He let the message fade, too weary to send another. Drawing a steadying breath, he turned to face the soldier, to face the sword and feel its sting. But the soldier merely stood there, regarding Towwen with wonder, just a lad, perhaps even younger than himself.
The soldier lowered his sword slowly. “Do you think we could win?”
Towwen smiled faintly. “Aye. But only if we try.”
Chapter 44
Kovien stood within his tower room and stared out upon the army at the gates of his city. So few, yet so vast. Three united banners rose above the allied forces of men and Ilidreth. How had it come to this?
He hunched into himself, frightened, weakened, alone. Below, in the streets of Crowwell, the ranks of his army formed to resist the enemy. Even besieged, Crowwell would stand. But what was the point of it? His power was gone; the voice had retreated. Kovien had already lost.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no. It came so very near. I can’t have lost so close to the end. What was the point of it?”
She was gone. Gone with the starstone. Kovien had protected his mother from death by tying her soul to her crown, to the same blue gem Gwyn had stolen and used to defeat the Crown of the Blighted. She had sacrificed her life to thwart her own son.
Kovien’s hands pounded the windowsill, then curled into fists.
“Why? It cannot end this way. If I lose now, all I have done, all I was asked to destroy, will have been for naught.” A single tear rolled down his cheek as despair enveloped him, cradling him, keeping him safe from guilt. But it could not spare him rage; it churned within his soul, deep and abiding, the strongest force of his life. Rage. Anger. Hatred.
These filthy humans would not take his victory. Not even their beloved Winter King could rob him of his purpose. He would kill them, kill them all. Rip from Gwynter all that he loved—Kovien should have done so from the start. Had he broken Gwynter as he had Kive, this would not have come to pass.
“You will not win, Winter King!” screamed Kovien out the window.
With a tolling note, a message rolled across the Weave: a call to arms. A plea for the peasantry and human scum of Crowwell to stand and fight. To take the gates. To resist their king. The figure in the message was a youthful man, and in his eyes burned the same hateful resolve, the same pure intent, as in Gwynter’s.
The streets below swarmed with people, so many of them, rushing to the gates. Rushing to die. Rushing to freedom. A dragon appeared to circle across the sky overhead, threatening. Powerful.
Kovien clutched his face and screamed, screamed, screamed against such defiance. Such human hope. Foolish. Useless. Why did it inspire its fellows? What was the point?
Roth’s quiet, soothing voice cut through his cries. “Behold, my son: the seeds of hope have traveled far indeed.”
Kovien lowered his hands to find his father standing beside him at the window. The ghost’s finger pointed out, but not toward the northern gates. It pointed to the southeast. Kovien’s eyes followed that finger until he found the channel that poured into the Vaymeer Sea. The faint scent of brine nipped his nose. Out there, spread across the vast water, banners billowing in a warm wind, Kovien beheld his downfall.
The Fraeli armada had come. They surrounded him. Crowwell would fall.
Kovien sank to his knees with a sob, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
All his efforts, all his sacrifices, all for naught.
Hatred seized him again, murdering despair. He would not abide it. He could not remain in such a cruel and unforgiving world. He would not let them lock him up to keep company forever with his ghosts.
He had one escape. One chance of it.
Kovien leapt up and caught the edges of the window, smiled a last hopeless smile, and threw himself from the tower.
He could not remain here for one more hateful moment. If he couldn’t have the world, the world would not keep him.
His last thought as he closed his eyes was of Gwynter. Pure, headstrong, reckless, noble, foolhardy boy. Let the Winter King have the throne. Let him rule Simaerin. Let him feel the weight and grief and suffering of kings as Kovien did.
Let him ask the same question Kovien always had: What was the point?
Chapter 45
Gwyn swallowed bile as he rode Aluem along the bloodstained thoroughfares of Crowwell. Behind him, streaming through the shattered gates, marched the Winter Army. Their losses had been few; indeed, Gwyn had lost more men to sickness and winter’s hand than to the battlefield. His heart throbbed to think of it.
The arrival of the Fraeli fleet had turned the tide, but that alone would not have been enough. Even now his eyes searched the crowds of bedraggled people, eager to find Towwen Stone among them. Afraid he wouldn’t. Gwyn had heard the man’s message—everyone had. Many of the Crow King’s soldiers had thrown down their weapons as Towwen’s words faded, and the citizens of Crowwell had overrun those who resisted.
The brave rebels stood now on either side of the street, broken bottles, mallets, the odd rusted sword, and other worn tools still gripped in their hands. Many grinned broadly, while others wore gaunt or bewildered expressions, eyes interrogating Gwyn.
He wished he knew the answer.
