by Peter Fane
Kyla raised an eyebrow. “Make yourself clear, Garen.”
“I understand you had a frank conversation with Anna Dyer yesterday morning, that you told her—.”
“Michael told you.”
Garen nodded. “Even suggesting the possibility of surrender to a Davanórian dragon rider is unwise and unbecoming—.”
Kyla laughed gently. “Are you listening to yourself? I would understand this coming from Michael. Or Grandpa. Maybe even Doldon. But you? Come Garen, you can’t—.”
“I’m simply passing the message forward.”
“From Michael? And I never said the word ‘surrender,’ much less suggested it. I’m surprised Anna went running to him.”
“She didn’t. Michael asked her for the details of your conversation. She provided them.”
Kyla inclined her head. “And she said that I said that we should lay down arms? That’s preposterous.”
“She didn’t say that. She—.”
“We talked about parley, yes. The possibility of peace. That’s all. It was a rather honest discussion. Quite refreshing, actually. In fact, there was more truth spoken down there in a quarter bell than I’ve heard up here in a year, our royal masks on so tight, a wonder anyone can breathe. Anna shared her honest opinion. I shared mine. But, of course, that’s a crime, isn’t it? A Dallanar highborn can’t have her own ideas, can she? Everything must seem ordered and perfect and just-so. Can’t have the underlings thinking we’re real people now, eh?”
“You know better.”
“Yes, yes. I know better.”
And she did. But even so, it could be maddening sometimes.
Garen looked at her closely. “Several hundred dragon riders will arrive from Dávanor today and tonight.” He looked at the small silver clock sitting on one of the worktables at the center of the chamber. “They come to make war, Kyla. Not peace.”
“Then why meet for parley?” She understood his point, of course. She was just needling him, trying to get to the real reason for the conversation.
Garen ignored her question. “There’s also the matter of this scout, Filip Toller, with whom you’ve been spending time—.”
And even though she felt her cheeks go warm, she was proud of her response, which was regal, calm, and immediate, “My friendships are no business of yours, nor anyone else’s.”
“You can’t possibly believe that,” Garen said.
Kyla shrugged. “Does Susan ask permission to spend time with Erika Cadence? Does Erika herself ask permission to spend time with that giant young ogre, Doj? Great Sisters, you yourself just now assigned Toller and his squad to me for parley tomorrow. I sense some inconsistency here, Uncle.”
Garen nodded. “Maybe that was a mistake. Regardless, those examples you give are all quite different—and you know it. Toller is a good fellow. His people are of the strongest stock. But they’re—.”
She stopped him with a smile. “Filip is my friend, Garen. Nothing more. And I shall spend my leisure time with whom I choose.”
He looked at her directly. He wasn’t mad—he never got mad—but he was earnest. “Kyla, you’re the firstborn daughter of the King’s firstborn son. War is imminent. Consider, for a moment. Tomorrow we try one last time for peace. Our chance of success is small. You’ve said you’re worried for me—and I thank you for that. But what if something does happen, Ky? To me or to Michael? To Doldon? What if something happens to Kate, Great Sisters forbid? You understand this—even if you don’t want to think about it. But you must. Five lives are all that stand between you and the throne. It’s quite possible that you will soon command Colj and his men, Anna and her Davanórians, our other henchmen, allies, legions from a dozen duchies—and that you’ll command them not as a highborn princess, but as the High Queen of Remain. As much as the ogres of Jallow value truth, as much as the riders of Dávanor value honor, what they value above all else is strength. Strength of mind, will, and heart.”
“What does this have to do with Toller?”
“Things will change quickly in the next days. You must prepare yourself. There will be no time for anything but the most careful tactical considerations.”
She felt the familiar cold seeping into her hands. “We will fight tomorrow.”
“Almost certainly.” He nodded. “And an heir to the Silver Throne must be prepared to lead, especially in times of war. Look at the List of Kings, sometime. Those dates tell you all you need to know.”
“Nothing will happen to you,” Kyla heard herself say, the ice in her fingers more frigid than ever.
“Saying does not make it so.” Garen smiled sadly. And again, she could feel something beneath his words. Something huge. Something unsayable.
