The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Nathaera’s skin crawled, and she eyed the central building. Should she say something to Gwyn? Kive’s instincts were often right, but he was also paranoid and mad, prone to mistrust anyone new in his sphere. It had taken him months before he accepted Adesta into his menagerie of pet animals, thus dubbing him a rabbit rather than the commonplace, succulent rat. Since then, Kive had added many animals to that same special realm of his mind, but most people were still rats, with a few flies and spiders on the side.

  “Kive, what do you mean about the fly in the spider’s web?” She glanced toward the Ilidreth, but he’d vanished, likely chasing a winging bird. Sighing, she shook her head and started toward the central building. Kive’s instinct might be right or it might be very wrong. Blind accusations would only hurt Gwyn’s cause, so Nathaera must be vigilant and determine for herself if Bened Arnnor was trustworthy or a traitor. It was all she could do.

  Chapter 15

  Rats were Cadogan’s only company his first night in the dungeons of Londolin. While the priests of this place had spent most of their lives maintaining the ancient city, preserving its architecture and history, none had apparently thought to clean the cavernous cells of the castle’s dungeon—though Cadogan’s initial hope that neglect would make escape possible had crumbled upon examining the door of his present abode. Blacksmiths of yesteryear had been more skillful; that, or the iron had been enchanted not to rust. Either way, Cadogan was doomed to remain here until someone released him, or he died of disease.

  Pungent odors lingered on the air, rendered by rat waste, stagnant water, and a pale fungus growing upon the walls. A bed of sorts cowered in the chamber, carved from the rock. Once, perhaps, a pallet of straw had rested against the hard surface, but it had long ago decayed, leaving a smudge of filth behind.

  He coughed out every breath.

  Worst of all, Cadogan’s mind kept poring over the humiliating events of the previous day. His utter failure. His men had been so spooked by the Ilidreth’s sudden appearance on the walls, many had thrown their weapons aside and surrendered on the spot. The rest had scattered, no matter how Cadogan shouted at them to regroup. He couldn’t blame them, too shaken himself to react as a soldier should. The priests’ betrayal galled and frightened him most. He could only pray these priests had acted independently, a dark bruise against the church’s unflagging loyalty, nothing more. But Cadogan had to wonder how deep the wound ran. Did the church really support the Crow King? How many Wintervale sympathizers cankered the ranks of the clergy?

  A door shrieked open somewhere beyond Cadogan’s private dungeon chamber. Where his officers were kept, he didn’t know, though the obvious strategy was to keep him apart. It would diminish morale in his men and decrease his chance for retaliation.

  Cadogan rose from the stone bed and crossed to peer through the iron bars of the window in his impenetrable door. Torchlight grew in the corridor beyond, and footsteps sounded, scraping and echoing off stone. Shadows fled before the light, and soon Cadogan spotted three figures approaching, two robed like priests, the last in a long cloak of motley hues.

  The three figures stopped before his door, faces contorted by light and shadow in the guttering flame.

  “General Cadogan ren Silverard, step away from the door.”

  Cadogan backed up.

  The tallest figure entered the gloomy chamber and threw back his cowl to reveal long black hair, piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and pointed ears.

  Cadogan held his head high and gazed steadily at the Ilidreth warrior. “Are you to be my executioner?”

  “I am High Lord Celin’Laen clo Vae’nan, guardian of the Chesevwé and champion of Shaeswéath, ally of the Winter King and protector of High Prince Kive ave’ar Edelin of Ilid. Thus, I come to Londolin to declare war upon the usurper whom you serve. I denounce the Crow King as ruler of Simaerin and pledge my life to the cause of his enemy.”

  Cadogan frowned. “But what of your allegiance to the rightful ruler of Ilid?”

  “What claims High Prince Kovien ave’al Edelin once held in Ilid are forfeit, for the high prince is no more. In his stead stands a creature consumed by madness and cruelty. His one rightful claim is his death as a tyrant and a traitor.”

  “I don’t believe as you do, Ilidreth. My king is the greatest ruler Simaerin has ever known. From his own lips, he has declared the Ilidreth a savage race intent on our demise. How can I do anything other than wipe you from the face of this world?”

