“What brings you to us?” Steel asked. “These are not safe woods to travel.”
Calder decided against sharing the actual reason - there was no telling if these men knew of the smuggler’s tunnel he planned to take into the Eastlands, and did he really want to tell them?
“If I’m right, nowhere this side of the rivers will be safe,” Calder observed. “From the looks of you, you’ve seen why. Recently.”
Steel Rygus regarded the newcomer seriously, turning the name over in his mind. Calder. Why did the word make him think of … her? He shook his head. Those were times better forgotten.
“You’ve seen them too?” Steel asked.
Calder shook his head. “Only where they’ve been. The village was empty. Not a soul remained - only blood. I’ve spoken with others who’ve seen them, though. They speak of dead men walking, and twisted, unnatural creatures.”
“They speak truth.” Rhodoban handed Calder a waterskin, and the men shifted, making room for the ranger to sit by the fire alongside them. “We’ve fought all of those things.”
Calder eased himself onto the piece of driftwood and took a drink of water. He looked around at the faces of the men lit by the fire, all of them weary, many of them bruised.
“I fear the Lich King is awakening,” the ranger said. “He may already be awake. His minions sweep the southwest even as we speak, and we can certainly expect no aid from Korith.”
Several of the men spat when he spoke the Duke’s name.
“Were you hoping someone in Porthold would help?” Steel Rygus’ shadow leaned forward, into the circle of firelight, and became a clean-shaven man with close-cropped hair and dark eyes. He did not appear to be a man accustomed to smiling. Calder noted a deep weariness in his face also, though it was well disguised.
“I was heading east,” Calder said. “There are no Darkmouths in the Eastlands, none that I know of, at least. If a defense is to be built, Estfall is the place.”
“Darkmouths?” The boy - Edwin, Calder remembered - voiced the confusion on the faces of the others.
“Entrances,” the ranger clarified. “Things that go in come out wrong, too big or too hungry. My father said the Darkmouths were how the Lich King traveled.”
“The Witherin,” Edwin said. “My da said all the ways in or out were blocked when Semaj died, though.”
“Not all of them,” Calder said. “Some remained open. There is one along the coast between Epidii and Valenar, and another near Immthar. Windham became one, I think, and the closest to here is Basinmoor.”
“There’s one near Porthold, then. City’s locked up tight.” Calder didn’t recognize the speaker. “I just came from there, trying to get across,” the man said. “I sent my boys to Estfall a month back, told them I’d meet them.”
“The Porthold gates are closed?” Calder had never heard of the gates closing in his lifetime or his father’s.
“Aye,” the man said. “Plenty of people trying to get in, soldiers not moving. People said there were undead attacking from inside, and that the gates were closed to protect us. They also said Duke Korith was in there, though how true that is I don’t know.”
“It’s true enough, Gage,” the man called Jonn said. “His carriage near about ran me over on the road.”
“Let the undead have him,” Steel said. “Let him see what his policies have brought.” The bitter words were greeted with murmurs of appreciation. “Or let him try to come this way, and I’ll save Semaj the trouble.”
Calder nodded. “I know a way east that avoids Porthold. I plan to seek out Duke Thordike in Estfall. He seems to be the only sensible mind that holds any power in this land.”
Another man shook his head, openly disagreeing. “Politics will not fix this,” he said. “What we have been fighting since we left Foley has no care for the words or governments of men.” A few companions nodded their agreement.
“Politics builds armies,” Rygus said. “Armies win wars. What way do you know, Calder?”
The ranger got his bearings, and pointed south. “It’s a tunnel,” he said. “Merchants used to smuggle wine through it to avoid the tax in Porthold, back in my grandfather’s day.”
Tyren nodded. “My grandfather told me about it once, I think. He used it to sneak a few Valenar stallions into the Central Valley herds. Said it caved in, though.”
Calder shook his head. “Rumor, I’m afraid. Those of us that needed it cleared a path. Can’t bring a horse through anymore, but a man will fit.”