“Nothing will happen,” she repeated.
A cold flutter caught her stomach; icy claws clutched at her heart. She clasped her hands in her lap.
“We know something will happen, Ky,” Garen said.
“How are you so sure?” she asked calmly.
He looked at her for a long moment, then he nodded. “I’d like you to listen to something. It’ll be a bit hard for you to appreciate, but I want you to try, all the same.”
Garen stood from his chair and walked to the low shelf beside the blue stained-glass window. From the shelf, he took a silver box. The box was about seven palms long. He stepped back to the table, set the box before him, and opened it. Within the box there was another box, smaller and beautifully carved from pale korom’s wood, closed with an intricate lock of high silver. He pulled a thin chain from under his tunic. On this chain hung four small keys. He selected one, slipped it into the silver lock, and opened the box. Inside, there was a cushion of light blue suede marked with four empty, nest-like hollows. The fifth hollow, however, was filled with what looked like a silver bird curled up asleep, its smooth head tucked beneath its wing. Some sort of ancient golem, Kyla supposed. It was small and would fit in her cupped hand, an artifact from the Kingdom’s earliest days.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Garen whispered, gently stroking the silver bird’s spine, blowing gently over its wings. He took a small perch of high silver from the first box and set the perch on the worktable, touched the perch once with a small silver hammer, like a gentle bell.
The silver bird trembled and gave a tired squeak, but otherwise it did not stir. Its feathers were carved in incredible detail, the sapphire light from the blue stained-glass window glowing azure in its silver wings. Each time Garen touched hammer to perch, the bird would quiver a bit and huddle further down in its nest.
“Sleepy.” Garen looked up at her, pushed his spectacles up on his nose. He stroked the bird’s back again, gently ruffling the feathers of its head. “Come now, sweet beauty.”
The bird lifted its head. When it did, Kyla saw that its eyes were large, round, and slightly too large for its head, not at all like those of a real bird’s. Its beak was also strangely shaped, a touch too broad, hooked like a hawk, with strange slitted openings on the top and sides.
“Do you know what this is?” Garen asked softly, gently stroking the little bird’s head. It closed its eyes, reveling in its master’s touch.
“Some kind of golem.”
“Indeed.” Garen nodded, not taking his eyes off it. “Much argument surrounds this little darling. There is no doubt that she and her sisters come from the earliest years of the Founding. Some believe she was made by the Great Sister Aaryn herself.”
“What does she do?”
Garen looked up at her. “She sees beyond space and memory—through it—into both future and past.”
As if hearing these words, the little bird gave a low chirp, stretched its silver wings, and stood up in its nest. It looked like a strange little hawk, Kyla realized, its chest round and powerful. It hopped to the box’s edge then hopped onto Garen’s finger, tiny talons flexing, and gave another squeak.
“Can you share again what you learned last night, little one?” Garen asked it.
The little bird
squeaked and cocked its head.
“Not with me, darling,” Garen crooned. He looked at Kyla. “With her.”
The little thing swiveled its head and looked at Kyla, its large eyes blinking.
Garen nodded. “The conversation that you’ll hear will take place in the enemy camp between several of Dorómy’s high generals, Ky, about an hour before sunrise tomorrow morning.”
Kyla blinked. “In the enemy camp, tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.” Garen stroked the little hawk, lifting it slightly, as if in explanation. “You’ll hear Jon’s voice—.”
“Vymon Ruge’s youngest.”
“And most ambitious, by far.” Garen nodded. “You’ll also hear Corlen Lessip.”
“Dorómy’s spymaster.”
“Marden Julane as well—.”
Kyla frowned. “Eleanor’s uncle? But I thought Gelánen was with us?”
“Technically, Gelánen has always been ‘neutral.’ While the Julanes have sent us aid, they’ve fielded troops for neither Lion nor Fox. But things have changed. Kendal Julane seems to have been killed last week. Kate has been blamed for it.”
“Kate murder Kendal? That’s absurd.”
“Of course, it is. But young Lady Eleanor has been convinced otherwise. With her mother incapacitated and Kendal missing, Eleanor Julane is High Lady of Gelánen; she now musters her duchy’s full force against us.”
