Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Sometimes Syrik still looked on him as though he were a woman, and he did so today as he finished drawing the sigils over the horse trough. There was an appraising look in his dark eyes, a warmth that there should not have been when looking upon another man.

  Such looks from Syrik made Vannek uncomfortable, and yet he never quite managed to dismiss the mage from his service, in part because he valued Syrik’s meticulous work ethic. Any other senior magician would have his apprentices draw the sigils, but Syrik wanted them created just so, even if he had to bend and strain and even crawl into position to carve them perfectly before standing back to nod in satisfaction.

  At Vannek’s waved assent, Syrik motioned apprentices and slaves into place. None were Alantran slaves, who couldn’t be trusted. These were men from other tribes. They hobbled the horses and then slew them, one by one, while their stablemates whinnied in fear and rolled their eyes and stamped in their stalls until their own turn came.

  Vannek disliked killing the beasts; the plow horses would have been useful for years yet. He hated the blood, too, and the sight of the butchered animals being dragged away, and the reek of their terror, but there was no help for it. The ritual required blood.

  Just as the chanting from the five kneeling apprentices was really beginning to irk, Syrik raised a hand. “Enough.” The barn went quiet. The apprentices stepped back, their foreheads running with sweat.

  “Place the stool,” Syric said. “And be gone.”

  “Yes, master,” the lead apprentice replied, breathing heavily. He stepped over to where one of the burly slaves waited with a battered, three-legged stool, accepted it from the man, then set it into the trough, filled to the brim with steaming blood.

  The slaves and apprentices left them alone, closing the barn door. It didn’t keep out all the noise from beyond, for someone was shouting orders for a unit practicing drills, and it didn’t restrain sunlight pouring in through windows and slats, but there was the suggestion of privacy.

  “Are you ready?” Vannek asked.

  “Cousin, I am yours.”

  He didn’t like how Syrik said that, but Vannek nodded. “Begin.”

  The mage raised thick fingers and then swept them through the air, almost as if he wove invisible cloth. Sweat beaded his brow, too, as his lips parted to show strong white teeth. Vannek noticed again that he took pains with his beard and hair, trimming and combing them carefully.

  At Syrik’s command, long tendrils of glistening crimson liquid snaked up from the trough. Vannek felt his skin chill at the ugly sight. No matter how much time he’d had to spend near sorcery, he’d never grown used to its unnatural manifestations.

  The rising strands of blood twisted into ropes that quickly shaped a complex framework. In a few minutes a scaffolding took shape, over which recognizable forms grew distinct: a torso, a head, a mass below that which was flowing and vaguely fishtail-like until it was revealed as the bottom of a robe.

  The head shape then became overlaid with more specific features, and long strands of the blood hung down to either side of the head. In only a few moments more, Vannek looked upon a sculpture of his oldest brother, Chargan, fashioned in liquid scarlet and reeking of fresh death. His image seemed to float upon an invisible chair, a few inches over the stool. The one time they had dispensed with the stool, Chargan had looked almost comical when he materialized, so Syrik had ever after insisted on its use.

  The mage stepped back and leaned against a post in the barn, breathing heavily. His hands dropped shaking to his sides.

  Chargan blinked bloody eyes and spoke, his voice heavy and somewhat distorted, as if with mucous. “Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?” he asked. “I expected an update sooner.”

  “The city’s secure now,” Vannek said quickly. “But there were complications. An alten killed one of our dragons.”

  Chargan stiffened in his seat, somewhere far away. “How did he manage that?”

  Interesting that his brother assumed the alten was male, even when there were many formidable women warriors amongst their enemies. Still, in this instance Chargan was correct, at least according to the Alantran prisoners. “It’s a new alten, named Rylin. He rode a wyvern against our forces during the assault on the city, and he managed to take out the driver.”

  Chargan’s bloodied face frowned. “What are you doing to catch him?”

  “He’s escaped. And another alten tricked his way out of the city with a thousand Alantrans. We don’t know which one that was, although some think it was the same one.”

