by Lana Nielsen
The Nureenians pushed forward. An arrow sunk into the ground about ten feet in front of Arithel. Great, she thought, they are within range again.
Fallon retrieved Darren’s bow from his pack. It was small and pitiful, the wood unfinished in spots. “Hurry… give me some,” he said, pointing at Arithel’s quiver.
She handed him three arrows. There were only six left.
Fallon fired them in quick succession. Though his movements looked smooth and flawless, all three missed. One fell short, another was accurate but too low, sailing between the legs of one of the horses, and the last soared into the boughs of the trees.
“I was never good at this like you are,” Fallon muttered with a slight laugh. He held out his hand for more arrows.
“Don’t waste any more energy. Go on,” Arithel urged.
“I’m going to take Madroste in.”
“I’ll do it,” she offered.
“The horse hates you,” Fallon remarked.
An arrow whizzed past, dividing the space between them. It hardly fazed Arithel. She fit another arrow to her bow and aimed at a Nureenian horse. It found its target, sinking into the stem of the beast’s sinewy neck. The animal reared back, but didn’t toss its rider off. She fired again, and hit the Nureenian in the chest. However, his scalemail did its job and kept the arrow from plunging too deep. The rider pressed forward and all the Nureenians broke into a gallop behind him.
“All right, fair enough,” she said, apprehensively staring at the river. At least its span wasn’t that broad…
“Do I need to throw you in?” Fallon asked, smiling.
“No, not at all.”
His arm was poised to push her. Before he could make contact, she jumped. As she fell through the air, she was vaguely aware of several arrows flying in the direction of Fallon and Madroste. She heard Madroste scream, and figured the horse had been struck again.
She hit the river. It was frigid and her muscles contracted instantaneously. The water wasn’t deep, perhaps eight or nine feet at most. Her feet slammed into the rough pebbles at the bottom. One of the rocks tore through her boot, penetrating the arch of her foot. She shook her foot to dislodge it, winced with pain, and swam out before going up.
When she finally surfaced, she could not make out anything beyond the white froth flying into her nose and mouth. She trod furiously to keep her head above the spray. She was moving quickly downriver, at least; she only had to swim enough to keep herself from being smashed into one of the many slabs of granite jutting from the riverbed. She saw Mira’s ruddy head a short distance away but no sign of Darren. Three arrows were shot into the river, all landing far away. She caught onto a rock for a second, clinging to its sides so she could make out whether Fallon had jumped yet.
Her heart sank. Madroste was still on the banks. Mounted Nureenians had surrounded her. No doubt the bowmen were not far behind. There must have been a reason they had stopped firing—they had Fallon to contend with. No doubt he had waited just a moment too late. It was likely the stupid animal’s fault. Arithel envisioned him, attempting to coax the dumb beast off the edge, as it stomped its hooves and neighed in protest. Fallon would not have jumped without his monies and medicines.
Arithel cursed and slipped back into the waters. Fallon was gone. It was up to her to complete the quest, to take Darren to Paden. Would anyone believe her without Fallon? She had no evidence to back up her assertions, no symbol that she had been in his company. It was pointless to go on without him. She probably wouldn’t find Anoria without his aid, either. She would return to Neldor, defeated, alone, and possibly a wanted criminal. All she really had was a half-ruined deed to an estate she’d never seen, hundreds of miles into the dark, forbidding expanse of the Tethyan Sea. The logistics of the journey faded to a distant corner of her mind. Soon all she could think of was her old friend, the boy she had grown up with. Perhaps they would still take him to a prison and send word to Faldros.
Wishful thinking. She’d never see him again, just like she’d never see Anoria again.
Her thoughts wandered as she shivered. The warmth was rapidly leaving her fingers and toes. The Nureenians were lost to the horizon. It was time to swim for shore.
