“They’ve arrived!” exclaimed Nathaera, bringing Gwyn around as she sprang through the doorway from the kitchens and raced across the slippery bailey, Kive at her side. The girl spotted Gwyn halfway, and she changed direction without the faintest trip. “There you are. I’ve been worried.”
Gwyn smiled and said nothing.
“Isn’t it odd,” said Nathaera, turning back to the wagons as they continued to roll in, “how General Cadogan has given up all his great wealth and rank and everything to join us, while Bened Arnnor and Haratin both ached so much for the same kind of position, and lost all reason and honor to pursue the very thing Cadogan forsook?”
Gwyn frowned. “Perhaps Cadogan’s forsaken nothing.”
“You think he’s tricking us?” She glanced at him. “But Celin—”
“I know. But I still have doubts.”
“Doubts are natural,” she said gently. “Just don’t plant them so deeply they remain rooted even once they’re proved false.” She peered toward Kive. “What say you, my dear Kive? Is the general there a fly or a rat?”
Kive considered Cadogan as the man barked orders at his men, positioning the wagons for inspection. “No, Fairy Wren. Not a fly or a rat. Not a snake either. He might be…a stallion. Yes. He is a stallion, Fairy Wren.”
Nathaera nodded and turned a shrug on Gwyn. “You see? Stallions aren’t suspicious. We really ought to heed Kive’s instinct more. If I’d done so before, we’d have taken no stock in Bened’s word and, well…” She didn’t finish.
Gwyn caught her icy hand and squeezed it. “You’re not to blame, my lady. We did the best we could. What more can be done than that?” He angled back to the general and heaved a sigh. “I suppose I must play a courteous host and bid the dissenters welcome. Afallon knows we need every able man we can find.”
He strode across the bailey. Cadogan turned his horse and gazed down at Gwyn, searching his face. “Hail the Winter King.” He swung from his saddle and tapped a fist over his breastplate. “I do not seek you in service, for I suspect you would struggle to accept it. Instead, I’ve pledged my sword to another king, at least until this war is decided.” His gaze flicked past Gwyn. “Is he the king of Ilid?”
Gwyn glanced at Kive and nodded. “The Swan King, by rights. Kive, come here.”
The fallen fae loped forward and halted beside Gwyn. “Yes, Shiny?”
“This is Cadogan ren Silverard, now your liegeman. What say you?”
Kive blinked at Cadogan. “Hello, Stallion.”
The general’s mouth twitched upward. “So, it’s true he’s mad.”
“Aye,” said Gwyn. “Courtesy of his brother, the Crow King.”
“Which is the elder?”
“Kovien.”
Cadogan nodded. “I’ve served one form of madness or another all my life. ‘Tis fitting I continue along that course, though in this at least my honor shall remain intact.” In a fluid motion, Cadogan stooped to one knee. “Kive, king of Ilid, prince of Swan Castle, from afar I swore fealty to you and was cut loose from the bonds of the Crow King. Now a second time I vow the same. What life remains to me is yours.”
Kive patted Cadogan’s head. “Nice Stallion.”
Cadogan shrugged and rose. Snow clung to his boots. “I will take that as acceptance.”
“That’s wise.” Gwyn shivered as wind billowed across the bailey. “Shall we take refuge from the chill, my lord? A fire blazes within.” He gestured to the main keep looming at the center of Talbethé. Cadogan nodded, and they walked together as Aleteer and Rohkye emerged from the kitchen passageway to count the new stores.
“After all we’ve been through already, can any man blame me for my distrust of the Crow King’s left hand?”
Gwyn considered Mershen. “Does anyone else feel the same?”
The war council sat along an oaken table within the keep’s central tower. Gwyn occupied the chair at the table’s head, and he gazed down its length at his officers, studying their expressions. Most wore pinched scowls as they bore holes in the polished oak before them. No one spoke. Gwyn waited, lifting his eyes to the emblems of the Crow adorned throughout the torch-lit chamber upon shields, hanging banners, and above the door lentils. His throat closed. After this meeting, he would order Rohkye to burn the heraldry.