  Chargan’s mouth widened, displaying a crimson gap. “How did they get so many prisoners out?”

  “They were clever. But our brother was negligent,” Vannek summarized.

  “How surprising,” Chargan said with distaste.

  Vannek glanced back at Syrik. By the Sacred Three, the mage had best hold his tongue, for he had heard enough of their scheming over the last months to doom him and Chargan both. Syrik’s eyes were slitted, for the spell required much concentration.

  “It’s worse than any of that,” Vannek told Chargan at last. “That same alten was responsible for killing both the dragon lord Zhintin and his assistant Talkus. So that’s our three best dragon masters gone. The other dragon masters were far more exhausted than expected. We were unable to send them on to Grandfather. Perhaps tomorrow—”

  “There’s no need,” Chargan said, darkly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grandfather’s dead.” Chargan delivered the news with deadpan calm. No grief could be expected, for Grandfather had been fierce and terrible. Their devotion to him had arisen from fear and awe and not from any especially close bond. Still, one might as well say that the ground had dropped away, so certain was his presence in their lives.

  Vannek gasped in wonder. “How did it happen?”

  “It’s not just him. Most of his army died with him. The Altenerai ensorcelled a huge oxen herd into charging late at night, while the soldiers slept. They were expecting the arrival of some oxen for supplies and were less cautious than they should have been when they heard hoofbeats.”

  “The oxen killed Grandfather?”

  “N’lahr killed Grandfather. The oxen destroyed our army.”

  Vannek sucked in a breath. “I told you he lived! I spotted him in The Fragments only a week and a half ago! With Kyrkenall!”

  “Yes.” That’s all Chargan said. There was no apology for laughing at Vannek, or mocking him. “Well, you were right. Are you happy now?”

  “No.” Vannek would have been more pleased with an apology, but he knew better than to suggest one. “What does this mean?”

  “It means I’ll have my hands full keeping things together until we can take Darassus.”

  “You still mean to do that?”

  The bloody image’s teeth gleamed. “By the Three! Yes!”

  “But you’re coming here first, aren’t you?”

  Chargan laughed. “No. If I actually turn up near Alantris, Koregan will take command.” He continued venomously: “This is my army. And I am going to lead it to victory.”

  Horrified by this change in plan, Vannek struggled to frame an objection that didn’t sound oppositional, but Chargan went on as if convincing himself. “I will not aid Koregan in securing his rule. And think. Even if I was comfortable with our idiot brother in charge, so long as Darassus stands the fae will send warriors from their other realms to fight us in The Fragments. If we destroy Darassus, they’ll retreat to secure their own lands. Even with N’lahr returned from his grave.”

  Vannek could withhold protest no longer. “That’s not certain, but if we push on to Darassus we’ll be too far extended. We can hold The Fragments. We don’t need Erymyr. The Fragments have more than enough land for us all. And the kings and warriors know how instrumental you’ve been—”

  Chargan cut him off, sharply. “That won’t make me god king! I must slay their queen and break their walls to show I am the strongest. I have to do bet
ter than plan the victories for Koregan to take credit. If I’m to unite the clans under my rule I have to be a warlord. And when I rule,” Chargan’s chin rose in pride, “we will finally be secure. It won’t matter if I’m a ‘weak’ spell caster,” he said with a sneer, “or that you are a woman.”

  “I am a man,” Vannek countered. He’d more than once had to follow those words with a duel to the death, but that kind of anger served no purpose here, so he deliberately relaxed his clenched fists.

  “You haven’t the parts of one, and none of the kings truly believe those lies. But think; you can do as you please, once we’re in power. No one would dare question you under my rule, even if you did admit you were a woman.”

  Chargan was arrogant and infuriating. But of his two brothers, Vannek vastly preferred him over the spoiled, boastful favorite son of the favored son, Koregan. Chargan was a stronger man, no matter that he was a mage, and a smarter one, and he would be a better king. And unlike Koregan, who saw Vannek as an embarrassment to be defended only to preserve his own dignity, Chargan actually valued Vannek’s abilities. They shared a measure of trust, a rare and valuable thing.

