by J Glen Percy
The heartbeat was there. In the dead stillness of the forest, so was another sound that had nothing to do with his sister. Sniffing. Intense, erratic sniffing like that of a searching hound. His back was to the door, to the noise. Already on edge, terror seized his every fiber. He pleaded with Aryella’s unconscious body just above a cracked whisper. Alive though she was, she would not wake.
To Gabryel’s young mind, the only thing worse than a grimling stalking your room was hiding under the quilt while the thing hunted for toes to munch on. If you could see the spook, at least you knew when it was ready to dine. Chin quivering with dread and tears well-formed, he took his feet and steadily turned.
At first, nothing happened. Then, ever so slowly, the iron slab began pivoting open. Gabryel’s breath caught in his throat, his limbs trembled visibly. A thought went to his bow but his body would not comply. They had just been stories, mythical creatures that were as much fiction as flying horses or enormous fire-breathing lizards, no matter that his father had helped defeat them. It was because of those stories that he knew this door, and worse, knew what was said to lurk behind. What emerged exceeded his darkest imaginations.
A deer’s head appeared first, but where four hooves should have followed, the scrawny, failing body of a man was instead. Its skin, void of fur right down to its elongated human feet, reminded Gabryel of the filmy snow slugs that wreaked havoc on the keep’s gardens. Forked antlers stood between two hairless ears with strands of fleshy black velvet dangling like old man’s beard from a swamp willow.
Frosted, too-human eyes sized up the boy, the miscreation’s lips pulling into a razor-revealing snarl. Thick saliva seeped from its lips. Its jaws snapped suddenly, its teeth clicking noisily as the fleshy velvet shook back and forth. The startling motion caused Gabryel to stumble over Aryella’s body. As with any predator, the creature took the misstep as an opportunity to pounce, landing overtop the Starling children with a single unnatural bound.
Gabryel braced himself for the attack but it never came. Instead, the monster’s veiny hands clung to Aryella’s cloak while two hollow eyes searched her sleeping face. The sniffing never ceased, though shifted abruptly from sporadic to intent; a probing truffle hog versus a child taking in grandmother’s sweet rolls. At the same instant, nearly transparent ears relaxed and even casually twitched a time or two. The mood touched on fondness. Disturbing fondness.
Somewhere in the dread, Gabryel thought of his parents. He had not given them much to be proud of in twelve years – not like Breccyn or Mykel - perhaps they would smile knowing he turned death on himself before his sister. Faster than a cutpurse’s coin, Gabryel spent all the courage he could gather with a desperate kick to the creature’s elongated snout.
Antlers spun suddenly, the creature’s soulless orbs fixing on the boy. A putrid snort ruffled his hair and he just managed to quell his churning stomach. The stories never mentioned the grisly stench. The beast’s awkward head pivoted between the two siblings. Then, with a deep skyward howl, the creature pushed off on all fours and disappeared into the thick foliage.
The shadowy forest was already embracing dusk as Gabryel dragged himself to Aryella’s side. Fatigue, which had begun to replace terror, was not so deep as to prevent the miserable, woe-filled tears that continued to surface. Through those tears, Gabryel stared into the utter blackness just beyond the gaping iron door. The entire purpose of this adventure had been to pass time. Curse his unconscious sister for it, this was going to be the longest night of his life.
CHAPTER 12
Three days. Three days pacing the Rose Citadel’s elegant halls awaiting a second audience with the king. Three days wasted. Ryecard had supposed that a cracking foundation would merit Erick’s full and immediate attention, but his old friend had little time for him. Had little time, or made little time, he wondered? This morning, the king would have to make time.
Ryecard threw open the council room door without breaking stride. “Do assassins now deliver the king’s justice door to door like the morning’s milk?”
The room was filled with startled faces both familiar and unfamiliar, and all of them as predictable as a Feral’s appetite. Lord Captain Ozias Stellen was on his feet – as always – moon blade half drawn before recognizing the intruder. Tobiah Jago was at the uncomfortable table, somehow looking down his prominent nose despite being seated. The old man’s scowl suggested he would not have expected anyone else. King Erick sat there too, bags pulling at his eyelids and something much heavier at his slouched shoulders. Those Ryecard did not know were nobles of one house or another, working hurriedly to mask surprise beneath their own self-importance. Tension hung on the air.