Swallowing, he reached with his mind for the Weave; its current danced around him like wind torrents. He tapped his reservoir of power. Nearly empty. Likely it would be weeks before his magic replenished itself.
“I must agree with Mershen.”
Gwyn started and looked toward Colonel Cluv. “You protest Cadogan joining us?”
Cluv nodded, gnarled face fierce in the guttering flames of the windowless room.
“Any other opinions?”
A knock rapped against the door. Gwyn frowned as a guard stationed there opened it to peer out into the hall. Whispers followed, then the door swung wide to admit a familiar figure.
Gwyn smiled. “Towwen, welcome. Please come in! You look well, my friend.”
Towwen Stone entered, followed by another man. They both bowed. The door shut behind them and they seated themselves at the far side of the table.
Towwen Stone gestured to his companion. “Your Majesty, this is my friend Remien, a faithful and hardy fellow of considerable candor.”
“I welcome candor,” said Gwyn, nodding at the stranger, “and so I welcome you, Remien.”
“Thank you, sire,” murmured the man. “‘Tis an honor to serve the line of Wintervale.”
“We were discussing General Cadogan ren Silverard,” said Gwyn. “I’ve asked all to share their thoughts on his arrival and shifting loyalties. Do you have anything to add, Towwen? Remien?”
Both men fell still.
With a sigh, Towwen nodded. “I do, sire. Afallon taught that all men are fallen, and it is by his mercy that we’re redeemed. I spoke with Cadogan once upon our journey here, and what he said rang true and sounded remorseful.” He lifted his hand as several chairs creaked. “I won’t fault any man who mistrusts him. We’ve all heard the stories of the Silver War, where he triumphed again and again against whatever foe. Such power lends strength to fear.” He tapped the table with a finger. “I’m a mage. My talent is words, and though my preference is Scrawling, still I hear the hum of truth when it’s spoken. I heard it in his voice. I saw it in his face. His eyes were steadfast and resolved—not against our cause, but for redemption. How he feels about the Winter King, I know not, but his honor is genuine and his respect for Lawen ren Terare is real. If for no other reason, I don’t believe he will betray us. He can be trusted. That is what my heart tells me.”
Gwyn studied his friend, then nodded. “Anything to add, Master Remien?”
The man frowned and considered the table. “Only this, sire: I agree with Towwen’s observations.”
“But he has served the Crow King for twenty years!” cried Mershen. “Lest we forget, the Silver War was a bloodbath. Cadogan ren Silverard slaughtered women and children without just cause—”
“That is mere speculation,” cut in Towwen. “Before you shout out accusations, be certain of your source, General Mershen. We know only that a village was wiped out and ren Silverard reported it so. Wives’ tales have always been embellished and often fabricated. Reference only what you know.”
Gwyn spoke up. “I’m not concerned with the events of yesteryear so much as I am with today. That Cadogan has committed atrocities in the past, we know already. Who here hasn’t? I’ve killed more than one man upon the battlefield, and while I called it necessary, yet it was still the taking of a life. By Afallon’s decree, that is a sin—pardonable, even justifiable, yet still a sin. I only wish to protect my men and Simaerin from further harm. So, I will ask again: Do we accept Cadogan’s aid in our cause, or do we banish him?”
General Grene spoke for the first time. “The Crow King would not give him a chance, were your positions reversed, sire. Something to bear in mind.”
Gwyn eyed
him. “Perhaps that’s true, though it’s just as likely false. The Crow King finds all men inferior to himself, and if they can be used in any way, he’ll keep them close. If they’ve betrayed him, all the more reason to accept their apology and punish them in close proximity.”
“Yet Haratin was banished from Simaerin,” piped up Remien. “News is all over the countryside of his disgrace.”
Gwyn felt a twinge of satisfaction. “Justice shall have her way.”
“Sire?”
Gwyn looked down the table to Colonel Cluv, who held his hand up, waiting. “Yes, Cluv?”
“While we’re addressing concerns, I must speak of my own. The Ilidreth, sire. Can we trust them? Only recently we discovered that the Crow King himself is of their race. Most are fallen, savage creatures now. Even your Kive is a terrifying specter to most, though I don’t wish to offend you by saying so.” He shook his head. “I fear having too many of them at our very backs. If the Crow King commanded them, would they not heed their rightful liege?”
