The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  For the same unfamiliar feelings he had been battling since descending into this wolf’s layer, he felt the need to apologize. “Ar’ravn, I-”

  “The ghost is not the only man I have seen something in,” she said abruptly. “You will find your nectar, Breccyn Starling, but beware the consequences. Bees will sting more than the fool that stirred them. Your lady will be pleased to see you.” As sudden as her statement, she withdrew into the cell’s shadows.

  Breccyn hastened past the other cells, riddles of the woman he ought not care for confusing themselves with riddles of the people he should. Who was working with the Grayskins? How did she know Cecily was in danger? What was the danger? It was unwise to think the gray woman any softer or less perceptive than the day she scaled the keep’s walls, to think she wouldn’t slit his throat first thing upon release. She was the kingdom’s enemy, his enemy. Why was leaving her so difficult?

  CHAPTER 23

  From a wooded hillside some fifteen miles southeast of the provincial capital, Breccyn watched as three figures and two horses picked their way through the same scrubby trees that concealed his position. They plodded as swiftly as the terrain and their condition would allow, the boy balancing an unresponsive girl in front of himself on the one horse. The mount they shared was unfamiliar. Their faces were not.

  Aided by the horse-churned earth – Rudder had arrived in Shorefeld shortly after Poet, both horses lathered from their breakneck pace - it took surprisingly little time to locate his siblings. Following the trail of dirt clods into the wild had led him directly to them. Why animals had been separated from riders in the first place was a puzzle for later, as was his siblings’ reason for leaving Shorefeld in the first place. For the moment, Breccyn was simply heartened to see them alive, if not well. Something was clearly wrong with Aryella.

  He was at first hopeful that the third figure, whose drawn cloak prevented identification, was either Mykel or Cecily. Though slight in frame, the rider’s slumped posture negated both his by-the-books brother and the ceaselessly majestic princess as possibilities. And there was another tell; the crossbow trained without interruption on his brother and sister. The stranger ducked branches and steered as necessary, never removing the bolt’s aim from the Starling pair.

  The muffled crunch of hooves disturbing the crisp leaf carpet was the sole liveliness in the otherwise deathly silent stand of trees. This far north, as in Shorefeld itself, trees donned their springtime foliage much later than in the southern latitudes. The seasonal bareness supported his cause little. Evening’s failing light painted everything the shade of Ar’ravn’s unblemished skin, complicating a shot already hampered by the thicket’s overgrown tangle. Deliberate and precise, Breccyn shouldered a crossbow of his own. He wanted his projectile to be the first and only indication of his presence. This rescue would not be easy.

  There were a million reasons to shoot first and ask questions later, and only one not to; unintended consequences. Even now, the Grayskin assassin coiled about his brain like the tree-strangling vines all around. Why did she get to him so? Why had she finally opened up? As the riders came into range, Breccyn blinked the woman from his thoughts. An unfocused, misplaced shot and the unwanted consequence could very well be the death of Gabryel or Aryella.

  The shot was difficult, not impossible. It was a shame Gabryel was captive down below and not here on the bluff next to Breccyn. Bow in hand, the kid could thread a sewing needle in a windstorm. He would have laughed that Breccyn was stressing this shot, and with a crossbow besides. Were his brother up here, saving the boy would be much easier too.

  Anchor snorted loudly from over the crest where the dun stallion was tied, and Breccyn’s presence was spoiled. The captor’s head snapped towards the noise as Breccyn’s bowstring snapped towards the captor. The heavy bolt barreled through the branches, missing its mark cleanly. Not so clean was the exploding limb that peppered the stranger with a thousand needles. Was that a woman’s screams? Dropping the crossbow to clutch their splintered face, the hooded figure followed the weapon to the ground, landing head-first with a heavy thud.

  Breccyn raced down the hillside, glancing up to see Gabryel planted with arrow knocked to string. His brother had yet to draw.

  “Whoa, Gabe! It’s me,” he shouted. Why had the captor allowed him his bow? Never mind that. “What’s wrong with Ary?” Breccyn asked, closing the remaining distance and kneeling next to his sister. A response never came. “Gabryel, what’s wrong with her? What is this-?”