Tobiah was the first to speak. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Ryecard replied, waving the small note he had received from the aviary minutes prior. “An assassin stole into my son’s room two nights past.”
“And you point to the king?” Tobiah huffed indignantly.
“The evidence points to the king. Or someone nearby.” It was the closest thing to blame without actually pointing a finger. Like tailor and ribbon, Erick was responsible for measuring and trimming his son’s life. The question was, had the king already ordered a silent snip? Erick’s hands moved feebly to his brow, his elbows resting on the table.
Ozias extended a calming hand to Ryecard’s shoulder. “I assume you mean Breccyn. Is the lad alright?”
“By some thin miracle he lives, though the message relayed few details there.”
The wrinkled advisor disregarded the response, the part that had to do with the Starling boy’s health, anyway. “Where were the details relayed? What is this evidence? You are encroaching on treason, lord steward. Standing menacingly at its border at the very least.”
“The cutthroat was a Grayskin-” Ryecard began. Several nobles gasped.
“A Grayskin!” Tobiah interrupted. “Why in the mother of Five would His Highness work with the Grays, or the Grays with Rosemount? If you are looking for fools to entertain this foolishness, perhaps you should return home. You’ll find none here!”
“Tobiah, you bleating goat,” Ozias jumped in. “Mouth running faster than a grain-fed filly yet never taking you anywhere. Let the man speak.”
“I’ll let the man speak when he has something sensible to say, monger” Tobiah snapped back, throwing both hands in the air.
King Erick, who had been listening to the proceedings with drained indifference, snapped, sending several nobles jumping in their chairs. “Enough! An entire civilization of Grayskins awaits the order to slit every one of our throats. If we sit bickering like cantankerous courtesans in this dismal cavern of a room a second longer, I may invite them to.”
Erick’s hands lowered slowly from his rising head. On second look, the man appeared weary, not weak. There was a big difference. A waning fire could still scald, Ryecard reminded himself. It could be rekindled too.
“Ryecard, you are my closest friend and ally. Or were until you attempted to bring my home down with that door. Your manner of arrival is insulting, the spoken reason behind it even more so. Men have been executed for far less. For my part as a friend I will ask, why approach me in this manner?”
Before Ryecard could answer, Tobiah cast his eyes about warily. “Perhaps this should be had in private, Your Grace.”
“Private? I did not choose this conversation, nor the audience for it. Now let’s hear it.”
Steel would fold around that tone, but Ryecard was no slab of butter. He needed answers and would not back down until he had them.
“There is only so long a man can watch his offspring dangle over a chasm. Especially when someone is sawing at the rope.”
“And that someone is me?” The room braced for Ryecard’s response.
“Meryam recognized the assassin’s blade. It belongs to Ceres.”
“Your name-day gift?” the king asked. Ryecard nodded, followed by deep reflection on the ki
ng’s part. “This is cold, even for Ceres. My rudderless ship of a son has mounted his own plots before. Still, to accuse him of this?”
Erick trailed off, a long silence following as his eyes searched the tabletop for answers. Whatever the nobles’ purpose here this morning, they were getting more than they had bargained for. They were about to get another helping; Ryecard was not satisfied.
“That’s it? What about bloodlines and names bringing honor? Call Ceres to answer!”
“Do not patronize me!” Erick erupted. He was on his feet, his heavy chair toppled over behind. “Perhaps your paranoid search for an enemy should lie closer to Shorefeld Keep, Ryecard Starling.” King Erick did not have to mention Lord Gerrit Fairfield for both men - and perhaps everyone present - to know of whom he spoke.
“There are only so many in the realm with access to a Grayskin and that knife,” Ryecard refuted. “For my part as a friend,” he echoed, “I will trust that you were not behind this cowardly plot. I advise monitoring communications in and out of the castle, though. Your son’s especially. For the larger question as to whether my son has merely traded the assassin’s blade for your headsman’s axe, an answer is overdue. I am needed at home, Your Grace. A decision please, so I can return.”
