“You’re dead,” said Arianwen. “What has this to do with you?”
His smile returned. “Everything. You think the dead are unaffected by the living? You think we don’t watch and care and hope? I love my brother. I would do all within my strength to buoy him up in this trial. I would see him take on the Crow King and prevail or die trying. For what is life without liberty?”
She stared at him. His words resonated within her, moving her heart. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Life without liberty is death.” She turned to the window, caught the ledge, and sprang up to crouch upon it. “I will leap, Lawen ren Terare. Afallon willing, I shall survive to taste this hope of liberty.”
“You will find the taste divine.”
She jumped, eyes squeezed shut, heart in her throat. Wind screamed in her ears as she clasped the diamond to her chest and sent a prayer to Afallon. Her fall slowed. She dared to open her eyes and found herself soaring upon the back of a dragon glowing as Lawen had glowed.
“Demréal!”
‘My lady, I have been waiting to guide you.’ The voice rushed through Arianwen’s mind, sharp and piercing as a bell.
Arianwen leaned forward and buried her face in the dragon’s ghostly mane. “My dear friend, how I’ve missed you.”
Chapter 34
Aluem’s hooves kicked up earth as he raced toward Crow Castle. Gwyn’s knuckles tingled, white and numb from gripping his mane, and tears streaked his cheeks from the chilly wind. Toward midday Aluem slowed to a canter, and Gwyn pried his fingers free to work the blood back into them. He wiped his eyes with the back of an icy hand, then looked south. Kive pulled back from clutching Gwyn’s waist, unaffected by the speed or length of his ride.
“Are we near Gond?” asked Gwyn.
‘We have passed it. We are closer to the city of Kellion.’
Gwyn nodded and brushed back his tangled hair. Something in the western sky gleamed, and he turned his head. “It’s Parsha!”
Kive sniffed the air. “Ooh, Lizard.”
Aluem pranced a few paces and let out a chiming bay. The dragon opened his great maw and issued a rumbling roar in reply.
Gwyn laughed. “Is that Nox upon his back? Good ol’ Nox!” He lifted his hand high and waved. The distant human figure waved back.
The wind picked up and Gwyn had to snatch Aluem’s mane to keep astride. Kive flung himself to the ground as the dragon landed with a gust of wind and tucked his wings.
“Greetings, Your Majesty!” cried Nox before he slid down the sparkling scales of his companion and touched ground. He had lost some weight this winter, though his girth remained considerable. His round face beamed as he approached Gwyn on foot.
Gwyn dismounted, crossed to his friend in a few lengthy strides, and seized his shoulders. “How are you?”
Kive crept forward, gaze darting between the dragon and his rider. He stared at Nox. “Are you…a pigeon?”
Nox blinked, then smiled. “Well, a pigeon is better than a whale, which he thought I was before. I’ll gladly take a pigeon.”
Gwyn laughed despite himself. “I apologize for my fae friend, Nox.”
Nox grinned. “No need, sire. I’m fat and there’s no disputing it. He’s only honest.” He glanced at Aluem. “What brings you so far ahead of your army, sire? They’re leagues behind you.”
“Aye, so they are. I’ve a matter to attend to in Crowwell before they arrive. It may bring things to a close without the need for further bloodshed, Afallon willing.”
“Wouldn’t that be a blessing? Heaven knows we’ve suffered enough losses.”
Gwyn nodded soberly and glanced toward Parsha. “What brings you both from Charquae?”
Nox answered. “The city is well enough defended for now, says Parsha, as the Crow King’s gaze is pinned on you. We thought to come and offer what aid a giant dragon might supply.”
“I expect that will prove to be a tremendous help. You’re most heartily welcome.”
Parsha rumbled, drawing the gaze of both men. His thunderous voice cracked through Gwyn’s mind.
‘We’ve another visitor on the winds. The spirit of Demréal wings toward us, bearing a human passenger.’
Gwyn frowned. “Demréal?” He glanced at Nox, whose face had fallen.