  The Ilidreth leaned near, eyes burning in the torchlight. “Does savagery warrant feeding the flesh of my brethren to your Ilidreth prisoners? Is that not savagery as well? And what of the Crow King’s edict to slaughter children because they wield magic? Tell me, General, if your own child came into his magery, would you follow that edict? Does loyalty to king justify wanton murder?”

  For a heartbeat Cadogan hesitated. “Yes,” he mumbled, “for without loyalty to my king, without perfect obedience, Simaerin will plunge into chaos. If all harbored the same unwavering devotion, there would be no war, no famine, no crimes. If he asked me to kill my own son, I would accept that sacrifice.”

  The Ilidreth’s brow drew together. “I see. Indeed, if everyone followed blindly as you do, that could well be so. But, General, that is not the case, and despite your soulful devotion, Simaerin yet plunges into chaos even now. No amount of sacrifice, not the shedding of innocent blood or the selling of one’s soul, will change that. The truth, young human, is this: There will always be tyrants and there will always be heroes who rise to oppose them.”

  Cadogan shook his head. “I will not believe that.”

  “Truth. You will not, and a man’s will defines him. You contradict your own philosophy, human, but you are blind to that. It is just as well. I cannot persuade you.”

  “What will you do with me?” asked Cadogan.

  “I? Nothing. The priests may require your services; but until then, you shall remain in this dungeon and maintain your delusions.”

  “Why did you come here if not to kill me?”

  The Ilidreth faintly smiled. “I wished to see the face of a man in service to the Crow King. I desired to glimpse his vision. I see now precisely what I feared. Once, High Prince Kovien was a being of light and gentle wisdom, revered and nearly worshiped. But alas, darkness and doubt crept into his heart. Madness settled there, leeching hope, and Kovien fell to give rise to the Crow King. He slew his father, High King Roth, and trapped his mother in eternal slumber. Worst of all, he imprisoned his younger brother, the fair and lively Kive, within the dungeons of Shaeswéath, where he tortured him and fed him rats and likely worse things, until at last the young prince’s mind and soul shattered.”

  Cadogan scoffed. “A sad tale, indeed, if it is true. Where were you through all of this? Where were the Ilidreth to aid their royal family?”

  “One year ago, I could not tell you, but in the changing tides, my memories are returned to me,” said the Ilidreth, tones forlorn. “I was locked outside the castle grounds. Kovien cast a spell, and after he murdered the king and brought taint into the realm of Ilid, most of the Ilidreth fell. Light lost, hope robbed, those of us who did not fall tried to break through the magical shield surrounding Shaeswéath, but we had no success. When at last Kovien removed the shield, we were much too late. He had vanished, and Kive had been broken beyond aid. When no sign of Kovien could be discovered, I and my brethren thought he had gone off to die, and we slipped into the last Vales of Ilid to bide our time until the taint would touch our magic and we too would fall into madness and ruin. And so, we forgot much. Perhaps we chose to forget.

  “Meanwhile, the Crow King rose in Simaerin, slaying the line of Wintervale in Londolin. Within this ancient city, I can still hear the ghostly cries of the dead softly on the wind. When he had removed all threats among humankind, Kovien turned his sights on the Ilidreth. We knew not that he was once our prince. It is only recently that I remembered that truth. But now all is clear. The Crow King will not re
st until every remnant of his sin is removed from the world; even unto the destruction of his own people; even should it require the tainting of the Weave itself.

  “But he shall not succeed, General. The Crow King will fall a great deal farther than as Kovien he ever could, and it will be at the hand of the Winter King, who shall usher in a spring of renewal. By the Winter King’s hand, Prince Kive is mending, though I and my brethren had given him up as lost forever. Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale shall undo all the Crow King has done, and he shall be remembered far longer than your tyrant lord.”

  “My king is no tyrant,” Cadogan said. “He is making the sacrifices necessary to usher in the very spring of which you speak.”

  The Ilidreth’s eyes searched Cadogan’s carefully. “Tell me plainly, General, do you truly, to the very depths of your soul, believe that is so? Can a man—any man, human or Ilidreth—cease destruction after he has begun it? The Crow King has not merely executed criminals and heretics. He is guilty of genocide. Countless deaths are on his bloodied hands.” Celin’Laen shook his head. “General, do you not ask why?”