Amid the siege, energized by the Fraeli armada’s arrival, Gwyn’s men had heaved battering rams against the gates and shot arrows at the city guards with fervor. Just then, a scream cut across the wind—mad and forlorn. The siege had faltered as eyes turned toward the looming towers of Crow Castle. The scream came again. And again.
As Gwyn watched, a faraway figure had pitched itself from the highest tower window. He could guess who it was, but Kive confirmed it. Kive, who had loped beside Aluem as Gwyn charged across the field, barking orders. With a cry of his own, the fae had fallen to the earth, trembling.
“Oh, Master. Master. Master, you’re gone at last. What shall become of Kive?”
Despite the surrounding chaos, Gwyn had flung himself from Aluem and pulled Kive to his feet. “Stand, my friend, and know that you are free.”
Kive had regarded him with shock and confusion, brows drawn, eyes dark with emotion. Tears tracked his face. “Kive must fall with his master.”
“No. No, you mustn’t. You must stand, Kive. Stand now. Fight. You are free. The Crow is dead.”
Kive’s eyes had widened, and a tremor racked his body. With a cry of terror, he’d wrenched free of Gwyn’s grip and thrown himself into the fray, disappearing amidst the clatter and whistling of arrows. Gwyn had called after him, but the fallen fae never returned.
Now, with victory in hand, Gwyn tried not to think of Kive and his fate. Had he too leapt from some high place to end his life? Did the Crow King claim his brother in death?
“Sire!”
Gwyn perked up and smiled as he spotted Towwen Stone racing down the street. “Towwen!” They met as Aluem pranced to a halt.
“Sire, the city is yours. Simaerin is yours. We’ve won.” Towwen’s light eyes shone bright as sunbeams.
Gwyn answered back with a grim nod. “So we did. What news of the Crow King?”
“His death is confirmed. He fell from the tower into his courtyard. Why he fell, none can say. Was he pushed or did he jump?”
“He jumped,” said Gwyn. “See that he’s buried, but not with the other fallen. Hide his grave, so that none may claim his remains. Evil like his must not come to light again.”
Towwen nodded and took off to obey his liege lord’s command. Gwyn continued along the thoroughfare, flanked now by Cadogan, Celin, and Prince Fayett. Soon he reached the open gates of the castle proper. In an even line, Ilidreth arrows pointed at their hearts, stood the Crow King’s unarmed officers.
Gwyn considered them. “Your king is dead, and your city is conquered. Which of you shall offer formal surrender?”
The officers exchanged dark looks. One strode forward. “I, Sir Drinald, Knight of the Crow, shall do it.”
Gwyn nodded. “Return his sword to him.”
An Ilid
reth marksmen came forward and offered a sheathed broadsword to the knight who took it with a flash of pain in his eyes. He unsheathed the blade and started toward Gwyn, who held out his hand.
“Not to me. Your king would surrender directly. In his absence, an officer shall accept your surrender in my stead.” He gestured to Cadogan. “If you please.”
Cadogan inclined his head and rode forward, dismounted, and stood before the knight.
Several of the Crow King’s officers muttered, and one spat at the ground. “Traitor.”
Gwyn’s gaze fell on the man who spoke; a general he knew from his time in Kovien’s service. “General Broven, hold your tongue. You are now considered traitors, not General Cadogan. Your king abandoned you for death. I now rule in Simaerin.”
Broven tried to hold Gwyn’s gaze, but after a moment he lowered his head, saying nothing.
Sir Drinald held the broadsword toward Cadogan, hilt first. “The Crow Army surrenders to the might of our enemy. Let this act sever the threads of war. We have lost.”
Each word hit the Crow officers like physical blows. Their shoulders hunched lower and lower, eyes turned downward.
Cadogan took the sword. “In the names of the Winter King and the Swan King alike, I accept your surrender. Let the promise of peace be forged in the fires of life.” He turned and strode to Gwyn’s side, lifted the sword, and smiled. “Your Majesty. The day is won.”
That night, Bened Arnnor was tried and executed for treason by members of Gwynter ren Wintervale’s council and several church officials. Alongside Bened, every other Crow officer who refused to swear fealty to the new king of Simaerin was sentenced as well. Those who would swear an oath of loyalty were pardoned of any war crimes and knighted under the Unicorn banner.
Arianwen didn’t watch anymore of the proceedings. It was enough to know her dread specters were both gone now. She wandered from camp where the Winter King held court. He seemed unwilling to take the throne of Crow Castle for himself. She couldn’t blame him. The castle reeked of dark magic. Even now, so far removed from it, she felt as though its towers surveyed her every movement.
Picking her way around the rocks and trees under the velvet night sky, she traveled toward the dense westward woods. Walking, walking. Free, but still troubled.
Could she trust anyone ever again? Dared she believe the Winter King was different from his predecessor? Such thoughts plagued her steps as the woods grew before her vision, thick and ancient and safe.