“She was a magnificent dragon, sire. She fell midwinter to the Crow King, so Parsha said as he felt her passing.”
Gwyn glanced the direction the dragon’s eyes were trained upon: south, toward Crowwell. “Her spirit flies toward us now?”
A south wind welled up, forcing Gwyn a step back. Something rippled in the sky, blue on blue, perhaps in the faint shape of a great winged beast. It flew past, but something plunged from its back as it swept low.
A woman landed lightly upon the ground, gowned in white, framed with raven hair that fell in soft curls nearly to her knees.
She stood quietly for a heartbeat or two. “Are you the Winter King?”
Gwyn hesitated. “I am.”
She fell to her knees, gown settling around her. “I beg of thee, great lord, grant me sanctuary.”
“You run from the Crow King.” It wasn’t really a question. The earnest desperation of her tone left little doubt. “Are you the lady Arianwen, for whom many men have ardently sought?”
She lifted her head, eyes bright like ice in the sunlight. “I am, Majesty.”
He smiled. “Be comforted, my lady, knowing that my heart is caught by another maiden as fair as yourself, though she is beautiful as a summer’s day, rather than a winter sky. I shall not hold you against your will for that or any other reason. I swear it upon my brother’s grave. I gladly grant you sanctuary from the fell king. Nox here shall take you to my army, and the lady Nathaera will keep you safe.”
She searched his face, then smiled faintly. “So, you are he who inspires such bravery as I’ve seen. I met one of your men, sire. A brave lad named Nathael.”
Gwyn’s smile grew. “Indeed? How does my friend fare?”
“I would know as well,” said Nox, stepping forward. “He—he’s my brother.”
Her smile died. “Then I am the bearer of ill news. He fell before the Crow King, but not without defying him. He never cowered in the face of death and died a hero for his king.”
Nox gave a cry as Gwyn’s chest squeezed. The Winter King bowed his head. “Another brave soul, and one I sent alone to spy. I’ve killed your brother, Nox. Forgive me.”
Nox’s pain pulsed across the Weave in aching waves. He shook his head, eyes staring at the ground. “Nay, sire. The Crow King killed him, as he would kill us all. We must stop him.”
Gwyn’s heart clenched tighter as familiar rage flooded his core. “He shall be, Nox. And he shall pay for every soul he’s claimed. Every last one.” He whirled to Parsha. “Take the lady and Nox to the Winter Army, please. Stay near them, and protect them all you can, should the Crow King make a move before they’ve reached Crowwell. I must ride on.”
Parsha nodded his magnificent head.
Gwyn sprang onto Aluem’s back. “Come, Kive.”
Kive mounted behind him. “Is Shiny angry?”
Gwyn’s eyes narrowed on the southern horizon. “Yes, Kive. Shiny is angry.”
Aluem bounded forward, covering ground at such speed Gwyn could see nothing more than blurs of color all around him. He let himself seethe. Let his emotions roil and froth within. The Crow King must pay. He must be defeated, but not before he understood his crimes, understood their weight, knew why Simaerin stood against him.
To do that, the people must rise up and oppose their king.
Towwen Stone had covered every inch of Crowwell over the past four days. He could only hope he had missed nothing as he prepared to send a message to every soul within the capital city. If he had, the entire spell would fail.
Scrawling wasn’t difficult magic. Scrawling on a large scale, however, was tantamount to a mage healer knitting someone’s shattered bones back together. It required precision and po
wer, both of which Towwen had—but Crowwell was a large city, and his message was crucial. His efforts had built a headache behind his eyes.
He sat now within the walls of Quee’avv Cathedral, tucked away inside a study apart from the acolytes in the lower hallways. Rindermarr Lorric, recently freed following a long stint in Crow Castle’s dungeons, sat in the winged chair opposite Towwen’s own plush seat.
“The tides are turning,” Rindermarr said as he stared into the flames glutting on giant logs within the ornate fireplace. “It won’t be long before the church loses its weight at court. The people are scared, and the Crow King appears to be the one with actual power—even releasing me was meant as a show of his beneficence.”