Rhodoban spoke up. “Getting to Estfall won’t matter. There is only one way to win the war we are so fast approaching, and it is not with weapons or words, but magic. There’s a girl— I’ve witnessed her power with my own eyes, she is the answer, I know it.” He sighed. “To find her, though, and convince her to fight? That may be harder than facing the Lich King himself.”
Calder thought his heart might drop out of his chest. The stranger meant Melody, he could be speaking of no one else. Was this his sign from Solus, was this his chance to find her?
“That’s enough, Rhodoban.” Steel’s voice was clipped, and he sat back into the shadow. “War is approaching, that is true enough. I still want a shot at Korith, but we may yet move on to Estfall. Wars are won with swords and strategy, not wishes and wondering.”
The ranger held up a hand. “I mean no disrespect, Rygus, but I believe your man is right.”
Silence came from the shadow beyond the fire. Calder decided that if at least one of their number knew of Melody, he would tell them what he knew. They held no loyalty to Korith, that was obvious. It should be safe to speak of her, and together, perhaps, they could find her.
“She is small, is she not? The girl you speak of? Barely out of girlhood, with braided black hair that reaches past her waist, and talents that have not been seen in hundreds of years?”
Rhodoban looked as if he had seen a ghost. Steel sat forward again, so quickly the two men nearest him flinched back in surprise.
“What do you know of her?” The larger man’s tone was not angry— rather, it was … hungry.
“You know her!” Rhodoban exclaimed at the same time.
Calder, uncertain of what he had begun, sensed the others were equally confused. “I am her guardian,” he said simply, “though a poor one. We were in Cabinsport when Duke Korith’s men captured me, but I have learned that Cabinsport has fallen. There was talk of spiders and rats up from below the ground, the whole town is lost. I do not know where she may be now.”
Steel Rygus stared at him intently. “Calder,” he said under his breath, more to himself than the ranger. This was the man Melody had been waiting for when they met, her friend who was not her father, as Irma had claimed. That was long before any of this insanity swept over the land, before his brother…
He pushed the thoughts away again, furious with himself for the warmth of the memory. It was her, it was always her. She was why this man’s name had seemed familiar. How much did Calder know of her, though, or the men she had traveled with after his capture?
“Melody,” Rhodoban said, leaning forward. “Her name is Melody. I met her in Foley, before …”
Calder nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes from Rygus. Recognition was there on the man’s face, along with anger and pain, and all of it so strong— were these the two men Irma had spoken of, the men Melody had disappeared with? And if they were, and they were here… where did she go after Foley?
“Steel, please, if you know anything about her …”
Attilus chose that moment to bound back to his master, and it was then that Calder saw the truth in the other man’s eyes. He recognized the dog. Whoever he was, he had been with Melody when Attilus was with her, that much was clear.
The dog stopped short and considered Steel, heedless of the other men around the fire. He barked once at the huge man, and then the dog lowered his head in an acknowledgement Calder had only ever seen the animal give Melody herself.
“You were with her,”
Calder said, scratching Attilus’ ears. “You do know her.” The dog settled at the ranger’s feet.
“What’s going on?” The boy— Nathen, Calder remembered - looked from the dog to Rygus and back, confused. “Who is Melody?”
Steel Rygus looked around at the faces of those who had chosen to follow him this far. These men who had lost families and friends of their own had left everything to fight with him. They deserved more.
He didn’t want to admit that Rhodoban was right, that Melody was the key. As long as he didn’t think about her, as long as he buried his anger and his need together - then he didn’t have to think about Kaeliph. Accepting her importance meant admitting that he needed her, and perhaps not just to defeat the strengthening forces of the Lich King.
“Melody is what Rhodoban claims,” he finally said in a low, clear voice. “Although I doubt she knows it. We— I traveled with her for a time.” He thought of the lighthouse on Butterfly Island, and the creature that had tried to kill Melody - there and then again in the forest outside Foley, though she had handled herself well there. He’d fought more than a few on his own since then - had she?