  Chargan, noting the hesitation, spoke on, derisively. “Don’t tell me you think you can count on Koregan’s love to see you through?”

  “You have my support. But what will I tell him? Koregan has to be informed of Grandfather’s death. And the other kings will challenge more when they learn you’re not coming.”

  “Tell him that I’ve been delayed because of trouble with the dragons, my sister brother.”

  Vannek frowned, for he hated being addressed that way. No one but his brothers would dare call him that, and it was in bad taste for them to do so. “He’s not going to like that. And the kings will think that means your sorcery is weak.”

  Chargan laughed. His smile was satisfied and confident and ghastly, with his lips of blood. “All will be fine with the kings when they learn I was destroying Darassus. I’ve managed a new surprise that may even be better than dragons. And neither our brother or the fae are going to be able to stop me.”

  “Cousins,” Syrik’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “The energy fades.…”

  “No matter,” Chargan said. “We’ve touched on all that’s important.”

  “But what should I say to Koregan?”

  “Tell him to hold position. He has more than enough troops to do that. I’ll bring good news. Take care of Syrik for me.” He said the last with a smile, and then he was nothing but raining blood.

  Vannek’s cheeks flushed with both anger and shame, and he stood glaring at the liquid-filled trough, roiling still from the influx of blood fallen from Chargan’s failed image.

  When Vannek had mastered himself at last and turned to face the mage, he found Syrik calm but pale. He was breathing hard, but quietly, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into Vannek’s own.

  Vannek stepped closer to Syrik. “You heard treasonous things today.”

  “You need not fear me.”

  “I don’t. I fear for you if word gets out.”

  Syrik held Vannek’s eyes, and he wondered if his cousin worked a spell, for he felt flush and uncertain, rather than menacing as he’d intended.

  The mage continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “My apprentices are loyal. They can be counted upon to serve with discretion and they hear nothing of your discussions.”

  Vannek wasn’t sure what else to say. Finally, something other than threats, or words more dangerous, came to him. “I’ll relay that you’re to begin working with the dragons. I think it’s vital you learn to fly them. And soon.” Vannek turned on his heel.

  Syrik’s voice was smooth, liquid. “I will be ready, when you are.”

  He hadn’t said what he’d be ready for, and Vannek didn’t ask.

  9

  The Tracks in the Outpost

  Two balconies wrapped the stage floor in a horseshoe pattern, one recessed above the other. Elenai recognized the place immediately for the theater where she’d spent much of her youth, except that there were no curtains or backdrops visible, or even the old brick wall to the stage’s rear. Instead, the boards where the actors would have walked were vastly deep, and suffused with a bright yellow glow, as if the sun shone with the cheery hue of a dandelion rather than damning brightness.

  She saw no actors, though she heard their voices and even the creak of their tread, a notion she realized should have disquieted her, and she wondered a little at her detachment. In the seats all about her, she discovered the audience was composed only of shadow.

  On reflection, that didn’t bother her, either, and it was then she knew she must be dreaming. She was idly disappointed that her mother hadn’t appeared even as she was glad that she wasn’t experiencing another vision of blood.

  The audience of shapeless shade tittered at lines mumbled by invisible actors, and Elenai rose to leave the theater, supposing she might wake if she did.

  As she started up the aisle toward the exit, someone addressed her with a solid voice rather than the suggestion of one. “Has he jumped yet?”

  Elenai searched through shadows, which faded as her eyes passed over them. Vanished, too, was the indistinct noise of actors mouthing lines, and most of the theater. Nothing was left but a row of chairs where a woman sat in the yellow brightness from a distant doorway.

  The stranger looked familiar to Elenai, but she couldn’t place her, no matter the woman’s Altenerai robe. She looked to be about Elenai’s age, with a high forehead and pale blue eyes that assaulted Elenai with the force of her personality.

