It might be a coincidence that the dragon wheeling above suddenly changed directions. Sweat beaded across Nox’s brow.
Parsha fingered the diamond, then sighed, and pinched it between forefinger and thumb to hold it aloft. Sunlight sparkled in the diamond cuts. Nox had no knowledge of gems and their quality, but here, now, he thought this diamond the most exquisite in the world—for it may well save Charquae and all its inhabitants.
The dragon flew toward them. That was certain now. Nox clasped his hands together and muttered a prayer.
The dragon approached with such speed, Nox feared she would lower her jaw only to scoop up Parsha in his human form, along with Nox, and devour them whole. She was large enough. Maybe she didn’t like diamonds. Or maybe she found them tasty.
Those wings pounded across the air, forward, back, forward, back. Grace and power and death. But as Nox shrank into himself at her approach, the she-dragon slowed and shifted just as Parsha had. In the last seconds of flight, her form became human, long black tresses flowing down her back, dark eyes lit with fire, clad in flowing robes of bloodred. Human feet, bare and slim, lightly touched the earth.
“Parsha of the Dreaming Eye,” she said in silken tones much too quiet, much too gentle for the fearsome beast she’d been moments before. “You are the Winter King’s ally?”
Parsha nodded. “Greetings, Demréal of the Golden Stream. I had not guessed you would serve the Crow.”
“I do not serve the Crow,” she said, teeth bared to remind Nox of her true form. “I serve another, more fair, though just as troubled.”
“Is this other creature master or friend?”
Demréal hesitated. “Do you know much of the Crow’s court?”
“Nay,” said Parsha.
“Then you would not know her.”
“Your bonded?” asked Parsha.
Demréal shook her head, tresses bobbing. “Nay, but perhaps a friend. She spared my life and now I am indebted to her. I do the Crow’s bidding to spare her life in return. Thus, you see it is a debt from which I cannot be dissuaded.”
Parsha frowned. Nox looked between them, wondering who the lady at court might be.
“In what way is the lady threatened?” asked Parsha.
The she-dragon hissed, sending a shudder down Nox’s spine. “She is trapped within Crow Castle, bespelled to take her own life, should I or one other make a single foolish move.”
“You and one other?” asked Parsha.
Demréal nodded. “I know not the poor fool’s name or purpose, only that someone else suffers as I. Either Charquae must fall, or she will. Perhaps the other creature’s task lies elsewhere. I know not.”
“The Crow will not set her free even after you accomplish your task,” said Parsha quietly. “Surely you see that you are now his lifelong slave.”
The fair woman-dragon bowed her head and sighed. “This I know, but I am bound to my honor.”
Nox shook his head. “It seems to me that if honor binds you to do something dishonorable, it makes moot what you attempt to begin with. In that case, there is no honor in following honor.” He froze, then flushed as he realized he’d spoken aloud. “I—I’m sorry.”
Parsha offered him a faint smile. “The round one speaks a kind of wisdom, I believe. After all, what would the fair maid say did she have her wits about her? Surely she would not thank you for staining her hands with the blood of Charquae.”
Demréal turned her dark eyes on Nox and stared long. “You may be right. Perhaps. Hm.” She turned back to Parsha. “Let me see the diamond.”
He proffered it. The she-dragon plucked it up and stared into the gem’s depths. “There is no taint upon its soul,” she murmured. “It may even be enough…” She looked up. “I shall accept this in trade for Charquae. But where I fail, the Crow will send another to triumph.”
Parsha grinned toothily. “He must find the fair city first. Indeed, that was my original proposal. Let me hide Charquae. Tell the Crow it is fallen. It will be weeks at least before he can confirm so for himself. Any other eye will be deceived, save a dragon’s. It buys you time, and me as well.”
“Do as you will, Parsha. I must return to Crow Castle to try to free my human friend.” She glanced at Nox. “Farewell, rotund sage. I shall ponder your philosophy.”
She moved a long way off, then shifted and altered until she was the long, lithe, serpentine beast once again. The ground trembled beneath her mass. Nox thought her much prettier and less fierce than he had at first. As the dragon soared into the sky on powerful, beating wings, Parsha glanced at Nox.
