by Cassia Meare
"I shall take her."
As the woman ran out, Elinor looked for some sort of sign on Sibulla’s face that she understood. There was only a slight smile, and it was enough for Elinor. She turned the wheeled chair around and pushed Sibulla to the east wing.
The tower there was farthest from the back, and it could not be reached by anyone climbing over the walls. It was at the top of a flight of stairs, which meant several strong doors could be closed and locked on the way. She had to hope no one would set it on fire, but the stone should withstand even that for a while.
When she reached the tower, Elinor was glad to see people gathering there already. She got help to carry Sibulla up the steps as others behind them brought the chair. As soon as Sibulla was back in the chair she resumed staring, this time out of a window instead of a balcony. The smoke in the distance billowed, and men and women were shouting and running down the city steps toward the port. Touching Sibulla’s hand briefly, Elinor would have rushed out, but her fingers were taken in a strong grip. Her eyes met the princess’ yellow ones, which seemed suddenly focused. Sibulla was smiling.
"You’ll do very well," Sibulla said.
Elinor swallowed and nodded. "Stay safe."
She got through the crowd filing up the stairs and into the tower — mostly children and old people. And she found that Sibulla’s words had given her courage, when she hadn’t even stopped long enough to understand that she was frightened.
By God, those miscreants had something coming to them. Did they think they would invade Highmere or get into the castle?
She had been caught by surprise and at a disadvantage. But if she had defeated Englishmen at her father’s battlements, those hairy curs had no chance.
38
Danek Tayne had been struck down in the field, and his wounds were serious.
His eyes, however, shone with happiness — for when Nemours entered the tent that had been set up for him, he found the old man with his own ancestor, Sethe.
"This child of mine is hurt," Sethe said.
As legend said, a man’s ghost would keep the best of him. Sethe was in the flower of his youth, holding the hand of his white-haired descendant. Nemours sat by Tayne’s other side. Gently, he peeled the bandage to look at the gaping wound on his father-in-law’s shoulder. A werewolf had taken a large bite out of him — and another, more grievous wound on his side had been made by steel. The warrior had been killed both by beasts and white guards.
What justice was there in this?
Tayne read his mind. "Don’t mourn for me, my prince. I’m glad to have fought that evil to the end."
Nemours made a gesture. "I could—"
"No, don’t heal me with magic …" Tayne smiled feebly. "Let me go."
"Is not Sethe here by magic?" Nemours asked. "Sometimes it does good, not harm."
The Lord of Stonemount frowned. "What price will yet be paid for this victory, no one knows." He glanced at Sethe. "In any case, I’ve been asking him not to tell me what death is like."
"You don’t have to die," Nemours insisted.
"My prince," Tayne said softly, "no man should survive his child. You did not have time to know my Marget, and so you did not love her, and so I cannot expect you to grieve. But I have grieved."
Lowering his head, Nemours nodded. You have grieved and been abused.
"It has been an honor to fight with you," Tayne said, "and it is a kindness to let me go."
"The honor was mine," Nemours said.
Lord Tayne did not want anyone to watch him dying, not even Sethe, so prince and knight left the tent together.
"Do you know?" Nemours asked.
Sethe understood what he was asking. "I have not been told the price for our coming. Only that we had to get in those ships and sail back to Old Edge as soon as the battle was done."
"It was good to see you again," Nemours said. "Always a wonder to watch you fight."
"And you, lord."
Sethe bowed and walked away, summoning the Blood Knights to him. They went slowly, leaving cups of wine on the ground or still drinking from bottles. They might have wanted a bit more of life. Nemours moved to Delian’s tent, from which Lady Ngrayne emerged as she buckled on her breastplate.
"Lord," she said with a lopsided smile. "It was a pleasure."
In more ways than one, Nemours supposed as he opened the flap to find Delian on a cot, barely covered by a sheet. Delian raised his head, the right side hidden by a bandage, and looked smug.
"Hello, there."
"You don’t waste time."
Delian sat up and looked for something. A bottle of wine, standing next to the bed. "I couldn’t, could I? I mean, she was going to disappear at any moment."
"That seduction must have been extraordinarily smooth," Nemours remarked, leaning against the table.
"I know, not easy to say, ‘Let’s do it quick, before you’re dead again.’" Delian took a swig of the wine and offered it to Nemours, who shook his head. "But she fairly much jumped me. I guess death makes you lustful, which is wonderful to know."
Approaching his brother, Nemours reached for his bandage. Delian moved his head away.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Want to see," said Nemours.
"No."
Nemours let his hands drop. "You lost that eye?"
Holding the bottle against his stomach, Delian shrugged, his remaining eye defiant. "And?"
"How did you let that happen?"
"Oh, is this going to be the catalogue of things that Delian does wrong? Why not ask me right away about what Sigrit the Freak wanted, especially considering the eye will eventually grow back?"
"What did she want?"
"She took Elinor’s hekas."
"Why hers?"
"Didn’t want anything from me. Said my heart was already broken, ha! Wanted Lady E’s powers."