  “Did who jump?” Elenai asked.

  “You have to tell him about the jump,” the stranger insisted, and climbed to her feet, revealing herself to stand almost a head shorter than Elenai. She had a curiously direct way of speaking, as if every word were impossibly vital and could only be understood if it was stated earnestly. “It’s the only way to protect him.”

  Somehow she knew that “him” was Kyrkenall. “Protect him from what?” she asked.

  But the strange woman answered her question only with one of her own. “Have we talked yet?”

  “We’re talking now.”

  The high forehead furrowed and the wide mouth curled in annoyance. “That’s not what I mean. Have we talked before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then maybe I have the right Elenai.”

  It was then recognition struck. She knew who this alten was, whom she had seen only as a statue. And then once a few nights before, emerging as a bloody image in the place of Chargan. “Rialla?” she asked.

  “No, I’m Rialla,” the woman replied, exasperated, then pointed at her. “You have to tell him to jump left! He has to be there when the world ends.”

  “Left?” she asked. And then she wakened to find a cool wind blowing through a twilight land.

  She and her companions, she recalled, had laid their sleeping rolls on a plateau amid a rocky wasteland where the sun was forever halted just above the horizon. She opened her eyes to the same hazy, tired orb cloaked by gray clouds. Jagged peaks reared in the distance, outlined starkly against the sky. There were few sounds in this region of the shifts, but above the wind and the crackle of a fire, she could hear two voices in low tones. There was no mistaking the grumbling bass that answered the archer’s fluid words. Ortok was talking with Kyrkenall.

  Elenai blinked, wondering at the disquieting dream. While she gathered her thoughts, she turned over to find the veteran alten several paces off shaking his head and grinning at Ortok seated across from him. His teeth glinted in the light from the little fire.

  “No, see, that’s exactly what I mean,” Kyrkenall said. “Tell me again how you described him.”

  Ortok spread huge furred arms, opening fists the size of mattocks. “He was mighty. He was bold!”

  Kyrkenall’s lovely features twisted into a wry smile. “You have to paint the image in the mind of your listener. What do you imagine if I tell you he was mighty?”
>
  Ortok scratched his furry chest. “A big fellow, with great muscles.”

  Kyrkenall pointed at him. “See! That’s what you should say. It draws a better picture.”

  She was a little embarrassed that her companions had let her sleep longer, even knowing that Kyrkenall often subsisted on very little rest.

  Elenai rolled out of her blankets and slipped barefoot into the dark sand that surrounded their hillock. After relieving herself and washing and putting on her boots, she settled back on her bedroll, focused herself, and prayed to all four of the gods. She pushed aside her worries over Kalandra’s claims that the deities who’d shaped the realms were merely people. She would honor them as they deserved.

  Still hooking the front of her khalat closed, she walked to the ring of boulders where Kyrkenall and the kobalin had taken their seats. “Good morning. What are you two doing?”

  Ortok grinned at her. He had a larger mouth than a human, one that seemed crammed with teeth. “Good morning! Kyrkenall speaks for improving my storytelling.”

  Kyrkenall explained. “If we meet kobalin there’s going to be a ritual exchange, and a story contest. I’ve been giving Ortok a few tips to help him win.”

  “My stories are always loved.”

  “That doesn’t mean they can’t be loved more, does it?” Kyrkenall countered. “Let’s try it out. Describe me while Elenai’s grabbing breakfast, then we need to get going.”

  Ortok sat and thought, his breath rumbling deep in his chest. Elenai helped herself to the last griddle cakes, and some dried fruit and yellow cheese from Vedessus. The road fare, even honey drenched, was no comparison to the feast her father had served: crisp river trout drizzled with herbed butter and breaded with crushed nuts, fresh baked bread, and greens and citrus on the side, and berry pie for dessert. But she was hungry and her mouth watered in anticipation.

  Ortok spoke at last. “You seem small and puny, but you are swift, and mighty!”

  Elenai snorted but managed to hold back a chuckle when Ortok looked over at her.