“I told you I could save Charquae. I did not foresee that you would contribute. Well done, my spherical companion. Let us return to the church of your god and share the good news. I understand humans enjoy every chance to make merry.”
Part III
Keep Talbethé
Chapter 18
Rain and sleet pursued the Winter Army. Burdened with Heshi prisoners, Gwyn wondered how the army survived at all. Why had the Heshi not risen to overpower them? How much longer would meager food rations stretch? How long before the overworked, undernourished horses gave out? When would the men abandon him?
These thoughts he kept to himself, though nightmares plagued his sleep as constantly as ragged coughs broke from his chest. Most of his army was sick. Those who weren’t would be soon. Even Nathaera, bundled in furs taken from Trayton, looked pale and much too thin. Gwyn feared she was sicker than she let on.
He rarely saw her. Every day the army marched until dusk, with Gwyn at the head, and Nathaera among the supply train creeping along in the rear. When the Winter Army had camped in the northern regions, Gwyn had sent the supply train ahead to arrange camp before the army arrived each day, but now, in enemy territory he dared not risk losing what few supplies he still had. When the army halted nightly now, each man helped raise his own shelter, be it a tent, a lean-to, or his own tattered blanket tied to a brittle tree branch.
At first Gwyn had hoped traveling southward would entice calmer days, if not warmer, but no such mercies descended from on high.
On the fourth day of their march from Trayton, Gwyn rose before dawn and slipped from his tent, careful not to wake Lawen huddled in his meager bedding.
Kive stood like a sentinel outside, incognizant of the nipping cold. He turned to smile at Gwyn. “Hello, Shiny.”
Gwyn’s worn boots crunched through crusty snow as he moved with the fallen fae toward the outskirts of camp.
The guards on duty nodded and said nothing, familiar with their king’s habit.
Gwyn moved down an embankment of snow toward a grove of evergreens peculiar against the frozen plains around it. Here, undercover of the trees, Gwyn knelt in prayer as the fragrance of pine needles teased his senses. Kive hovered, silent.
Thirty minutes later, Gwyn rose, stiff and sore. A cough tore from his lips, and he tightened his cloak against his chest.
“Is Shiny dying?” asked Kive, by now familiar with the signs of death throughout the camp.
“No, Kive,” gasped Gwyn as he caught his breath. “I won’t be vanquished by a cold.”
“Good. Kive doesn’t want Shiny to die.”
“Thank you, Kive.”
The Ilidreth nodded faintly, eyes drifting toward the southern skies. “The Crow is moving.”
Gwyn tensed, but there was no use trying to glean coherent details from his fallen friend. Kive’s instinct appeared good, but Gwyn could only brace against the looming threat he already knew was coming. “Kive, listen to me.”
The fae turned, red eyes deep as blood in the predawn gloom.
“You’ve done a lot for me, and I’m grateful. You’ve risked yourself again and again. I don’t want to risk you even more—but I need your help.”
“Yes, Shiny?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Kive is already coming with Shiny,” said the fae, brow drawn.
“Yes, that’s true. But I must go somewhere extreme
ly dangerous, and success will only be possible if you come too.”
Kive tilted his head, then bobbed it vigorously. “Where Shiny goes, Kive goes.”
Relief warmed Gwyn a little. “Thank you, Kive. You’re a true and brave friend.”
“No,” said Kive, shaking his head. “Just Kive.”
One day Gwyn would learn not to argue against Nathaera’s decisions. The stubborn girl simply did as she pleased.
So it was, as Gwyn rode upon Aluem ahead of the Winter Army toward Talbethé, that with him traveled Lawen, Kive, Bened Arnnor, and the dratted girl. Bened had been another addition Gwyn didn’t intend, but the man was familiar with the keep’s interior, and that would save Gwyn time he could ill afford to waste.
There were other insistent voices, two being his aides, Aleteer and Rohkye, but Gwyn must draw the line lest his entire council ride ahead of the army, leaving it leaderless.
The morning Gwyn had planned to ride out for the keep, he’d received a visit from a local farmer of some wealth. The man and his sons knew of the Winter Army and their plight. Rather than report their whereabouts to the nearby Crow Garrison, the farmer had invited Gwyn’s army to pitch tents in his fallow fields to rest, and opened one of his granaries for their use.