A cold dagger again chipped at him when he thought Elinor had been Sigrit’s target — why?
"I saw Elinor disappear from the field. That was Crossing."
"Yes, Sigrit left her a few of each. Except Binding and Likeness. And she can’t have any new ones."
It took a moment for Nemours to ask, "So she didn’t want anything from you, but wanted Elinor to be powerless?"
"Did you see Elinor riding at the head of that army?" Delian asked. His smile was radiant. "How can anyone leave that woman powerless?"
The image returned to Nemours. How beautiful she had been. And Delian’s face was falling; he had lost too much. He had let himself be hurt by the white guards because he thought he deserved it.
"We would have been defeated, if not for you," Nemours said. It was the truth, and he would try to understand what Sigrit meant to do later. Bending, he kissed his brother’s tousled golden head.
"Yeah," Delian mumbled, looking away.
The flap of the tent was suddenly raised, and Nyree stood there. Her face, still streaked with soot, showed numb shock.
"Highmere …" she mumbled.
"What about it?" Nemours asked.
"A sentinel has come from the coast — the savages of Silverburn disembarked and are riding toward High Hall."
Delian stood, clutching the sheet about his waist, the color draining from him.
"The city is under attack," Nyree added in a whisper.
"Stop the Blood Knights," Nemours said. "Tell them to come back."
She ran out and he followed, looking for his horse and ordering it to be saddled. Azure ran toward her master, and Delian didn’t take long to emerge from the tent, his armor already on, Dancer ready for him.
"The war isn’t over," Delian cried to the startled troops. "Horsemen, gather your arms!"
The trembling of the earth heralded the return of the dead knights.
"To me!" Nemours called from his saddle. And turning, he gave another command, "Tyemenai vala!"
39
Elinor could not concern herself with the battle raging in the bay. Last time she had looked,
Commander Nader’s forces were repelling the barbarians’ approach to the port with catapults. Some of Nader's meager forces must be busy engaging the savages who had managed to alight along the shores.
She had wondered if with Crossing she could get back to the field in Ashrock and get help — but a good number of savages had already gathered in the back of the castle when she reached the ramparts. They seemed to be waiting, perhaps for the rest of their ranks to reach them, but it wouldn’t be long now before they launched their attack.
Having found her binoculars, she put them to good use for the first time. Again, it took a moment for her sight to adjust, but then they served her well. She could now see the barbarians, men and women, lined up across the field, ready to start their attack. They wore fur and human skulls hanging from their necks, as well as bones through their noses. All had shaved heads and faces painted red. She inspected their weapons, which seemed ill made and yet somehow deadlier because of it. Some of them only held cudgels, and Elinor flinched, imagining being beaten to death. It seemed worse than being run through by sword or arrow.
The primitives stood there snarling, howling, laughing, screaming — and she let out a yelp of disgust when she realized she was looking at a hairy backside close up. Lowering the binoculars, she saw that some of the enemy had raised their tunics to exhibit their arses in a form of insult.
"Let's see how you like an arrow through your ugly hole," she muttered in English.
The highly civilized people on her side watched the savages with glassy eyes. Several members of the militia around her were trembling, even as they clutched arches, spears and shields. Beads of sweat ran from under the shining helmets of a few guards.
High Hall was not flimsy, but it had been built under the assumption that no mortal would ever dare try to breach it. And yet here they were.
While the savages might have had a more difficult time climbing through the front of the castle, built on the mountain overlooking Highmere, the back only sloped onto the countryside, and the walls were neither very thick nor very high.
Elinor couldn’t go anywhere, not even for a short time. With Nader and his men below, the castle forces had no commander but she, and they would fall apart if the barbarians charged. And who knew what kind of mayhem she would find in Ashrock?
The guards, at least, could shoot arrows accurately, and were good with swords. She had seen them training, and she placed them on the ramparts as archers.
Keep the most frightened ones moving.
She ordered the townswomen to put stones and pots near the walls. The loose stones would make it more difficult for any catapults or trebuchets to destroy the ramparts. As to the pots, if there were ripples on the water Elinor would know the barbarians were mining — carving tunnels underneath them to make the walls collapse.
The sheep skins from Tanner’s Wharf arrived, and she had them hastily filled with oil. The rest of the oil was also being boiled.
Although they wore a befuddled look, the guards and militia did as she told them. They had never defended a fortification, but she had — apart from reading every account of battles she could get her hands on. The Silverburn primitives were not more advanced than her people and the knowledge at her disposal, at least.
More townsmen arrived with stones, and she told them to pick up spears, pikes and shields, and stand at the ready.
The loose crying and taunting from the savages consolidated into a roar and they began to move. Whole rows carried long ladders, but to her relief, much as she searched with the binoculars she could find no catapults or siege towers on their side.
"Hold steady," she commanded, standing in the middle of the battlements so she could be heard left and right.
The savages were gathering speed, and when they were a third of the way through the field she cried, "Throw the sheep skins!"