It was dark news. Something Nana once said came rushing back to her: “An alliance is only as strong as the will of those who make it.”
What had happened?
Garen continued. “You’ll also hear the voice of Anthony Carole, James Taverly, the voices of several generals we couldn’t identify, and mention of someone we most definitely do not know: A ‘Lady Valáress.’ She’s now a person of interest.”
“Carole is one of Grandpa’s best friends. So is Taverly.” Kyla paused. “But where is Vymon Ruge, the Lord of the Siege, himself?”
“You cut to the heart of it.” Garen stroked the little bird, then looked at her. “Vymon Ruge is not there. This conversation will almost certainly take place without Ruge’s knowledge.”
“Yet Jon is there, Vymon’s youngest son. Where are Ruge’s other boys? Where’s Jannon? Where’s Jared?” Kyla still had fond memories of playing with the Ruge boys. Only a few years past, the two families had been nearly inseparable. Brash Jannon. Poor, stuttering Jared. Clever Jon—a true genius, crazy ambitious, and thought by many to rival Garen for raw intelligence. Vymon Ruge and Bellános Dallanar had once been the most intimate of friends; Vymon had been Grandpa’s most trusted commander, before he’d gone over to Dorómy. Kate had once confided in Kyla that she and Jon had even kissed once, Kate’s first kiss, hiding here in the library. They’d both been eleven years old.
“Good questions,” Garen said. “We don’t know where the other Ruge brothers are during this conversation. Only Jon is present.”
Garen lifted the little silver hawk and set it upon its silver perch. The moment he did so, the hawk stiffened, cocked its head as if listening.
“We’ll begin in the middle of things, I’m afraid,” Garen said, taking off his spectacles, polishing them. “I tried last night to widen the field, but I couldn’t. She’s old.” He looked fondly at the little bird. “So very old. We can’t be too hard on her.”
“Incredible,” Kyla said. And she meant it.
Garen nodded. “Not a typical golem.” He stroked the little hawk gently. “The very last of her kind.” He cleared his throat. “Now, like I said, this will be hard to understand—.”
At Kyla’s look, he shut his mouth.
And then the hawk began to sing. It was a strange noise at first, a fluid tooting, not at all hawk-like, a kind of metallic bubbling that seemed to come from the little slit openings on the bird’s beak, a low humming under it all, like an impossibly small choir singing at the edge of time. Then the singing became words, blurry at first, woven beneath the song, slowly coming into focus until they were clear, and then a voice: “. . . the High Lord Commander would have this morning’s parley conducted with the utmost regard for protocol and honor.”
“That’s Jon Ruge,” Garen said.
Murmurs of assent. Then an older voice: “Of course. Of course.”
Garen cocked his head. “That’s Lessip.”
“And yet,” Jon’s voice continued, through the golem, “we must be prepared for any eventuality. As the Great Lady Aaryn herself once said: ‘To birth a reality, a dream must die.’ Lords Garen and Doldon and Michael have shown themselves worthy opponents. Most worthy, most honorable. That said, they’ll not miss an opportunity to inflict grievous harm upon us, should the chance present itself. We must hope for an honorable parley, yet we cannot trust it will be so. These are dire times, my Lords. Much hangs in the balance. Should the terms of parley be breached, we must be ready to move—and to move decisively.”
There was a low hum, like many voices murmuring in agreement.
Jon’s voice continued through the golem. “There’s no doubt that Lord Garen will offer Bellános’s terms, whatever they may be. He is the logical choice. He’s the cleverest of the Dallanar brothers, the most suited to the task. Michael cannot support this ceasefire, nor can I believe he thinks it will succeed. The same will be true of Doldon. James was spotted by agents on Jun four days ago. It’s unlikely that he’s returned to the Tarn.”
There was a shuffling sound, people moving around, low whispers.
Again, Jon’s voice came. “The Lord of the Siege has already outlined our plan and position for parley. We’ll meet the Dallanar delegation on our side of the Long Bridge, here.” A tapping sound. “On their side of the barbican, directly over the Great Seal, as dictated by custom and decree. However, I would like to move aspects of the Fourth and Ninth Legions around and beside the barbican, a prudent caution with which my father agrees. The recent arrivals from the Silver Guard can be stationed within the barbican itself.”