  Brow furrowed, Cadogan lowered his eyes to the floor. “He has been called, appointed by Afallon, for this loathsome task.”

  “Nay, Cadogan red Silverard. Even you do not believe so. High Prince Kovien ave’al Edelin succumbed to fear and prejudice. The Ilidreth are not immune to such, though many once believed so. We, just as humans are prone, grew proud and haughty. Many of our kind thought ourselves superior. Not the king and his lady, mind you. She was human, after all. But Kovien could not abide his mixed blood, for he feared that it weakened him. He saw his father’s kingdom, the wealth and wisdom, and feared how it might fare over time in our alliance with Simaerin and Fraelin. Disturbed and doubtful, Kovien left the woods of Ilid, with a handful of protectors, in search of answers. They sailed far from this land across the sea. What they found in the end, I do not know. What Kovien suffered in spirit, I cannot guess. But he came back changed and alone. Clad in wrath and steeped in blood, Kovien purged the Ilidreth. So he called it. A purging.

  “What did it accomplish, General? What did he gain? Was it worth the price he paid?” Celin’Laen bowed his head. “I cannot believe so. ‘Twas a waste and a tragedy. The ache within my breast shall never mend. The tears I have shed cannot be counted. The mar upon Ilid shall ever be a scar, unfading, throbbing with memory and regret. This is your Crow King. This monster is the man to whom you bend the knee and pledge your life and honor. But what honor is found in senseless death? What answer can you give me from your heart?”

  Cadogan’s hands curled into fists. What answer could he give? He knew already that the Crow King was of the Ilidreth, a prince by blood with a vision for a future unlike the past. But was that future the right one? Did Cadogan serve a madman?

  He knew the answer already. Yes. Yes, he served a madman, and not even a Simaeri royal. A usurper.

  But Cadogan was bound to him by oaths both temporal and magical. He could hardly break those. And he had long believed the Crow King’s course was right, though brutal.

  Am I deluding myself? Have I been wrong all along, too blind, too stubborn to see?

  Lifting his head, Cadogan met those striking eyes again. “If what you say is truth, if the Crow King should be dethroned, how can a mere boy accomplish this? The Crow King’s magic is unmatched. His reach is long, his wrath terrible, his mind cunning.”

  Celin’Laen smiled gently. “Alone, no man can accomplish such a feat. But the Winter King is not alone. He stands with truth and with allies, human and Ilidreth alike. It is in unity, not in tyranny, that strength is found. Young Gwynter is not alone.”

  Chapter 16

  “Prince Marqwen, how do you fare?”

  Fayett looked up from the scroll in his hands and smiled at Gwynter standing at the flap of his tent. “Ah, welcome. Come in, please. I’m quite well, thank you for your inquiry.” He gestured to the chaise lounge across from his plush chair. “Please sit, Your Majesty.”

  Gwynter entered in his tattered blue cloak and sat rigidly in the proffered seat. Fayett resisted a smile as it twitched on his lips. Surrounded all his life by royalty and noblemen, Fayett had never seen one like Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale: Quiet, humble, even a tad awkward—not in his mannerisms, but in his dealings with Fayett. Understandably so. After Gwynter’s encounters with the Crow King, he must not trust royal blood overmuch. Fayett had resolved to do all he could to rectify that, but he was only one prince, inexperienced himself.

  Studying the Wintervale heir now, Fayett liked what he saw. Gwynter was tall, lean, naturally graceful, and often grave. His eyes took in everything, swift and sharp; Fayett suspected Gwynter could read his character at first glance. He moved with purpose and authority, though he seemed unaware that he possessed that commanding air in every situation. When Fayett entered a tent filled with men, his eyes invariably caught on Gwynter, no matter what the young king was about, sitting or standing.

  “I heard reports of your skill with a blade at Trayton,” Gwynter said.

  Fayett’s smile deepened. “I am quite handy with a sword, true. It is the pride of Crane Castle that we of the royal line are skillful warriors. No king should ask more of his people than he can first provide himself. That includes protection and knowledge of warfare and stratagems. So decreed King Cygmund of Crane Castle, and so we have adhered as his heirs.”