Gwyn humbly accepted. Rather than ride out that day, he’d ordered his army to march to the fields and set up camp. Once they were fed, he’d allowed himself to sleep through the day and night. Next morning, he and his assembled team mounted their steeds and started toward Talbethé. Gwyn prayed Afallon would be as merciful in this pursuit as he’d been in softening the farmer’s heart.
Talbethé stood on the other end of a five-day ride along the king’s highway, but Gwyn and his company agreed to travel off the beaten path and cut the time down to three days, should weather permit. Miraculously the sky held its peace, though clouds dragged across the wide expanse, low and threatening.
On the second morning, Nathaera huddled in her furs, blowing into her cupped hands in a futile effort to warm herself. “What I wouldn’t do for some mulled cider!” She coughed and patted the ground beside her. “Come, Kive.”
The Ilidreth drew toward her from the border of the copse where the company camped. “Yes, Fairy Wren?”
“Do you see anything moving out there?”
“Only crunchy birds in the sky,” said Kive, sorrowful. He plopped down. “No juicy rats at all.”
“Pity.” She patted his head. “Just let us know if you do see someone before you go bounding after him, hm?”
“Yes, Fairy Wren.”
Nathaera turned to Gwyn, smiling. “Did you sleep all right?”
He managed a nod, though his thoughts raced with what lay ahead. Even far away in Vinwen, growing up he’d heard stories of Keep Talbethé. Despite not knowing of the Order of Corvus’s magery, he’d felt a sense of dread whenever adults whispered the order’s name, like it was something unholy. Strange that he’d not felt the same dread toward the Crow King who created the order. Even now, knowing what he did of Kovien, having seen his madness, he felt none of the fear or malice he knew he ought. Why was that? Did he instead pity the man?
“Gwynter?” asked Nathaera, resting her hand against his arm. The cold of her fingers seeped through his cloak.
“Sorry,” he whispered, laying his hand over hers. “I was merely thinking of the task ahead.”
She nodded. “That’s reasonable, considering.”
Lawen stoked the fire for breakfast, which consisted of unseasoned oat gruel, but Gwyn was too famished to care. As Lawen coaxed the flames, he lifted his eyes toward Bened, who stood on the edge of the copse.
“When did you visit Keep Talbethé before, Sir Knight?” asked Lawen.
Gwyn looked at the knight, interested, and Nathaera shifted beside him to regard the man with narrowed eyes.
The knight stirred and glanced toward the company. “Only last year. The Crow King asked me to accompany Lord ren Lotelon to inspect it. I suspect the king was testing my fortitude. It was there I learned the depths of my courage.”
Gwyn lowered his eyes as he shivered. The little company journeyed now toward what even clergymen called a manifestation of Hell. He glanced at the knight. “Is it true the land around the keep is spoiled?”
Bened inclined his head. “Aye, Your Majesty. Nothing grows there but sharp thorns and poisonous weeds.”
“No doubt fed by the taint of Corvus,” murmured Lawen.
“So dark and sad,” whispered Kive, staring at the slate sky. “Wanton. Needless.” He sighed and lowered his eyes to meet Gwyn’s gaze. “Shiny, when does it all end? When does all the last sunshine vanish?”
“It doesn’t, Kive,” answered Gwyn with as much conviction as he could muster. “We fight forever. When we fall, others will take up the banner of light and carry on. It doesn’t end, Kive.”
Kive canted his head. A smile drifted across his lips. “Yes, Shiny. If you say so, yes.” As the fallen fae spoke, Kive’s eyes flashed from red to a beautiful silvery hue, then back to red again, and his inane madness burned there once more. Kive hummed a hymn commonly sung at burial rites. Gwyn hunched deeper in his cloak.
“Hush, Kive. None of that,” said Nathaera, resting a hand on the Ilidreth’s shoulder. “I’ve taught you better tunes. Sing me a sea ditty!”
Kive’s voice rose in a tuneless chant. “Crash, sang the sea, the sea, the sea. Drive me to the reef, to the reef, to the reef.”