“And if parley is breached?” Lessip’s voice came.
Jon’s answer was immediate, as if rehearsed. “If the terms of parley are broken, then we must attempt to capture Lord Garen. His value is beyond measure. General Lessip, you’ve suggested that Lord Marden Julane lead my father’s retinue, his defense, and our counter attack, should the need arise to protect him.”
“Yes,” Lessip confirmed.
More voices. Kyla could almost see the gathering of officers standing around a great map table inside a large tent, nodding, lanterns lighting their grim faces.
Jon’s voice continued. “Lord Marden is an experienced soldier. He served with much distinction under General Serán during the Folen campaign on Eulor. More importantly, Lord Marden’s wisdom and restraint are known throughout the Realm; he is well-trusted by the Dallanar. I can think of no better man to lead the defense of my father, should it be needed.” A short pause. “Lord Marden, will you accept this task offered by the Silver Throne on behalf of your duchy, your people, and on behalf of the High Lady of Gelánen?”
There was a moment of silence, the sound of people shuffling.
“Lord Marden?” Jon’s voice came again.
Then a hoarse voice, touched with the unmistakable accent of Gelánen’s southern counties. “It is Gelánen’s greatest honor to serve the Silver Throne in this regard, my Lord.”
Jon’s voice came again, without pause. “Lord Garen’s no warrior, we know this. Yet his prowess as a scholar is legendary. The Tarn’s strange trees, the skill of their High Gate’s defense, all depend upon Lord Garen’s knowledge of the Realm—.”
Garen chuckled. “Nice to be appreciated.”
Kyla did not smile.
“—Garen, therefore, must be the primary object of your men, Lord Marden, after the defense of my father. To take him alive would be ideal, but if this is not possible, the High King will understand.”
“Of course, my Lord.” Marden coughed. “If something should go wrong, my Lord.”
&n
bsp; “And how likely is that, Lord Jon?” a new voice interrupted.
“That’s James Taverly,” Garen whispered to Kyla. “In everything we’ve been able to hear, he’s been very quiet. He and Ruge seem to be in accord, but we know that he detests Jon.”
“I don’t know, General Taverly,” Jon answered smoothly. “But for our part, the terms of parley must remain inviolate.” A short pause. “That said, should parley fail, three matters hold sway: First, we must protect the Lord of the Siege; the safety of High Commander Ruge remains a top priority of the Silver Throne. Is this not so, General Lessip?”
“Indeed,” Lessip’s voice came.
“Second, if parley is broken, we must attempt to capture Lord Garen. Third, we must penetrate the Tarn and gain access to Lord Garen’s strange trees. They’ve thwarted our guns long enough. Lady Valáress has generously provided an agent that can weaken this aspect of the enemy’s defense.” A short pause. “General Krodan has suggested that one or two soldiers of the Silver Guard allow themselves to be taken prisoner during the action, should it take place. These men will be equipped with a small measure of an elixir that Lady Valáress has provided. It will take only a few drops of this potion to kill the greatest of Lord Garen’s star trees. When these ‘prisoners’ are taken into the Tarn, they’ll use the opportunity to deliver the vials to one or two of these trees, at whatever cost. The trees themselves have been arranged in an overlapping pattern, to ensure their fields have a measure of redundancy, especially around the Tarn’s High Gate. If one tree is poisoned, Lady Valáress tells us, the overlapping fields will transfer the toxin to the next tree and so on; all will die. With the trees gone, our big guns can at last do their work. One breach, my friends, and we can all go home.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
Jon’s voice was silk. “All of you served under Bellános. I know how this feels. The Tarn was as much my boyhood home as was the Ruge family palace on Rigel. Garen Dallanar stood as my second during my rites of passage, he was—and is—one of my closest friends. But as my father has said many times, we must end this. We must have peace. Every day we fight, more men die, and for less reason. Every day we fight, the Realm itself is weakened. So, we must be ready. And should need arise, we must attack without mercy. It’s quite possible, my Lords, should the terms of parley be breached, that we could end the siege today.”