  His voice trailed as he looked to his brother.

  Gabryel was no longer nearby. He was cradling the unknown figure who contained no more life than Aryella. Breccyn saw for the first time that his brother was injured as well. Then he saw the unknown figure.

  Breccyn’s stomach dropped as if thrown from a cliff. It couldn’t be. Forcing himself upright, he approached on wobbly legs, his sister immediately forgotten to him. Aside from the countless wood shards protruding from her flesh, the woman had been beaten worse than a housewife’s rug. Her hair was frayed, her clothes grimy and unkempt. Dried blood having nothing to do with the exploding tree limb dotted her disheveled riding garb as well. Through the veil of fresh blood and lacerations, Breccyn recognized her.

  Plummeting though it was, his stomach turned over on itself, emptying its entire contents onto the leafy floor. Again and again it twisted, stiff rope in a sailor’s hands. When at last the heaving stopped, Breccyn struggled fruitlessly to produce some kind of coherent thought.

  “Why was she-? The crossbow-? Where’d-? Her message-”

  * * *

  “Blessed light man, what did the message say?” Gabryel was dabbing the blood, working torn cloth around the splinters as best he could. He did not dare remove them.

  It was the first the younger Starling had spoken, irritation fused with concern bending his tone. Breccyn extended a shaky hand to his brother, the crumpled message held there faring better than its author. Gabryel read the note. “It says there are twenty skilled men, a narrow gulch, and nothing taller than scrub brush for miles,” Gabryel remarked incredulously. “Was it the company of brigands surrounding us that threw you off or the barren landscape?”

  The past two days had been an experience for the most carefree of the Starling children. Gabryel had stared a Feral in the eye, then shivered the night away waiting for another. Nothing more that night, he had to wait until the next night to behold untainted terror once more. In fact, looking into the fictional beast’s pale orbs was easier than the dreadful man’s. The Feral, he had reasoned, was an instinctual miscreation incapable of feeling anything save the drivers of life. Kadin, he found pleasure in his atrocities. That gulch was the underworld and Kadin, its demon. Then again, perhaps his sister was that demon.

  Gabryel had reasoned with a Rosemarked royal, shot his first human, taken a knifepoint through his shoulder, and pinched his eyes in anticipation of death’s embrace. The glazing on the already over-stuffed turkey was the unadorned slaughter his sister visited on Kadin’s men. To say Gabryel was changed was to say the seas were wet. At the moment, he had no patience for Breccyn’s self-inflicted inability.

  “Get your head on,” Gabryel continued, stuffing the tragic message in his pocket. “Parents always said your ignorance of words would catch up to you and-”

  Midway through his lecture, Gabryel witnessed the paralyzing shame in Breccyn’s face. His resolute older brother had become a vulnerable child, not unlike himself gazing into the Feral’s ghostly face. A child who could not bear to see, yet neither could he look away.

  Gabryel softened his tone. “She looks as if she’s kissed a porcupine and she’s taken a pretty good thump to the head, but she’s alive. She won’t be if you decide to wallow the night away here. I could not ride for both girls with two good arms.”

  The encouragement worked. Breccyn fetched Anchor, and nestling Cecily in one arm, managed the third horse with the other. By now, and despite his immobilized arm, Aryella’s
listless mass was as familiar as stirrups to Gabryel. Breccyn helped hoist her up and he mounted after.

  The hurried silence in which they departed lasted until the woods yielded once again to the open expanses of the West.

  “She was holding you at arrow point,” Breccyn protested, as much to himself as to his younger brother. “And what of the skilled men from the message?”

  Gabryel addressed the second comment first. “Skilled men are killed men, brother.”

  “You killed twenty men?”

  “Aryella did,” Gabryel responded plainly. “She saved our hides and left us fearing for them at the same time. The crossbow was the only way I could convince Cecily to come with us. I can’t explain it, Breccyn. One minute Ary is limp as a soggy bowstring, the next she’s scattering soldiers like coltsfoot fuzz on the breeze. Like a power had filled her, but instead of pouring over the spillway, the dam ruptured.”

