Nathael had grown up on the streets, barely surviving until a portly boy offered him half a loaf of bread. That same boy had brought Nathael to his home and urged his parents to take the waif in. They did, and Nathael became part of their family. He’d learned to read and write. Learned to bake. Learned to smile and laugh.
Others were less fortunate. Under the Crow banner, how many had been slaughtered, burned, maimed, imprisoned, enslaved? If Nathael could do something now to change the fates of others, he must try.
Still, plunging blindly ahead did nothing to thwart the tyrant king. He must think of some clever means to enter Crow Castle. His mind ran through every possibility as he trudged toward the front gates, heart racing. What could he do? He wore the garb of a priest, but was it enough? The church now quarreled with the Crow King. Even should a guard let him enter, he wouldn’t get farther than the vestibule.
He squeezed the diamond in his hand, wishing it would provide some answer.
Warm wind breathed through him, like sunshine and bright meadows. The world around him, the road under his feet, the guardhouse ahead, the looming wall beside him, faded into dim shades. His limbs lightened. His mind and heart eased. His stride grew longer as doubts rolled away. He could enter Crow Castle. He must simply walk on.
The liveried guards remained stationary as he crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle courtyard. The way ahead lay clear. The doors opened before him and he stepped into Crow Castle. On instinct he turned left and entered a passageway of stairs leading upward. These he took, calm and certain. His steps fell light and swift. He never tired as he ascended the long flight and came to stand before a corridor of dark stone and cold torches. At its end stood a wooden door.
Nathael strode forward, took the handle, and pulled against it. Locked. He tried again, and it groaned then gave way. Moonbeams and lightning pooled into the room through a window across the way. Near the door stood a four-post bed swathed in curtains. Lying under the coverlets, Nathael could perfectly see Arianwen’s features, stark and lovely against the faded hues of the distant chamber. She stared back, bewildered, her fear drumming the air in waves.
Nathael shut the door and lifted a hand. “Don’t shout. I come as Demréal’s friend and messenger.”
Arianwen sat up, eagerness stealing across her pale blue eyes. “Pray, what message does the dragon send, sir?”
“This.” Nathael held aloft his fist. He uncurled it, and the room fell into the space around him, dark and gloomy. Arianwen’s features grew hazy in the nightscape. Panic rolled over him, sharp and throbbing. But the diamond in his hand shone bright and clear.
The lady rose, silken nightgown whispering against the coverlets. Her feet padded across the cold floor. She neared, eyes illuminated in the diamond’s light. “Demréal sent this to me?”
“Aye,” answered Nathael, voice thick.
Arianwen looked up into his face, catching his breath with her fierce beauty. “What has happened to her?”
“She fell.” Nathael’s voice caught. “The Fiend has taken her.”
A faint cry escaped Arianwen’s lips. “My dear friend! Alas that I could not save you.”
“Take it,” said Nathael, heart hammering in his ears. “Take the diamond. I don’t know its purpose, but it was intended for you. Somehow it got me into the castle. Perhaps with it you can escape.”
She plucked it up and stared into the glowing cuts of the precious gem. “Come with me. We should go now.” Arianwen closed her hand around the diamond and gasped. “He’s coming.”
The door creaked open. Nathael backed away, wondering if he might escape through the window.
“It will be your death, child,” whispered a wistful, haunting tone. In stepped a figure dressed in robes lined with crows’ feathers. The Crow King stood fair and tall yet dark, so like a fae. How had none seen it before now? “I am deeply impressed you made it so far into my castle, but alas, you’ve cornered yourself. For what? The Lady of Ice? You think to rescue and woo fair maid?” He smiled. So gentle, so nearly kind.
Nathael stared. This was the dread king who had murdered so many children? Left his people to starve? Waged war against the world? How was it so? The same sorrow touched this man as the Fiend. Two fair and fallen creatures, tainted and cruel. Why? Where was the sense in it?
“Let him go,” said Arianwen in wintry tones. “He only came at Demréal’s behest to let me know she has been killed.”
The Crow King considered the lady. “Did he? How very brave.”
Nathael stared between them. As the king’s gaze returned to him, he steeled himself. He must not show fear. This was no king, whatever his presence, whatever his blood. Nathael owed this tyrant no deference.