Anger surged up through him, a fury that insisted that he did not care, that she could be dead and he would feel no remorse, anger that she was alive and his brother was not, when she could have prevented it…
“We parted ways in Foley,” he finished, his tone cold. “I know nothing more of her.”
But he could know more, a tiny voice reminded him somewhere far distant in the back of his mind. The connection was still there. He could focus and find her thoughts in no time at all. He shook his head to clear the idea, letting the anger purify him. He was not ready. He may never be.
“Was she all right? Was she … safe?” Calder’s voice caught.
Steel Rygus nodded, remembering how she had gutted one of the creatures to save his life. The quiet voice underneath his anger spoke again, reminding him that if these men knew what Melody was capable of, then so did forces that were much, much darker.
The power residing in the girl he alternately adored and despised was surely enough to turn the tide of any battle – but the question was, would she help them? Remembering how his brother had died, Steel was not so sure.
“Rygus, was she … alone?” Rhodoban asked. Their leader didn’t speak much, that he even mentioned Foley came as a surprise. Now was the time to ask. “Please, I need to know.”
“She wasn’t…” Steel said slowly, and regarded Rhodoban with new eyes. Thinking about her now was bringing back the things he had spent so much time burying and pushing away. He remembered…
Rhodoban was the man in the vision Melody had shared with him, the man with the Elven wife, and the twin children. The same children whose cries had drawn him back to her, who had had looked up at him from the forest floor, an eternity ago, when she had given him the sword he now wielded.
“She had two children with her,” he told the mage, “but they were not hers.”
Rhodoban’s heart swelled, and he felt hope flood through his body for the first time since he had laid eyes on Steel Rygus. Unshed tears stung his eyes.
“They live,” he said softly. He remembered tucking his twins into the small, magically protected cave. He remembered fighting to keep Aellielle safe while she wrote the note that they prayed the girl would find. Melody had been their only hope. “My children are alive,” he repeated. “She found them.”
Steel Rygus nodded, and offered a sincere apology. “I do not know where she went after we parted, my friend. I am sorry.”
Rhodoban smiled, thinking again of the note. He could have gone to the Elves as soon as he recovered from his injuries, but in truth he couldn’t bear the possibility that the twins had not survived. He was not willing to face Aellielle’s grandmother with the knowledge that he was the only one still alive.
But if the twins had been with Melody, then Melody had found the message. There was only place she could have gone.
“You don’t,” Rhodoban agreed. “But I do.”
22
Lady Bethcelamin picked at the breakfast Bashara had brought her, but she could not have said what it was. She didn’t taste, she didn’t smell, it was as if her whole body was numb. Nothing mattered - not the food, not Bashara’s worried glances, not the fact that they had been in Porthold for days longer than her husband had promised.
“Lady, are you well? You seem so distant.” Bashara noted the untouched fruit and cream with a small frown. She had hoped the treat would tempt her Lady from the fugue that had possessed her since the fight with Korith.
“I must still be feeling the shock of the attack,” Bethcelamin said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “It was so unnatural, so violent— Surely Jayden is right, and my nerves are simply frayed.” Even as numb as she was, Beth could not bring herself to believe the words.
“You’re not so weak as that,” Bashara said, remembering how angry her lady had been after the attack. “Neither of us are.” She’d been truly fearful for the first time that the Duke might strike Bethcelamin that night, so she had made the tea as strong as she’d dared— hoping the sedating effect would spare her any violence. Was it the tea that had stolen what fire the lady had shown that night?
“Well I’d hardly say I was brave or powerful, Bashara.” Bethcelamin stared at the half-eaten breakfast before her, the weight of her reality a pressure on her chest. She had chosen this. Her father had chosen Jayden for her, of course, but she had found love, and she had run away… and she had returned. By choice. She chose comfortable beds and fine meals over bathing in icy streams and sleeping on the ground.