  “‘Tis a noble philosophy,” said Gwynter.

  Fayett smiled. “Would you care for tea or wine?” He motioned to his manservant stationed in the shadows of his tent.

  Gwynter lifted a hand. “No, thank you. I won’t take from your stores, Your Highness.”

  “Nonsense. Tonight, I’m celebrating the last of those same stores, as I’ve distributed the rest to your soldiers along with the Heshi supplies you procured. I also gifted what remains of my coins to your paymaster to compensate for your losses to a small degree.”

  Gwynter stiffened. “Your Highness is too generous. I cannot possibly accept—”

  “I foresaw your protests and so I acted on the sly. ‘Tis too late, my good king, and you must accept that.”

  The young king bowed his head. “I humbly thank you.”

  “Which is more than enough in return, Your Majesty. Do not think the suffering of Fraelin at the hands of the Crow King does not warrant some retaliation on my part. If my supplies can sustain the enemy of that unjust tyrant, I am happy to play some part in his demise. I shall write tonight for more to be brought from Fraelin and add that to my contributions.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” replied Gwynter, hands clutching his knees, eyes still lowered.

  “This is just a sliver of what I wish to do to aid you, King Gwynter. I would have Fraelin and Simaerin become allied as once they were in ages past. We are kin, you and I. Our forefathers were brothers, each the son of King Cygmund. So, let the oaths of old be renewed. Let us fight together for a land free of torment and greed, insofar as any man can make it so. What say you, Your Majesty?”

  Gwynter sat still. He slowly lifted his head, eyes bright in the burning braziers circling the plush interior of the tent. “Nothing would please me more, and I accept your proposition wholeheartedly, Prince of Fraelin.”

  Fayett grinned. “‘Twill gladden my father greatly once I dare to tell him.” He laughed. “Should he give me the chance to explain anything when he learns of my whereabouts, that is.”

  Gwynter chuckled. “Indeed, Your Highness. Let us pray he is not so impulsive as his wayward heir.”

  “It is good to hear you laugh, Your Majesty. I had begun to wonder if you knew how.”

  The young man dropped his eyes as his smile faded. “I think I’d forgotten how. This war is not like others. It isn’t a distant thing, against some foreign force.” He glanced up and shrugged. “Even against Fraelin, it seemed less personal somehow, I regret to say.”

  “No, that makes sense.” Fayett waved away Gwynter’s apology with a hand. �
��It is something else entirely upon your own soil. I do not wish to fathom how painful it must be to fight against your own countrymen and even to defy the standing king, tyrant or no. By Afallon, ‘tis a cruel fate.”

  Gwynter nodded, studying his hands. “Aye, and far from finished. But we must survive until spring if we are to stand a chance. We march farther south to escape winter’s bitter chill, where shelter and food might be found, but I can think of only one course to protect us until the thaw, else we’ll be overrun and slaughtered by the Crow Army. We must take Keep Talbethé.”

  Fayett flinched. The Fraeli well knew that keep, where once the dread Lord Chiaven had made his home, 1,000 years ago, before Simaerin and Fraelin were two separate countries. It was Lord Chiaven who had finished the Blessed Afallon’s work when he executed the mild-mannered god within the keep itself, immortalizing Afallon’s teachings forever. From that time until now, most Fraeli and Simaeri called Keep Talbethé cursed—though the Church of Afallon declared it a hallowed place.

  Whispers proclaimed only wicked men could long abide living within the keep. Historically, those who lived there became inhumanly strong, but cruel and barbaric on the battlefield. Until the fabricated line of Crow Kings, the church had maintained the keep, but since the Crow banner rose over Simaerin, its halls and courtyards teemed with people again. Not any people—but the Order of Corvus, the Crow King’s personal army of mages. A more wicked lot, Fayett couldn’t name. Dark magic ran rampant there, according to his father’s spies, and Fayett could well believe it.

  “Your Majesty,” said Fayett, tentative. “Surely there is another shelter we can use…?” His mind ran over the maps he’d seen of the land between Trayton and Crowwell, searching for any route other than the Winter King’s choice.

  Gwynter shook his head, eyes stormy. “I’m afraid not, Prince.”

  “But the keep is out of our way. Can we not take the east road through Dilian and—”