“Incredible,” murmured Towwen.
“You should hear the stories about the Winter King. He’s practically a goblin these days.”
Towwen frowned at the flames. “I’ve heard. If only Simaerin could meet a real goblin to learn the difference.”
Rindermarr paused. “Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Met a real goblin?”
Towwen met the priest’s gaze and chuckled. “No, but I’ve little doubt they exist. Why not? Unicorns do. The Ilidreth do. Perhaps the Crow King himself has become a goblin. He devours enough life.”
Rindermarr grunted. “So, when does your message…” he swiveled his wrist, “…hatch?”
“Dawn. I must walk the streets one last time tonight to be certain. If I’ve missed a single etching, the message will die upon my fingertips and all my work will be for naught.”
“Will I read it?”
Towwen nodded. “You won’t have a choice. Everyone within Crowwell, even at Crow Castle, will receive the message and comprehend its meaning, understand its intent, like it or otherwise. I only pray it works. There’s no time.”
“The army’s not here yet.”
“It will be, and soon. King Gwynter was growing more impatient with each passing hour. Whether or not the Fraeli come to our aid, he’ll march. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s running out of supplies.”
Rindermarr started to reply, but a cry—high and piercing—broke across the chamber. Deafening. All-encompassing. Otherworldly. Towwen’s blood froze. His eyes met the priest’s. “What in the name of Afallon and all his holy legions was that?”
Rindermarr shuddered. “The Fiend.”
Chapter 35
“Enough of your tantrum. You let her escape.”
Kovien’s voice hummed low. He stood at the window within Arianwen’s vacant chamber, gazing at the black unicorn standing in the sky. The Fiend tossed his head, pawed the air, and snorted.
“Don’t lose your temper with me. You were meant to guard her, not I.” Kovien’s hand rested on the windowsill, and now his fingers curled into fists as black flames raced through his frame. “Find her, Fiend. Find and bring her back. Out there she’ll be wounded. She may die. If she does, I will blame you. She will try to reach the Winter King. You mustn’t let her. He mustn’t have her.” Kovien gasped as cold grief doused his flames, killing them. “He is trying to take everything from me, Fiend. We cannot let him.” The Crow King uncurled his hand and reached out the window. The Fiend dipped his head and let Kovien stroke his mane. His fingers climbed the unicorn’s horn to rest one fingertip against the sharp tip until he drew blood.
“If she won’t come, if you cannot save her, destroy her.”
The Fiend’s eyes caught fire. He let out a cry of indignation.
“Then see that she comes, and there will be no need to end her life. Go. Search well. Return swiftly.”
The Fiend tossed his head again and danced away across the air on hooves wreathed in black flames. Against the clouds, the black unicorn shifted and broke apart, becoming crows. The birds flew in different directions to scour the world.
Kovien dropped his head. “Hurry back to me.”
He choked down a whimper. He couldn’t turn around. They were there; he could feel them. All his ghosts gazed at his back, boring holes into his soul. Accusing. Hateful.
“Stop it, stop it,” he hissed. “I’ve been chosen. I must heed the voice.”
The eyes looked on, burning into his flesh.
“STOP!” he screamed as he whirled to face the chamber.
Nothing was there.
Chapter 36
Dawn sounded with the ringing of cathedral bells. Towwen stood at the center of Crowwell, in a market square where merchants set up their wares for the coming crowds. His fingers itched to unleash his Scrawl. Perspiration pricked his brow. He waited. Waited.
At last, the bells fell still, though his ears rang with their echo.
“Sweet Afallon above,” he murmured, “let the Winter King’s message resound with truth in every heart.”
He lifted his right hand, summoned the Weave, and let his pointer finger blaze with sparks of fire from his soul, gold as daylight. The merchants stared. No one moved to stop him.