“Halt! Enough.” Nathaera laughed. “That isn’t how it goes. I forgot you always change it into something morbid. Try singing about flowers, Kive. Remember the flower song I taught you?”
Kive bobbed his head. “Clinging roses climbed the vines of twining misery—”
“Columns three, Kive. Columns three. Not misery.” The girl tried to hide a grin. “He has the funniest mind.”
Kive went on. “And lo! Ill maiden drew to pick the fairest of the blooming weeds.”
Nathaera groaned. “It’s ‘sweet maiden drew to pick the fairest of the blooming reeds.’ Here, listen.” She sang the gentle ode:
‘Clinging roses climbed the vines of twining columns three,
And lo! Sweet maiden drew to pick the fairest of the blooming reeds,
To weave a basket fit to bear to castle yon at dawning morn,
And set before the mighty king whose heart was lately cracked and worn.
In woven basket lay the cure to mighty lordling’s deep despair:
A drop of sunlight gathered there by rain and moon and maiden fair.’
Kive chimed in. “And snow and soot and dirt and blood and aneeemals all there!”
Nathaera laughed, and Gwyn chuckled, despite the fae’s imagery.
“Your voice is lovely, my lady,” he said.
She pulled a face. “Thank ye for the compliment, Gwyn, but it is a plain voice for a maiden of my stature.” She paused. “And I don’t mean my height. Not a word on that, sir!”
He raised his hands as he vehemently shook his head. “On my honor, lady, I will never broach the subject.”
Lawen cleared his throat. “I don’t wish to interrupt what promises to be a thrilling verbal spar, but alas, our meager meal is ready.” He held aloft the sticky mess of gruel in the smoke-stained pot.
“Ooh, that looks more appetizing than yestermorn’s meal,” said Nathaera, and she leaned forward to accept Lawen’s proffered dollop in a tin cup.
Gwyn grimaced as he accepted his helping. Of all the trials this winter had brought, he liked the fare least of all. He didn’t dare study the contents of his breakfast too closely. Lawen had removed what dead weevils he could find before he boiled the oats, but there were always more. Gwyn ate the pasty gruel with rhythmic haste, chewing as little as he could. Swallowing, he choked on a cough and doubled over as his chest constricted. Fire seared his lungs as his head throbbed. When the fit passed, he looked up to find his companions watching with concern.
He offered a wan smile. “I’m all right.”
<
br /> “That cough doesn’t sound good,” said Lawen.
Gwyn lifted an eyebrow. “Neither does yours, brother. Nor does Nathaera’s cough, come to that. Indeed, I would venture to say none of us is very well, excepting the unicorn and fallen fae.”
“On the contrary,” said Bened, “I am fit as a minstrel’s strings.”
“A pauper minstrel, perhaps,” Gwyn said. “Your color, sir, is not much darker than this unsavory paste.” He glanced at the sky with a shiver. “We’ve delayed too long. Hurry with your meal. We need to keep going.”
Soon the companions broke camp and rode on. The clouds drew closer. Snow fell like feathers and stung like knives, breaking the stillness of the day. Kive rode with Nathaera, and she huddled close for what warmth he might provide. Gwyn glanced her way now and then, worried she might fall ill. Ragged coughs cut through the group, but they never halted.
Night descended as the snow thickened. An abandoned shed, sagging and forlorn, offered shelter, and Gwyn slumped against the moss-covered planks within, sighing. His chest burned in the frosty night air, and he coughed until his throat burned.
Lawen passed around a wineskin containing a few precious drops of liquid, which served to revive Gwyn a little. He sat straight and glanced at the faces of his faithful friends. “Tomorrow we will reach Talbethé as evening falls. We must wait until true night before we enter the keep. I know we’re all afraid—” He broke off as a cough rattled his frame. After a moment, he looked up, panting. “Forgive me. We’re all afraid, even doubtful of the success of our objective. But we must try, nevertheless. Thank you for coming with me. Whatever may come, no one can doubt your courage.” He looked at Nathaera. “Kive is the key to our victory. Please try to keep him focused.”
She nodded. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Like a beastie’s handler,” Lawen said, smiling. “Don’t worry so, Gwynny. We’ve got Afallon on our side.”
The Complete Duology Page 40