  “Power? Pull back her hood, Gabe.” Gabryel did as he asked, exposing the odd star engraved in Aryella’s skin. Breccyn cursed softly. “The god’s above, I have seen this symbol before.”

  “What is it?” Gabryel asked curiously.

  “I do not rightly know,” Breccyn replied absently. “But I know someone who does. Tell me everything.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Night had staked its claim on the world as Lord Gerrit Fairfield sauntered from the Gambling Jester. Profit was always about being in the right place at the right time, and the Jester was never the wrong place. Timing was much less predictable however, a fact Lord Fairfield mitigated with his extensive network of informants. Tonight, word had traveled ahead that two young lords were approaching the city with some very curious cargo. If his timing was correct, they should be entering the square at any moment.

  Compliments of Lady Meryam’s present desperation and past affections, he had secured a deal with the Starlings, one that should prove profitable for all. The deal also included a noticeable side effect; for the first time since his father’s death he felt comfortable with the Starling family’s position above his own. Should was not would after all, and those at the top fell furthest when treacherous plans came unraveled. Not that he intended to sabotage their alliance. Meryam’s was the best offer on the table.

  Strolling into the dirt lane that divided the square and looking back down the abyss-like alley adjacent to the Jester, Lord Fairfield cracked a smile. If he had not said anything, the world would be no wiser over who had diced those rose-bearing drunkards. Breccyn Starling’s life would not be in the balance. Meryam’s desperation would not have been born. An attempt to overthrow the Starlings had revealed that true profit was in supporting them, and Gerrit Fairfield found that quite humorous.

  Two riders entered the southern end of the open square just then, each holding a shrouded figure in the saddle before them. The light that leaked from the numerous inns and taverns did not fully reach here, but Lord Fairfield knew these to be the young gentlemen he awaited.

  “Fair evening for a ride, young stallions,” he called as they drew near. It was indeed Breccyn Starling, and one of the twins – Gabryel being the smart bet. Not as clear were their motionless companions, women from the footwear dangling beneath their cloaks. Fine footwear. The Starling boys paid him less mind than they would an Old Ward idler, an insulting gesture. “Care to entertain a drink?

  They pushed past, Lord Fairfield taking in two somber faces as they did. He still couldn’t make out the girls. Who were they? It was quite clear the lads wanted nobody in the know.

  “Lord Gabryel, if I’m not mistaken, you have never been the sort to turn down a mug. Come, join.” His charm had no effect, and the boys kept their pace steady. One last counterplan and he’d count the encounter an opportunity lost. “Ah. Perhaps your fine lady friends have already had a drop too much?”

  Amongst those guarding secrets, hinting at more than you knew often put you quickly in the know. It worked. The younger Starling halted, then turned, followed shortly by his brother.

  “You seed rumors like a roaming farmer,” the boy said without feigning pleasantness, “and seldom travel in truth as it is. We won’t be sitting down with you, my lord. Not now. Not ever.” Apparently not at the bottle, the boy looked to have had a rough day. The insults he regurgitated were undoubtedly his parents’.

  The rowdiness that frequented the Jester spilled momentarily into the street as the front doors swung open and closed.

  “Hospitality met with hostility?” Maintaining his charm was no small effort, and he continued his information hunt with every bought moment. “I was only offering a chair and refreshment for friends who appear in need.”

  Breccyn appeared the wearier of the two, yet was slightly more put together. To Lord Fairfield’s eyes, there was more than a helping shoulder in his gentle clutch. The girl was precious to him.

  “You wouldn’t provide a seat to your own mother had she nothing to offer in return,” Breccyn echoed. “If I so much as hear a hawk cry in the coming days, I will presume you’ve passed this meeting on. My sword’s point will swiftly pass to you, should that prove the case.”

  Though the young lord’s words lacked meat, they more than confirmed that the girl was precious. Precious enough to threaten a lord, and a barrel-chested lord that was not afraid to flex his muscles in pursuit of his aims at that. Very precious indeed.