Towwen penned a single word: Liberty. The keyword ignited the spell, and all within Crowwell heard and felt and saw the Winter King’s decree. It burned within each man, woman, and child. Even sleeping infants were infused with the meaning, for so Towwen Stone had Scrawled.
‘Hear ye the words of Gwynter ren Wintervale:
‘Let he who values Freedom rise now to defend it. We the People of Simaerin cannot and shall no longer abide the tyranny of a Sovereign King whose hand does nothing but defile life and justice for his own Gain and Glory. The Crow King has murdered mere children to keep them from the use of magery, yet he himself commands an army of Mages in order to oppress this people and to scourge other lands.
‘He lies and calls himself Simaeri, but his blood is of Fraelin and of the Ilidreth—yes, the very people he slaughters and decries. What proof is there of this accusation? None, save the Crow King’s own actions and the source of his magic—the very same magic he has long outlawed in order to control any and all who may oppose his reign. His defamations against his own kingdom must speak for themselves. Look! Look well, Simaerin, and See truth, for evil cannot long be hid. Ages ago the Crow King stole the Throne of Simaerin from the Kings of Wintervale. He declared them tyrants—yet what deeds more vile can a tyrant do than what the Crow King has done? Endless war, needless death, poverty, and inequality of classes haunt his reign.
‘How much longer can Simaerin abide such abominations? How much longer will we endure his abuses?
‘I say no more! It is our duty and our right to oppose such tyranny. Rise up now, take what weapons there may be at hand, and make a stand. For our families, our homes, and our lands, fight!’
As the words faded from Towwen’s mind, he raised his hand again and stabbed the air with his Woven finger, again writing Liberty. Again, the message blazed across the Weave to infuse every inhabitant of Crowwell. Sweat poured down his face and neck. He shook with the effort, but as the message died, he Scrawled the keyword to send the message once more.
As the words rang a third time within Towwen’s frame, a smooth, soft voice like velvet broke across the air to speak over King Gwynter’s message. The voice enveloped Towwen, safe and warm as a hearth fire in midwinter, yet tinged with coiling madness:
“Ah, Gwynter. Is this your design? Would you turn our people into rebels and traitors? Would you encourage the shedding of blood upon the soil of your beloved country? Is this the justice of Wintervale? My dear people, heed not the impulsive nudging of a stray youth hungry for power. For his sake as well, stay your hand. This is not war, but a mere skirmish which shall soon end. Let those of greatest courage lift their swords to defend you against the heir of Wintervale and those poor, simple fools who follow his banner. Unless controlled, mages shall oppress this land. They cannot be left free. Which do you choose, my people? Freedom to die, or security to live? What I do, I do for the world.”
The voice died away and Towwen slumped to his knees, gasping. He’d used a great deal of magic to send his message thrice, but that
was nothing to the nauseating feeling in his stomach on the heels of the Crow King’s words. Where once the king had seemed calm and even gentle, now, despite his silken tones, his words fell upon Towwen like a poison.
He smiled to himself. In the Crow King’s fear, he had done what Gwynter’s words alone couldn’t. Under such contrasting influences—a message filled with earnestness and hope, and a message gripped with fear, illness, and mockery—who would the people more eagerly follow?
“Arrest him!”
Towwen looked up as a handful of soldiers charged him, swords drawn. Rindermarr Lorric slid to a halt beside him, yanked him to his feet, and pulled him away from the square. Towwen staggered after him, vision swimming.
“Leave me, priest. I’m too tired to run.”
“Hush, Scrawler. Brioc Ffyr would never forgive me if I let you burn at the stake.” He shoved Towwen into an alleyway and pushed him hard against the side of a leaning building. The wall gave way, and both men tumbled inside. The secret compartment was little more than a cramped and dank nook, but it hid the two as they listened to the slapping feet of soldiers rushing on down the street.
Rindermarr smiled at Towwen’s questioning face.
“Smuggling nooks, Towwen Stone. They’re all over the city. This is how we’ve been rescuing mage children.”
The door to Kovien’s private chamber burst open.
The Complete Duology Page 50