Arithel swam perpendicular to the current. Her limbs were difficult to control in the cold. She was thankful that the injury to her foot had numbed. She had to get out in no more than ten minutes or she’d start losing her lucidity.
“Ari!” She heard a familiar call, and practically leaped above the water. She was caught in an especially swift portion of the current. Her head pounded as she exerted titanic force against the roiling river. Arithel slowly made her way. She latched onto a cluster of moss-covered rocks that were so slippery that she had to catch herself twice from gliding right off. In the process, she deeply bruised her arm.
“Where are you?” Arithel shouted.
His dark hair appeared above the rapids. He quickly drifted towards her. He was clinging to a pine branch with his right arm. In his left arm, two bundles of supplies were tucked away. He kicked to propel himself forward. As he passed by, Arithel grabbed hold of the green end of the branch. The wet needles prodded and irritated her skin.
Fallon looked over at her and smiled. “They didn’t catch us. We got away with it.”
“As long as they didn’t get too good of a look. Don’t want to see myself on a bounty notice.” She laughed. She felt exuberant though she was intensely cold and uncomfortable. Her knee banged into a rock. That would leave yet another nasty bump.
“You won’t. Don’t worry,” he said and coughed a bit.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Madroste was still up there. They had her surrounded.”
Fallon shook his head. “I left her behind. She was too stubborn. I salvaged my more important things. Had to leave the Southrons with most of it, though.”
Arithel giggled. “I’m just glad we made it.”
After a few minutes of drifting with the current, he said, “You were right.”
“Right about what? A lot of things, naturally, but be specific.” Her numb chin slurred her words.
“Darren. He is of Ankarian blood. He is my errand; I am to deliver him to Morden. I don’t understand how Elspeth knew. That troubles me,” Fallon said.
“The idea seemed absurd at first, but once I thought it through, it made sense and explained everything,” she said. “Why didn’t you admit the truth to me?”
The lengths he had gone to obfuscate things were ridiculous.
“I suppose I wasn’t sure whether I could fully trust you. Morden warned me about...”
“I’ve never broken an oath in my life,” she lied.
Fallon sighed. “It’s not just that… this plan is quite specific. For it to work correctly, to get the most favorable results, Darren must be convinced of his destiny on his own accord. He will cooperate much better when we reach Paden if that is the case. He’ll be better prepared to do what is required of him. You must not say anything to him. I don’t want to confirm his heritage until he’s totally convinced of who he is.”
“He seems fairly convinced already.”
“He’s not. He’s just toying with the thought. I can tell. Trust me, Arithel. My plans will fall into place at the right time.”
She wanted to ask him if bringing her along on this journey was part of his vague and apparently multi-faceted plan. She dissuaded herself from questioning. It was better if she did not know.
The river became calmer, the rocks scarcer. The bluffs were sloping and gentle, with pebbled beaches splaying into the water. The current pushed them past an underwater ledge that formed a small waterfall. They struggled to free themselves from the steady veil of water that pushed them down towards the riverbed.
When they re-emerged, Arithel pointed ahead and to the left. Darren and Mira sat on a sand bank beneath a low granite cliff. He clutched at his leg, which was bleeding through the bandages.
Chapter Nineteen
Arithel an
d Fallon waded onto the shore. Darren’s mouth was contorted in pain—his leg had gotten banged up badly in the river. Mira made him lean on her shoulders to take some weight off his leg. Arithel wondered how far the river had taken them. She hoped it was at least a half mile. In any case, it was far enough—for now.
They were quiet as they walked. The cascades of the River Thespolid were soon nothing more than a gentle whisper. The trees became less thick. They passed by a hunting camp with five men seated in a circle beside a tent, skinning a deer. They eyed the soaked companions suspiciously but said nothing. Arithel wondered whether they were poaching or might be raiders.
She was nervous. Every ordinary noise caused her to jerk her head over her shoulder in anticipation. Within a quarter mile, they were out of the forest, where the trees gave way to a wide open plain.