“How dare you!” Erick shouted. “Would you condemn the kingdom for your son’s life, Ryecard?” The absence of bared teeth was the only thing distinguishing the king’s reply from a growl.
“The question is, Your Grace, will you?”
Hammer against hammer, everyone save Ozias was left cowering in place by the fiery exchange. Then, as abruptly as he entered, Ryecard bowed his dismissal and left.
CHAPTER 13
The jagged cliffs beneath Shorefeld Keep were marred with more holes than an idler’s grin. The gaps, many large enough for a person to squeeze through, breached the network of jail cells and passageways that existed just behind the rock face. They were called the Howling Cells for the deep whistle that moved through the wounded caverns. Or for the screams of hopeful escapees plummeting to their deaths. The frothing coastline far below was riddled with the bones of those whose only true escape had come in death.
Despite his mother’s express orders, Breccyn had visited the underground prison more than a handful of times since waking to the foiled attempt on his life. He was there presently, sometime past midnight, watching as orange torchlight and iron bars striped the captive’s smoke-colored flesh. He was careful where he placed his eyes; her leather leggings and fitted half-top revealed a lot of flesh.
He had actually been sitting against the damp stone wall opposite the cell when Aryella and Gabryel had attempted their concocted excuse for gaining access. Jailors and orders were much easier to circumvent when you were left in charge of a place, it turned out. Breccyn was not proud, disobeying his mother, but with any luck he would have answers by the time both his parents were returning home with theirs. At the moment, Breccyn hoped their talks were the more productive. Drawing answers from this stranger was like tugging on a seated mule.
“At least give me your name,” Breccyn pleaded. Her eyes were a mystery, capable of scorching the earth bare or freezing it solid without so much as a blink. He had never seen the like, not even in Wyn Fellsword’s unparalleled gaze. Two lively embers smoldered presently.
“What will happen to me?” she said, ignoring Breccyn’s demand. Most prisoners simply refused to speak. Not this one. Her defiance came in the form of conversation, asking more questions in that heavy accent than a high inquisitor meeting his daughter’s suitor. Certainly more than Breccyn.
“Death most likely, though your cooperation will inform the swiftness.” And for some half-witted reason, she was receiving more answers too! Her stoic posture, seated with hands on folded legs, contrasted with her energetic eyes. Fire and ice.
“A visit to the headsman then?” she asked plainly.
“Not quite. The headsman leaves no time for the guilty to consider their guilt. A plunge from our cliffs to the hungry rocks below is the quickest you can hope for here.” Not all of the bones below came from escape attempts. “Are you frightened?”
“Frightened?” The embers flared with scorn. “I wish it upon myself for failing.”
Breccyn’s eyebrows raised involuntarily. Her answer was somewhat shocking, yes, but that was not the source of his surprise. It was the first straight answer she had produced.
“You still wish me dead then?” Breccyn asked.
She turned away, her shaved head more apparent from the profile. “I wish my journey to have purpose,” she replied. Answering with a non-answer. Clever. From his experience, that wasn’t a trait specific to defiant prisoners; that was a woman.
The brief thought had his mind straying to Cecily. Breccyn had sent a bird concerning the Rosemarked men he had killed but had yet to receive a reply from the princess. How had she taken it? Did she know of the assassin? It was that timeless recipe again; love and distance combining into a generous helping of anxiety. A Rosemark on her wrist and nothing on his only doubled the batch. What he wouldn’t give to be sitting with her at the moment....
“Why won’t you tell me who sent you?” he asked, rejoining the present. Her eyes were fixed on him once more, a caged wolf studying her captor. Why did it feel like he was the one behind bars?
“You are not the only one with questions, Breccyn Starling.”
“Clearly,” he muttered.
“What was that?” The wolf sat forward, a single brow raised. Her gaze could have set kindling alight.
Breccyn did not retreat. “I said I’ve been the only flaming one answering them!”