Gwyn’s hand clenched as fire surged through his chest. Keep your temper. He let out a long breath. Cluv had every right to express his concerns without reproach. Gwyn nodded. “I understand your fear well. Within the True Wood of Ilid, I met several of the fae kind, and found they were not all alike. One was truly savage and stalked me for my life. As for Kive, he’s harmless to anyone I call my friend. The Crow King betrayed his own, just as he betrayed us. I count Celin among my friends, just as I do each of you. He has been as wounded by his king as have we. Should he not fight against the very man who felled his kingdom? Slew his liege lord and lady? Tortured the younger prince to madness? I won’t ask Celin to stand aside so that others may wage his war. Let him ride with us, sir; and any Ilidreth who desires it, let him also come. Frankly, my lords, we cannot afford to turn them aside if we want to win.”
“But…” Cluv hesitated. “They’re heathens, sire. Surely Afallon will curse us if we fight beside them.”
“If you think that,” said Gwyn, “then you know nothing of Afallon’s teachings. Does He not love all men? Even our enemies? Even the Crow King in his darkness? We fight, not because we’re holy, but because we love holiness and liberty and justice, rather than cruelty, tyranny, and death. I’ll hear no more prejudice spew from the lips of my officers.” He rose and rested his hands upon the table. “My decision is this: We shall allow Cadogan ren Silverard to remain in our company to prove himself a friend. As to the Ilidreth, they’re welcome and must be treated with respect and dignity as becomes any honorable man.” He allowed himself a soft smile. “You’ve each served well and faithfully, and I thank you heartily. Rest now. We’ll meet again on the morrow.”
Chapter 27
Nathael sat upon the roof of Quee’avv Cathedral under a waning moon in a sullen sky. He studied the black-stone castle stretching its towers like claws to rake against the heavens. The stones of Crow Castle gleamed with water from a recent rainfall, painting the abode in a weak, sinister light. One of those claw-like turrets held the much-sought Lady Arianwen. What was her significance? Was her use spent now that Bened Arnnor had betrayed the Winter King, or did she remain motivation for his continued service to the Crow?
Nathael frowned and sighed, breath misting before him. The night chill sank into his bones. He tasted the crisp threat of snow on his tongue.
Rindermarr had been placed under arrest for defying a servant of the king. He would probably be executed for treason like so many others. Like Nathael if he were caught. He shuddered, hands fisting. The thought terrified him, but he mustn’t let it keep him from his task. He’d come to Crowwell to aid King Gwynter. Evidently, his warning of Bened Arnnor’s betrayal had arrived too late if it ever reached the Winter King. He mustn’t let such failure happen again.
Perhaps Nathael could discover what part the fair Arianwen played in the Crow King’s schemes.
Lightning broke over Crow Castle, crawling across the sky in hues of red, violet, and blue. Thunder rumbled, deafening, booming. Lightning replied, searing the heavens, and thunder rolled like drums of war over the city. Nathael froze, mesmerized, as though he watched a battle playing out above. Lightning emanated from two directions, meeting just above the castle’s highest tower. Striking. Raging.
A scream sounded from that height. High-pitched, full of pain and fury. Lightning blossomed again, but now it streaked away from the castle, toward the city, downward to strike the ground a few streets away. Nathael stared wide-eyed, hair lifting, heart galloping. Something—someone—had been attached to that thread of light: A figure, not unlike Nox’s dragon friend, with burning wings and a long, lithe body. Had he imagined it?
He leapt to his feet and clambered along the clay tiles to the ivy climbing up the side of the grand edifice. He scrambled down the vines, jumped to the lawn, and stole across the courtyard. Rindermarr had provided him with a key to a side door high priests used when they wished to avoid the fawning masses.
Slipping through the ornate carven door, he entered a narrow, cobbled street and trotted to its end to peer into a wide thoroughfare. The lightning had struck three blocks southeast. He must hurry, before others arrived at the scene. It was late enough, perhaps few had noticed.
He passed a crowded tavern and caught the last few bawdy lyrics of a sea ditty, before he hurried on, raucous laughter ringing in his wake as the wisping odor of ale taunted his nose.
