the disaster and the Council by fleeing, and Lindala had insisted on going with him. To what end could he hope to bring them now? Then, he’d been young and foolish with hope. Now he could only hope to endure, like the metal he folded and pounded on the anvils. But what he would be forged into only time would determine.
Fyrvae made his way out the winding depths of the caverns, the red glow at the tunnel’s end guiding him to the forges, their heat blasting him like the sun in the desert as he emerged, the sting of the mountain’s chill and wind and fomenting storm swirling about him, held at bay by the fierce heat of the furnaces. The blast and smell of the hot metal and charcoal and smelting stopped him in his tracks for a moment. Fyrvae breathed deep then, and moved out into the open.
A Bolger swiped at him, grumbling, rattling his chains, the rankness of his body almost overpowering even with the pungent smell of the smithy about him. His ivory tusks clacked as he swore at Fyrvae listlessly.
Fyrvae did not deign to dodge. “Touch me and die.” He stood his ground, well within reach of the vile creature, and stared him down. The Bolger moved back, grumbling to its guard mate in broken grunts with only the rudimentary semblance of a language. They could speak Common well enough if they chose, and just as obviously did not wish to. The other hooted in laughter at his fellow and the Bolger growled as he hunkered down, glaring at Fyrvae.
The second Bolger made crude gestures as Fyrvae strode past, headed toward the main furnaces which were his domain and responsibility and stayed stoked despite any weather, ready for his usage at the slightest notice. Yawning gap of a mouth, blackened at the edges and fire red inside, it consumed whole forests a log at a time when needed, and the Bolgers who stoked it snarled at him, but did his bidding even as they slunk back and forth, bodies dripping with sweat from the heat. These had already sweated the rankness out of their Bolger skins and smelled only of the furnace, and moved to obey when he beckoned. He reigned here, and they dared not forget it. His tongs could and had branded the disobedient. Better to face Fyrvae than Quendius, even at that. While the other forges worked on armor endlessly, he made weapons, fine weapons, and the craftsmanship he taught them would some day elevate them over their more brutal kin.
Did buyers come? He didn’t know for a certainty. Quendius had not told him of an upcoming sale, but that meant nothing, and he knew that someone came, he could feel their prese
nce on the slopes, steadily approaching the hidden fortress. His senses pinged with every step upon the stone and earth. Who else would come but buyers?
He buried his senses in the fires and the metal, and waited for rain.
Lindala curled her body about her daughter, and tried to keep the heat that Fyrvae had generated for them, but the earth and stone and even the river sipped at it, draining it away, till she felt even colder than before. Her daughter sat up, long hair swinging away from her face, and patted her mother’s hand. She spoke little, as they all did, enslaved to the darkness of the caverns, but she hummed under her breath as she played small games with the twigs and stones about her. Lindala watched her, wondering what hues the sun would highlight in her hair, what colors lay in the depths of her eyes, seeing a mystery before her, a child growing slowly in the way of the Vaelinar race even though her entire life had been spent in the gloom of the caverns. They rarely spoke of her, or to her, as if that alone could shield the knowledge of her from Quendius. Lindala joined in her humming, her song one she used to keep the strength of the river in her thoughts. The swollen stream itself roared past them, a constant wind, its froth misting the air, adding to the chill. What would her daughter do when the baby swelled her belly? Would she welcome it? Would she press her face to her mother’s stomach and listen to the gurgle of the unborn and feel the kicks of its movements?