“Come to me,” said the king, spreading his fingers in a beckoning fashion.
Invisible cords wrapped around Nathael, and his legs moved on their own until he stood before the tall and stately figure.
“Tell me your name.”
“Nathael.”
“I see courage in your eyes, Nathael. It lights your very soul. The same soul I will snuff out as a candle under my breath, for I also see in you an oath sworn to the Winter King.”
“If you kill me,” said Nathael, “my only regret shall be that I can die but once in service to my country.”
Fire burned in the king’s eyes. In a fierce whisper, he issued one command: “Die, peasant.”
Nathael tumbled back, growing light and unburdened. Death wasn’t dark and cold as he had imagined as a starving child on the streets of Charquae. It was bright as fire and lovely as a spring morning.
Chapter 28
“What thoughts dwell in your mind tonight, Kive?”
The fallen fae glanced down from where he crouched on the nearby merlon upon Talbethé’s wall. Gwyn hefted himself onto the next flat-top merlon and folded his legs before him, then drew his cloak tighter around his chest. The stone beneath him felt colder than the chill night air, but he welcomed the opportunity to sit. He’d had a long day overseeing the keep’s conditions.
“Shiny, a new star is in the sky. See?” Kive pointed eastward to a twinkling array of stars. “That one wasn’t there before.”
Gwyn smiled. “Was it not? Perhaps it’s a good omen that spring will come early.”
“No, Shiny.” Kive drew his knees to his chest and fingered his bare toes. “Spring will come only when it comes. Never soon. Never late.”
Gwyn chuckled. “That’s reasonable.” He studied the Ilidreth for a long, quiet moment, trying to imagine how this poor, absurd creature had existed in a former life. The prince of his people, second born of noble parents, fair and light and whimsical. Had he loved to dance or sing? Hunt or explore? Had he been prone to fits of laughter or bouts of melancholy? Shadowed now by nighttime, it was easier to ignore the horrors that marred Kive’s mind, to imagine instead pale hair and silver eyes in a fae face. Those eyes might light up under an incorrigible idea, while a gentle yet mischievous smile brushed at his lips. What mirth he might feel as he walked under a younger sun and contemplated the freedoms of youth, wise enough to appreciate them before they were lost; foolish enough to waste many on simple pleasures: the ones that mattered. For such foolery is no sin.
Gwyn turned from Kive and eyed the sky, wondering which star the fae meant. “Kive?”
“Yes, Shiny?”
“Do you ever remember? Not the dark times, not the pain. Do you ever let yourself walk among the sheaves of memory, golden and warm as an early autumn day?”
Kive turned to Gwyn, eyes wide, uncomprehending, innocent despite their sinister shade. “Kive doesn’t eat wheat, Shiny.”
“No. But I think you misunderstand on purpose. Do you remember your parents, Kive? Do you let yourself love them even when it hurts? Or have you shuttered and locked away those feelings forever?”
Kive turned away. Didn’t answer. The wind rose and howled, then died away, and left the world silent. Dark. Dreary. “Beautiful,” said Kive in a mu
ffled voice. “All the Shinies sparkled like dew in the grass at dawn. Bright. Light. Beautiful.”
Gwyn held his breath.
Kive went on, tones low and laced with agony. “Aaalll the Shinies died, Shiny. All of them. First, Shiny went away, sad, and afraid. He never came back. The Crow came in his place, and he ate them all. All the Shinies, Shiny. All of them. Only the Swan survived, and she wept beside Shiny Father as he stared. Stared, Shiny. Just stared and stared, and he will never stop staring.” Hunching, Kive buried his hands in his hair as silent sobs racked his frame.
Gwyn rested a hand on the Ilidreth’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Kive. I know it hurts. But didn’t you love the Shinies? Don’t you want to remember Swan and Shiny Father even still? It hurts because you love them; but, Kive, that pain won’t ever go away. Isn’t it better to remember them and make the pain worthwhile?”
The Ilidreth shook his head, though he remained buried in his knees, hidden.
“Tell me about the Swan, Kive,” said Gwyn softly. He’d seen her, over a year ago, at Swan Castle. She had appeared and spared his life when he lay dying. Never had he seen anyone as beautiful, before or since.