To Breccyn’s surprise she relaxed, continuing as if his outburst had been a civil request to proceed. “Why you? Why do they want you dead?” she spoke aloud to herself.
“I don’t know who they are!” No, he would not let her get the best of him. Not this time. Running hands through hair, he collected himself and began again. “I will likely be sentenced to death for a crime I committed. I suspect your... mission had something to do with that.”
“What did you do?” she inquired.
“I killed two men.”
“Without reason or purpose?”
“With a lot of reason.” Reflecting on that night - his sister’s broken face, the slimy ale-breathing barflies - still caused fists to tense. Thinking on Aryella, where had she been today?
“Then why are you being punished?” she asked. Her confusion was plain, the first real sign that her face wasn’t carved from granite. “The sentence seems needless.”
Breccyn actually smiled slightly. “At least we can agree on that. Though if you had your way, the punishment would have been carried out all the same.”
“My purpose wasn’t to punish you.”
“Then what was it? You could save yourself a lot of pain if you told me.”
The threat of torture was clearly useless. The gray woman continued as if not hearing a word. “You have powerful friends, Breccyn Starling. Who was that ghost?”
Breccyn doubted that actual torture would garner anything more. “Wyn Fellsword is his name.”
“He must be a leader of leaders amongst your people. Supposing he is not a Terra-cursed moonshadow.” The accent caused her words to dance, not unlike the flickering torchlight.
“He is my father’s liegeman. A kind of servant,” Breccyn replied, squashing the spark of jealousy that the assassin’s reverence for Wyn had ignited.
“A servant?” It wasn’t solely confusion this time. Utter disbelief nearly quelled the fire in her eyes. “He is not a forerunner? You colorless truly are a wasteful people. He fought with the blessing of Manalla and Malia. Perhaps all Five were with him.”
“So the Grayskins still believe in the old gods?”
“You do not?”
Pony pinch on a platter, even the inconsequential ones went unanswered! “What is the point?” Breccyn bit off. The outburst struck at something, catching the assassin prisoner off
guard, and Breccyn gained no small amount of satisfaction for it. It did not last long. Her eyes narrowed, delving much deeper than the surface, that fleeting sparkle like a falling star returning.
“What is the point of caring for the woman you do?” It took real effort to prevent Breccyn’s jaw from falling like a drawbridge. How could she-? Had she-? Deeper than the surface? Those glowing embers peered into the very abyss. She continued through his bewildered silence. “As a Drabling, Eather’s wrathful breath stirred the sand and destroyed my village. It was as we laid our dead to rest that a spring was uncovered, the vibrant trickle being the richest source of water most had ever seen. Yes, some things are truly needless. But just because you cannot see the point, does not mean there isn’t one.”
Breccyn heard very little of her tale, focused instead on the impossibility of her knowledge. How could this stranger know of his romance with Cecily? He didn’t dare ask. This interrogation was supposed to clear the labyrinth, not add a dozen new twists and turns.
“I’ve had enough for one night, assassin,” he said, rising sharply and turning down the dank hallway. He metered his pace carefully, wary of storming away a fool. Oh, he was a fool to be certain; he could control his pace though.
He was nearly to the heavy door where the guard sat when she called to him. “Ar’ravn.”
“What?” he said turning.
“My name is Ar’ravn.” Despite the dim lighting, he could see the sliver of white where grinning lips revealed the teeth behind. Satisfaction was all hers.
There was no consolation in this single answer, not after hours of pushing, pulling, and standing on his head like a damned nilwit. Perhaps Ceres’ blade across his throat would have been less painful. Perhaps his mother was right in forbidding his presence here.
CHAPTER 14
Securing the soaring peaks that existed within Western Province’s borders had long been problematic for the Fairfield line. Indomitable on the vast plains though they were, the fabled cavalry of the western kings struggled to maneuver in the dense woods and cumbersome terrain of the Stallion Spine. Perhaps it was this very reason that history drew the infinite range as the border and not lying within. Never-falling whitecaps, cloud-piercing breakers, and more brigands than the Ash Mouth Isles had pirates; it was in these jagged land-waves that a small band traveled north and east.