Visibility on the plain was spectacular; to their north and at their backs, the low hills of the forest crouched in the shadows of towering violet peaks. Arithel looked forward to crossing the mountains. She loved the exhilarating feeling of being at great heights, standing on a ledge like some conquering hero of old. The Great Dividing Range would be especially sublime—the mountains of Neldor were practically children compared to these snow-streaked behemoths.
About a mile away, a long caravan of wagons and people made their way across the horizon.
“There we have our road to Belhaven,” Fallon announced.
“We’ll rest well tonight,” Arithel said. The face of Eranos kept flashing in her head. She thought of the mountains instead.
They walked. Darren looked more uncomfortable by the minute. The other three took turns asking if he was okay. His reply was always the same: “aye.”
His eyes were unfocused, as if he was someplace else.
Soon they joined other travelers on the road. Thick plumes of black smoke were visible, billowing against a hazy sky.
“What are they burning?” Darren spoke for the first time since they emerged from the river.
“That’s the give-off from the mines,” Arithel replied.
“They’re extracting the minerals and sludge beneath the steppe,” Fallon said. “Morden has seen it. They use it for fuel as it burns longer than wood or peat or whale oil. It can power machines, so I suppose they are building something pretty remarkable.”
“What kind of machines?” Arithel asked.
Fallon shrugged. Mira said, “I have heard, flying chariots.”
Arithel laughed. “Chariots of the gods, huh?”
“I think what she means is a kind of airship,” Fallon said. “You know, like a balloon, but with a hull and much faster... Such a thing, while unlikely, isn’t totally out of the question. You should see the things they have in Mt. Aerys. Telescopes, ships powered by steam, toys that move themselves, lamps that never stop burning…. They’re making many scientific advancements.”
Arithel tried to picture how such a machine would work. Would it need wings or sails? A rudder to steer itself? She envisioned herself at the helm of one, charging across a pink, glowing sunrise, and lost herself in the beautiful illusion.
A peddlers’ cart nearly ran into her as she daydreamed. She cursed and jumped out of the way, almost knocking Darren over in the process.
“Sorry,” she muttered and scowled at the man driving the wagon. Just as she suspected, it was a foreigner, a Minaran, clad in a billowing gold-embroidered coat. He hadn’t even noticed her. He was too busy gesticulating and talking with his companion. It was funny how she didn’t consider herself a foreigner in Elinmoor. Despite all the Neldorins’ constant characterization of Elinmoorians as uncouth boors, they were not so different a people.
***
Glorun had spent the last two weeks sequestered in the highest level of a tower in Castle Flambard. It was far away from Staska, in the troublesome, perpetually rebellious province of Kaldemar. The dark-complected farmers that lived there were almost as much a thorn in the side of the crown as the Nureenians themselves. It was unreal that her brother had sent her here, of all places in the realm.
The pronouncement seemed as clear as yesterday. Wulfdane had called her a danger to the city while Morden stood behind him. Stupid brother, Glorun thought. He would soon find he had lost his only real ally.
Lady Alfhild Flambard ruled Kaldemar with an iron fist. Glorun often heard her prisoners wailing as they were tortured in the castle yard. Her last victim had been a wandering Southron priest, probably invited by the Kaldemari serfs themselves, who sometimes had a passing fancy for the suicidal god. Alfhild had burned him alive. As he died, he sang prayers to all of the saints in the stars.
Lady Alfhild had always been cruel, but she had become famous for it since her husband’s death a year ago. She had fashioned herself a shieldmaiden after his funeral—she always had a sword at her belt and a breastplate fastened over the front of her gown. She led battles against Nureenians and rebellious Kaldemaris alike, and won them all.
Alfhild had not spoken with Glorun since Selka had delivered her. She dismissed Glorun’s entourage, including Selka herself, and sent them back to court. She replaced them with her own servants who never spoke, never washed, and wore pitiful, threadbare clothes. Many seemed dull in some way. Glorun hated them. To her surprise, she found herself missing Selka, missing her maids and stableboys and guards. She supposed they were the closest things she had to friends, at least since Meldane had left.