A low moan answered Gwyn’s request. “Oh, Shiny.” Kive lifted his head to stare into the abyss of his broken mind. “Swan is lovely. Such a lovely, lovely Swan. Her voice is fair as moonlight, clearer than faery song. Swan is wise and sad and full of fire that never burns. Oh, Shiny. Swan is swan. She glides and dances, merry and somber. Rich and humble. Such grace shall never again be.”
Gwyn stared, transfixed by the change wrought across Kive’s face as memory transformed him. His eyes shone silver again, deep, ageless; his hair gleamed pale now, long, and untangled, shimmering like spiders’ threads. The madness had fled, though sorrow lingered to crown him in wisdom. Almost, Gwyn perceived the ghost of such a device upon Kive’s head, delicate and sparkling with starstones like those of the Crystal Way. Against his slight frame flickered the phantom reflections of kingly raiment, light and silken.
Dumbstruck, Gwyn bowed his head to this lordly creature. He dared to look up, hardly breathing, fearful the vision had already faded. But memory still snared Kive, and Gwyn beheld the ruler of the Ilidreth: The Swan King.
A shout rose from the watch at the gates below. Someone replied with laughter.
Kive started and blinked, and the kingly figure shrank back into the hapless wretch crafted by Kovien’s hand. “Hello, Shiny.”
Gwyn offered a faint, sad smile. “I’m sorry, Kive. I’m so deeply sorry.”
Kive tilted his head. “Shiny, do you say sorry because you ate one of Kive’s rats? But Shinies don’t eat rats, Shiny.”
“I wasn’t speaking of rats, Kive. You’ve endured more than any living soul ought or can. If only I could offer a balm to soothe your hurts. To heal your mind and spirit. You must have been remarkable once.”
“Kive is Kive,” said the fallen fae in a chiding tone.
“Yes, but do you remember all that means, my friend? Might there be a way to gather all the shattered pieces of your life and put them together again? To forge them as a broken sword renewed?”
“While the Crow King stands, nay,” answered a familiar voice from the darkness beyond Kive. Gwyn peered past the fae until he could make out the silhouette of his Ilidreth friend. “Hail, Celin. I’ve looked for you long upon the battlements since your battalion arrived. Where have you been?”
“Elsewhere,” said Celin wryly.
Gwyn smiled. “That much I did surmise on my own.”
The Ilidreth stepped into the illumination of the torchlight. Garbed in fine cloth of motley hues, wearing no armor at all, with a single sword at his hip, light and delicate to wield, he looked like a prince. Nothing of fatigue showed on his brow. His blue eyes lingered on Kive, perhaps searching for a hint of his king’s former grace.
“A dragon has been murdered this night,” said Celin softly.
Gwyn started. “Parsha?”
“Nay. Demréal, a she-dragon. She fell over Crowwell, defeated by the most unholy creature born of the Weave. It is called the Fiend, though once it walked the same vales as your unicorn brother. The Crow King goes too far. He has corrupted the purest of any fae Being. Why, I cannot fathom.”
“He tainted a unicorn?” asked Gwyn, shuddering. Aluem was so good and just. To twist such beauty, to mold it into something of darkness… “How did you learn of this?”
Celin sighed. “The stars hold the fate of this life. Just as Prince Kive witnessed a new star appear, so did I. In truth, there were twin stars born this night: each for the ending of a hero slain by darkness. The Weave pays homage to the fallen.”
Gwyn nearly asked if Lawen had a star, but pain choked his words and he held his tongue. Celin eyed him but said nothing of his unspoken question. The Ilidreth lifted a finger to point toward the heavens. “Just there, a star once hung bright and true. But 100 years ago, it fell, not as a starstone compelled by the fae, but as a warped and blackened husk. Beforehand, it had represented the wisest of the unicorns: Arastet. No sign of the Being has been found since, though Aluem looked long—as did I, for Arastet was my friend. Now at last I have found him, or what has become of him. The Fiend is more wretched by far than his lord and master, for the brighter the Being the farther it may fall.”
A groan brought Gwyn’s gaze back to Kive, who huddled again, face buried in his knees, black tangles of hair cloaking him against the night. Gwyn laid a hand on the fallen fae’s shoulder. “Don’t despair, Kive. Even what is fallen may rise again.”