Every choice has a price, she thought. Feigning love for a man who had no love for her was hers.
Bashara came and knelt by the chair. “Please don’t say that, Lady. You are strong, or you can be— you’ve just been under so much pressure since Luc— since Paltos.”
“It’s good of you to say, Bashara, but no.” She patted the maid’s hand. “I will say what I am expected to say, and pretend his lies are truth, because there is no other path I can take. My weakness is how I will survive, though I’ve wondered of late what good that serves …”
“Lady, no.” Bashara caught her lip between her teeth momentarily. As much as she wanted to deny Bethcelamin’s resigned admission, the maid knew her lady was right. The Duke would never let his wife leave him, even if there was anywhere for her to go— a thought occurred to her, and she spoke aloud without thinking. “Yours is not the death that would improve this situation,” she muttered.
Bethcelamin looked at the maid sharply, hardly believing what she’d heard. Bashara stood, shaking her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her cheeks reddening. “Forgive me, Lady, I spoke too freely.” She quickly returned to dressing the bed, retrieving the Duke’s blanket and pillow from the sitting room where he spent his nights rather than lie with his wife.
Lady Korith mulled the words over in her mind, both attracted and repelled by the idea that her husband’s death might free her.
“We’ve been cooped up in this room for days,” Bashara said, hoping to change the subject. “Shall we walk to the garden? It’s on the roof. Do you remember Duke Derbin telling us about it? The sunlight will do you good, I think.”
Bethcelamin agreed, though her thoughts were not on sunlight and flowers. Jayden had no remorse. He had manipulated and lied to everyone, especially her, to get what he wanted, and he would continue. There was nothing she could say, no one would believe her - after all, she was mad.
Lady Korith let Bashara take her arm and lead her from the room that had become her prison following the attack. Jayden was already awake and about, she barely saw him these days - thank the stars for small blessings. Their conversations, when they occurred, were tense, strained affairs full of weighty expectations and words that meant nothing at all.
The two women heard Duke Korith’s voice drifting up the hall as they walked to the stairs
that would lead them to the rooftop garden. It got louder as they approached, and Bashara drew them to a stop.
“I insist you explain yourself!” The Duke was as agitated as Bethcelamin had ever heard him. “Such sorcery is indeed my concern!”
“You always were an ignorant fool, Jayden.”
Bethcelamin recognized the voice of Chancellor Garen. Bashara, too, realized who had spoken so disrespectfully and lifted a hand to her lips in surprise.
“I have no more use for you.”
“You cannot tell me we are trapped here and then simply walk away, Chancellor. I will not allow it!”
Bethcelamin imagined - not without some small pleasure - the outrage on her husband’s face. Curiosity brought her closer to the open door of the Chancellor’s room.
“You cannot prevent it,” Garen said, his voice stronger and clearer than Bethcelamin remembered. “Every living soldier you’ve sent into that tunnel has come back as a dead thing, attacking those who guard the entrance. Their force gets stronger each time they kill. The city gates are closed, but it’s too late. Undead rise everywhere. Stay or go, you will die.”
“Chancellor!” Jayden was practically shouting. “Don’t you dare walk away from me!”
Bethcelamin was too close to the door when Garen swept through it. The strength of his stride knocked the Duchess into Bashara, sending the two women sprawling to the stone floor in a tangle. Beth gasped as her ankle twisted under her, and quickly sat up, looking into the face of her husband’s Chancellor. She bit back a scream.
Garen was no longer burnt. The skin of his face and neck was no longer twisted and gleaming. He stood straight, unapologetic, and Bethcelamin saw that his crippled arm no longer bent awkwardly against his body. Now the fingers were clenched in a fist, not frozen in a useless claw. The cold contempt in his eyes burned into her, but she couldn’t look away.
It wasn’t possible, her mind insisted.
“Garen!” her husband roared, the single word a warning.
The Chancellor was not threatened. He let his eyes linger on the Duke’s wife, his lips turned up at one corner in a dreadful leer.
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