The small catapults on the wall were easy to load and release, and their reach was good enough. They made an efficient noise as they loosed the skins filled with oil, throwing them before the charging savages.
As if in response, flurry of arrows rose in the sky. They seemed to come almost slowly from the rearguard of the enemy.
"Shields!" Elinor shouted, raising hers.
Her people ducked, covering themselves with their shields as the arrows traveled over the wall. Two men were not fast enough and fell, one with an arrow through his neck, another struck on the shoulder. She ordered her archers to light the tip of their arrows and draw their bows as she drew her own.
"Wait! Wait!" she said. And then, in her booming voice, "Release!"
Their volley of flaming arrows wasn’t meant for the men below, but for the sheep skins. As they hit their objectives, a wall of fire rose, burning the first column of barbarians. They screamed like animals. She had gained a moment for the townsmen to move forward carefully with half the boiling cauldrons.
The villains would lose their very skin before they got up those ramparts, she promised herself.
The fire below gave way to smoke, but some of the savages managed to arrive at the walls and place ladders. They began climbing as the men above poured oil on them. But despite many of them shrieking and falling, the barbarians were fast, ruthless, and great in number. The archers would run out of arrows soon, so Elinor pointed to the large stones piled on the sides. Several big ones, thrown accurately, got two ladders to fall backward or break.
Savages had almost made their way up a ladder on the east side, and she needed to save the oil that was left. Taking hold of a battering ram, Elinor shouted, "Here, to me!"
Out of arrows, some of the archers rushed to help her. They held up the ram and ran full tilt against the ladder. The blow sent it tumbling to the ground with dozens of savages screaming as they leapt off or got crushed.
Yet there are so many, so many, Elinor thought, her hand full of splinters and bleeding. The field swarmed with them, and as soon as her side threw them off the wall, more rose — like vermin.
Just hold the front, Nader, and I’ll keep throwing them down.
The smoke made it difficult for them to see anything, except the men halfway up the walls. A woman cried out to get her attention: The water had begun rippling inside the pots. If a part of the wall collapsed, it would be their end.
"Bring the rest of the oil!" she commanded.
She had kept it for just such a moment; they only had to throw it at the spot where the water was rippling to kill the damned miners.
But even as her men approached with new cauldrons, the ramparts felt a different tremor. They were not collapsing — these were hooves, beating the earth close to the Hall.
A cavalry had come in aid of the savages. She could just about hold the wall with the enemies who were there; if more were added, her side had lost.
Shouting and more shrieking below made her forces frantic, as they could not see anything. Around her, many were dead, and the live ones had also heard the horses and wore a look of panic.
A man pointed up and screamed, "They’re coming from the sky!"
Elinor looked. A white guard! A single one, but if the savages had those creatures with them, it was over.
"Don’t desist!" she nevertheless shouted.
Through the smoke she saw great open wings above her and raised her hands. She could feel the heat in her palms and saw them glow. Oh, she would use the Protection that was left to burn the miserable creature until it was wholly made of ash.
She released the bolts from her palms just as the guard approached, watched him catch both in the air — and despaired.
His wings looked dark as he crossed the smoke, and she finally saw his face. For a moment, she could not believe it.
"Nemours," she whispered.
He landed, and his wings disappeared. Opening his hands, he let the ash from her bolts fall, just as he had done in Canterbury.
It was he who had arrived with his forces, and now the savages could not win. Dimly, she heard the people on the wall cheering and shou
ting in relief. Nemours stepped forward, cradling her face.
"You!" he said, and laughed. Softly, he repeated, "You…"
And then he kissed her, as if there were nothing else — nothing like a war — around them.
40
Elinor dragged her body to her room, her ears still ringing with the cries of battle, her nose black with smoke, her eyes smarting from the fire — but her lips humming with Nemours’ kiss.
Letting Kent out of the closet, she listened to his complaints as she mumbled, "Thy mistress is sorely tired …"
Her weary body was thankful to be rid of the armor, light as it was, and to sink in warm water, even as she winced.
"Tetyen veo nygoret," she muttered, running her finger over a cut here and a bruise there. She washed blood from her hair and from under her nails, grime from her face and almost slept in the bath.
But when she heard his steps coming quickly, almost running to her, she smiled. And when he entered the bathroom, she raised her arms to him, and he lifted her. They kissed hard, as if their teeth would crack together, and he moved with her — and she understood that he was taking her somewhere else. Somewhere light and quiet, but she hardly opened her eyes — because she had so longed for him.
Only after, when she rested on his chest, did she see they were in a tower. It must be a tower, since the room was circular and contained only the great bed they lay in. A breeze stirred the flimsy white curtains around them, and the sea was right below, soft water lapping against hard stone.
It was strange to have him so close and touch his hair and smile against his lips. He had brought her where they could be alone because he believed they now had the right to be selfish. Those immortals were so right sometimes.
Still, it was difficult to speak, when he only kissed her and kissed her as if he would never stop. When he nuzzled her face with his and held her by the waist or cradled her head. Elinor wanted to weep and laugh, so she did neither.
It was evening before they spoke.