“Can it, Wintervale?” asked Celin. “Don’t offer false hope where there is only broken sorrow.”
“Hope, by its nature, isn’t false,” Gwyn replied. “Hope exists to dispel the gloom.”
“Hope dies in the dark.” Celin sighed. “Forgive me, Gwynter. We Ilidreth are nearly fallen, and what threads of hope you cling to have all but severed for my people. I shall have to trust to your faith.”
Gwyn smiled. “That sounds awfully like hope, my friend.”
The Ilidreth searched his face, then turned to consider the waning moonlight. His eyes glittered under the stars. “You live such fleeting years. Is that the reason you still harbor hope even in a sea of grief? Does your brother’s death matter so little? Is your grief as fleeting as your life?”
Gwyn flinched and clasped his hands together as sorrow and anger swelled up to drown him. “Nay, Celin. My pain is eternal, though my mortality will end. No bond of man or Ilidreth or unicorn could be deeper than mine with Lawen. Don’t think me unfeeling to find hope when I need it most desperately. A torrent of rage fills my breast when I think of Lawen’s end. I hate the Crow King for taking my brother from me. Perhaps that is where my hope was born. I know I shall overthrow the mad tyrant, for my grief and anger will allow nothing less. Each fuels my hope, lending strength where without it I would be nothing. Don’t mistake me, Celin: My hope is not some child’s prayer for a pleasant holiday. It’s for the force of arms to destroy my foe, for I cannot rest until I see that madman fall. I shall bring Winter to the Crow’s threshold and call his days numbered.”
Celin remained still, eyes locked on Gwyn’s. He nodded. “Gone is the child I met near the Vale of my own distant youth. On that spring day, I warned a listless boy that his vision was fading as he grew into manhood. So it is at last: Before me stands a man of strength, his vision funneled as all the rest, but what he sees he views well and justly. Perhaps it is merely the fate of Man to lose full sight, else his heart would not remain steadfast upon his purpose. Gwynter, last of the Wintervale line, First King of Springtime: I am honored to know thee and witness thy work. The Weave has chosen well.”
Toward middle night, Gwyn left the two Ilidreth upon the wall and traipsed up a flight of stairs leading into a tower far above Talbethé. Here he sought solitude on sleepless nights. Tonight, memories of Lawen’s death plagued his thoughts, brutal, vivid, unrelenting. Sorrow had given way to anger on the heels of his
conversation with Celin, and now he nursed it; let it fester and brood within him.
The Crow King had tainted a unicorn. Destroyed the Ilidreth kingdom. Enslaved and burned Simaeri citizens. Waged war against Fraelin. Murdered his brother. Gwyn clenched his jaw and stalked into the tower, vision dark with wrath.
“Oh. Hello.”
Gwyn froze to stare into the startled eyes of Nathaera. She stood at the window, bathed in moonlight, and bundled in matted furs. For a long moment, neither moved. Wasn’t it late? Shouldn’t she be asleep in her private quarters below?
“I couldn’t catch a wink of sleep. I’ve been waiting for you.” She took a breath. “Do you mind?”
He blinked as he realized he’d been glaring at her. He tried to smooth his lips into a smile. “No, I don’t mind. I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”
She nodded. “Yes, so I saw.” Her mouth played with a smile, bright and warm and full of mischief. “You really don’t mind my invasion of your tower?”
“‘Tisn’t mine.”
She only smiled wider. “I saw you speaking with Celin as I made my way up here. How is he?”
“Well, but worried. Just as everyone else.” He padded closer, and she stepped to one side of the window to invite him nearer still. He leaned against the stone sill, heartbeat quickening. “You didn’t come here to discuss Celin.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to discuss anything. I only wanted to see you. Alone.” She flushed and turned to study the keep’s outer wall below. “You’re very busy lately.”
“Nathaera.”
Her eyes darted between the wall and the wintry fields beyond the keep. Back and forth.
“Nathaera.”
She glanced his way, but her eyes retreated again. “Yes, Gwyn?”
“You said you don’t love Adesta.”
She nodded.
“Did you mean that?”
Her gaze flickered back to him for a sharp second, then retreated again. “Yes.”
“You said you love me.”
The Complete Duology Page 47