A servant entered the room without knocking, bringing a bowl of gruel and a cup of yogurt made from yak’s milk. Glorun groaned as the girl set the table. Her hunger strike was not working. She had demanded better food, better clothes, and afternoon walks. Of course, the Widow Flambard refused to budge. After three days, Glorun was almost ready to give up.
“Any news from Staska?” Glorun asked the servant.
“No.”
“Can I see the Lady Flambard today?”
“The Lady will be away for the evening.”
Glorun grumbled under her breath. Here she was, imprisoned by someone who wasn’t even there half the time. She eyed the keys at the servant’s belt. She could steal them and escape. If she had an episode, no one in the dreary fortress could stand in her way.
The girl’s eyes met Glorun’s. She shrank back, seemingly aware that the princess was dreaming up ways to dispose of her.
“Forget Lady Alfhild,” Glorun said, causing the servant to drop her silverware. “Between you and me, I’m going mad in here. I’ve nothing to do but sit and think. Bring me needlework, paints, mead—anything. You could bring some games and we could play for a while.”
Glorun smiled, thinking the girl would be honored to do such a favor for the princess of her realm.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” She looked down. “I have my orders.”
“I’m of higher rank than the Widow Flambard….” Glorun declared desperately.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’re as dangerous as everyone says,” the girl offered sweetly before leaving.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Glorun muttered as the door was locked.
She threw the bowl of gruel on the floor.
The next day, the stupid servant actually bothered to knock.
Glorun pulled her covers over her head and ordered for her to come in. She looked forward to watching the girl scrub away the remnants of her supper.
“You’d better be ready to receive me,” said a cool voice.
Her stomach dropped. It was Lady Alfhild. Glorun scrambled to her feet. “Give me a minute, it’s early.”
“Hurry.”
Glorun dressed, plaited her hair and cleaned her mess. She threw a blanket on the floor to cover up the stains.
Alfhild threw the door open, stomping about with her heavy boots. Silver armor covered every inch of her body. Her hair was loose, tumbling all the way to her hips like a sleek, red-gold curtain.
Alfhild inspected the premises with a scowl on her face. She picked up a doll Glorun had mad
e in her boredom. Its body was twisted from rushes, its clothes formed from strips of torn fabric.
“What is this, a conduit for your witchery?” Alfhild laughed and tossed it into the hearth. She noticed that the room’s single, circular window was cracked open. Narrowing her eyes, she closed it.
“The chill doesn’t bother you? I can send a girl to tend the hearth at all hours,” Alfhild said.
“Only boredom bothers me.”
“You look thin,” Alfhild said. “Princess or no, your prison could be worse. I knew you as a babe. You are lucky I still have some love for you, cousin.”
Glorun stared defiantly. “Aren’t you here to check on me, to make sure I’m all right…”
“No. I am here because you have a visitor.”
Glorun’s heart leapt. Her brother! Surely, he had decided she had been punished enough.
To Glorun’s disappointment, Morden stepped through the door when the Widow Flambard left.
He placed a netted sack of fresh golden apples on her bed. Glorun was glad to see the treat but did not let on. He told her he picked them himself.
“What do you want?” She frowned.
“I’ve come to make an offer.”
“What must I do to go back to court?” She sighed.
“How would you like to learn how to control your gifts?”
“Not possible… I have tried.” Had he not already asked her this?
“It is. I’ve dealt with people like you before. You remember my assistant, the Neldorin?”
“A little. He was only around a few months.”
“He is like you—gifted. His powers were different. Instead of lashing out, like yours, they burned away at his insides and made him very sick. When he came to me, he could barely walk or even sit straight. All his energies were consuming his body. I showed him how to release them.”