  Lord Fairfield pursed his lips. What was at first displeasure morphed suddenly to calculated satisfaction. Peaking from beneath the girl’s fabric just above the wrist was the mark of the capital-born. Clearly not his mother or sister, there was only one other person that would draw Breccyn’s full tenderness. Had the missing princess truly turned up in Shorefeld? That was unfortunate. Very unfortunate. Lord Fairfield would have bet that the other lump was the Starling brat herself, then. What pinch pile had Aryella Starling stepped in this time?

  Other than slinging insults, the young lords expressed little. It did not matter. They sat atop their horses with an urgency that betrayed the graveness of their travels. They heeled their mounts into motion, but not before Lord Fairfield gave them reason to pause once more.

  “If you’re thinking of taking either to the infirmary, my lords, I would think again. Discretion, I believe, is our common friend and he would see both young ladies kept safely within the keep. Prince Ceres arrived this very evening. He’d be none too thrilled to find his sister unable to greet him. The city is on edge as it is.”

  Suspicion overcame Breccyn Starling’s weariness. “Why are you helping us?”

  It was a good question. Business was business and a deal, a deal. Until you had to cut your losses, that was. Until then, he would do anything to guarantee his investment’s success, and he had invested heavily in the Starlings. The princess on the other hand.... She complicated the alliance. Diminished his returns. Like a thorn left to fester, she could bring down the entire beast.

  “Let’s just say our families will be seeing a lot more of each other in the future.”

  * * *

  No one of consequence was at Shorefeld Keep when Ceres and his band had arrived earlier in the evening. A portly caretaker had offered the prince and his men lodging, but after more than a week on the road everyone was ready for a drink and some entertainment. Having only ever heard tell of the great cities, Wart was wanting more than a stuffy room as well.

  Though small compared to Somerset and Mar Lanton, and a mouse’s dangle to a mule’s next to Rosemount – or so she had heard - Shorefeld exceeded her wildest expectations. How’d anybody find their way around? How’d they ensure one building wouldn’t fall into another and knock the whole flippin’ town down?

  The caretaker did alert the stables, and the company of men filed their horses to the nearby stables. Palace was more like it. Shaped in a large cross and tidy as her grandmother’s kitchen, there were spacious stalls aplenty for hundreds of horses. Enormous stained glass murals adorned the end walls of the timber structure’s four wings, just above the impress
ive stone fireplaces located there. Ornate portholes decorated each stall, many propped open to welcome the ocean breeze. The smell of horse, though present, did not linger heavy like every other barn she had ever visited, her own included. Perhaps even her gran’s kitchen was not so clean.

  Wart walked Bruno through the vaulted structure with eyes wide, taking in her first views of the ocean along with everything else. Aside from the magnificent animals, sounds of farrier work was the only indication she was in a stable at all and not some storybook cathedral. Passing the sturdy mare off for grooming and care crowned the luxurious experience.

  “Go easy on the grains,” she told the stable hand, mimicking the soldier in the stall next to hers. “Rich foods nourish rich ‘opes, and those ain’t take you anywhere, will they Bruno?”

  The words had belonged to her pah. Recalling him and the rest of her recently erased family stung. She forced them from her mind before tears could spoil her excitement.

  “Right you are, young man,” the stable hand replied. Wrinkling her nose at the man – as polite as he was mistaken - and patting Bruno’s, she exited the stall to join up with the others.

  Given leave until morning, the soldiers scattered into the city. Wart decided to tag along with Ceres and Allis for the night, much to the leathery tracker’s blatant irritation. Whether she wanted the prince dead or not, he had provided for some incredible experiences. One pampered night wouldn’t ruin her, would it? Besides, irritating Allis was good for much needed humor.

  Several soldiers from the prince’s guard were already helping themselves to filled glasses and a table of dice when the three entered the selected tavern. Welcoming the prince with no less than a dozen bobs and shuffling patrons from the nicest seats, the proprietor was visibly anxious. Wart thought nothing of it. If Ceres’ status didn’t gnaw at your nerves, his reputation certainly would. Unless, like Wart, you had nothing to lose. It wasn’t until orders were taken – another unthinkable first - that the fire-haired girl grew suspicious. The matronly woman was sweating so profusely her moisture could push worms from the ground. And it wasn’t only her.