Battered houses and naked trees sagged into the wending street where the figure had fallen. Windows gaped, dark and silent. Nathael saw no sign of a dragon. Perhaps he’d guessed the wrong street, or perhaps the dragon’s enemy had come already to finish its work.
No. There. Something gleamed in the dismal moonlight. Nathael inched forward, heart in his throat, brow perspiring and hands clammy at his sides. A figure lay in the street, but she was no dragon. A lady sprawled across the paving stones, black hair threading the ground, surrounding her red robes. He gasped. Blood pooled around her, thick and glistening.
He raced to her side, knelt, hesitated. Had she fallen from the sky? Should he touch her?
“M-my lady?” he stammered, nerves humming.
She moaned.
A gasp exploded from his lungs. “My lady, do not move. I am Nathael, and I mean only to aid you.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and felt her trembling frame.
She turned her head until she could see him from the corner of one dark eye. “You…would help…me?”
He nodded. “Where is your wound? I must bind it.”
“Go,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Hurry. The Fiend is coming fast.”
Fear danced across Nathael’s flesh as he peeked toward the sky. He had heard whispers of the Fiend. A dark, winged beast that prowled the air and feasted on human flesh. Some whispered it was the Crow King’s pet. He swallowed and slipped a hand around the woman’s waist. “All the more reason I must assist you. The cathedral will offer us sanctuary.”
She cried out as he lifted her.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, “but we must be swift.”
Wind rushed along the street. Silence rang in Nathael’s ears, as though every noise in the city had been snuffed out on that breeze. He shuddered and turned, keeping his arms firmly around the woman.
There, in the street, a specter of smoke and starlight pawed the ground. Nathael’s eyes widened. The Fiend possessed a lithe, deer-like body, with a black mane and an obsidian horn glinting in the dark.
“A unicorn?” whispered Nathael. “But it’s impossible.”
“Nay,” hissed the woman through her pain. “‘Tis unlikely, but possible. Purity itself has been corrupted. The Crow King taints all that he touches.”
Nathael’s heart twisted. He wheezed in a breath. “But why? Why destroy something so fair?”
“Because the Crow King fell long ago, and that which has fallen cannot abide beauty, purity, goodness. Yet it must subsist on it, swallow it up, or the fell thing shall fade into naught.” The woman clos
ed her eyes and drew a rattling breath. “Leave me, human. Depart from this place, else you too shall be devoured.”
She wasn’t human? Could a dragon take on the shape of a woman? It didn’t matter. Nathael tightened his grip. “I won’t leave you.”
“The Fiend has challenged me,” she said. “I must fight until the end, which ending is welcome now.” She turned her black eyes on Nathael and snared his gaze. “Would you do me a service in my last hour, Nathael?” She caught his hand and pried it from her waist to press something cold into his palm. “Take this. Bring it to Lady Arianwen. Tell her Demréal has paid her debt and flown home.”
“No,” said Nathael. “Bring it to her yourself. Come with me now.”
“Go.”
Nathael released her and backed away, clutching whatever gift she’d given him. His eyes wandered back to the Fiend who waited, patient, unconcerned with him. Its eyes carried the same pearlescent shades as Aluem’s, but there was nothing of warmth or light in their depths. This Being, this Unbeing, had become tainted. A tragic wretch, deformed even as it remained beautiful in its imagery.
“GO!” screamed Demréal, and Nathael turned away to race toward Crow Castle. Toward the service he must provide this magnificent creature in her final hour. Long minutes passed before the crack of thunder sounded again in the sky. Nathael didn’t look up to witness the battle. He paused to catch his breath and opened his palm. And stared. A diamond, glittering and bright in the flashing storm light, lay in his hand.
A scream cut across the air, long, harrowing, beautiful.
Nathael caught the edge of a building and heaved a sob, then he pushed off and darted toward Crow Castle. She wouldn’t die in vain. Whatever her purpose in bringing the diamond to Lady Arianwen, he would see it done.
He couldn’t climb the outer wall. He couldn’t walk through the front gates and up the stairs to the lady’s room. He would never make it.
But still he must try.
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