A sound broke the stillness ahead. She froze in her tracks.
Was it a deer?
Something moved toward her, black against the night. “Who’s there?”
A faint snort sounded. Plaintive. Pain-filled.
She gasped as she recognized the Fiend coming nearer. “Stay back!”
The black unicorn halted in his tracks.
“His name was Arastet once.”
She whirled around with a cry and found the Ilidreth named Celin’Laen standing in the gloom, motley clothes blending with the night.
A faint smile touched his lips. “He was a magnificent unicorn, wise and kind, until the Crow King stole his purity and thrust him into darkness beyond mortal reckoning. Yet he is not so fearsome now as he was, do you not think, Lady Arianwen?”
Heart pounding, she looked between the Fiend and the Ilidreth, wishing she could run away. Surrounded. Caught.
“Be at peace, fair one,” said Celin’Laen. “I am not fallen. I would not harm you.” He moved toward her, and she flinched back, but he passed her by and lifted his hand toward the unicorn. He whispered, his words foreign. Smooth as water. Sweet as a spring wind through an apple orchard.
Those words moved something within Arianwen, and she inched toward the fae despite her fear. “What are you saying?”
Celin’Laen looked toward her, blue eyes vibrant in the faint moonlight. “I am reminding him of what he was. Calling him back to himself. But he does not desire my attention. He is here for you.”
She recoiled, heart leaping into her throat. “He wishes to imprison me.”
“Nay, Arianwen. He seeks forgiveness. He seeks light. He seeks what once he was beneath a full sun.”
She trembled, yet staring at the black unicorn, she could see his change. No longer was he a raging creature filled with black fire, but a wretched thing, hanging his head low, eyes filled with remorse deeper than tears. With a pang, tears filled her eyes. Before she knew what she did, she wrapped her arms around the unicorn’s neck, kissing it, weeping. “I forgive you, poor thing. I forgive you.”
Her heart warmed as the unicorn nuzzled her face, baying a sound like a sob.
Celin’Laen’s soft voice stirred the wind. “You have both suffered beyond what others understand. As kindred you stand ‘neath the hallowed moon and heal each other’s hearts. Come with me, Arianwen and Arastet. Come away to Shaeswéath and find peace at long last.”
Arianwen lifted her head and turned to the Ilidreth. “Swan Castle fell long ago.”
“Then help me to restore it.” Celin’Laen extended his hand. “Come to the northern forests and peer upon the Vales. They will heal now. The paths of old shall reveal their secrets, and the swans shall return to the waters. Come away with me and find solace in ancient memory renewed.”
“What of the Winter King?” she asked. “Doesn’t he need you?”
“I have bidden him farewell for a season, but the season is fleeting as mortal days. The Winter King is an ally to my people. The Unicorn banner, the Crane banner, and the Swan banner fly free in the same sky. No king alive shall tear this alliance asunder.” He smiled and Arianwen heard music in his silence.
Compelled, she accepted his hovering hand. “I will come. I desire to see this memory of ancient days.”
“Ancient days are come again,” said Celin’Laen. “Ride upon Arastet, and you shall keep my pace.”
She climbed onto the black unicorn’s back and rode after the Ilidreth as he bounded into the woods. She never looked back on the scar that was Crow Castle. It lay behind her forever.
Londolin shone upon the Vaymeer Sea one year following the Crow War. It was here, within the Winter Castle, that Gwynter ren Wintervale was crowned the Winter King of Simaerin, and it was here that he wed Queen Nathaera on midsummer’s day before the banners of three united countries and the dignitaries from each. Prince Fayett, Lord Adesta Gilhan, and High Lord Celin’Laen stood among them.
As Gwyn strode through the grand courtyard of the castle, his gaze swept over his many guests, heart full. Full, but for two holes from which he would never heal. Lawen was absent, as he would always be. Where Mother stood in the throng, Gwyn’s half-brother ought to stand too, but only memory remained.
Kive was also missing.
Poor, mad, frightened Kive had never been found, though Gwyn had ordered a search. Celin’Laen agreed to seek him among the trees and Vales, but discovered nothing of the fallen fae. Gwyn used magery, asked his mage allies to do the same, but the Ilidreth was well hidden or long dead. Finally, Gwyn gave up the search, but he prayed to Afallon that Kive still lived. That he was mending somehow and might someday return to Simaerin and seek Gwyn out. For now, that was all Gwyn could do.
Brioc Ffyr bowed his head near the refreshment table, catching Gwyn’s attention, before returning to a conversation with General Cadogan, Towwen Brym, and Towwen Stone. They were among the leaders of the Order of Cygnus, Gwyn’s mage council, obliged by oath to maintain peace and represent the voice of the people. By Gwyn’s decree, his power as king was not absolute, but subject to the will of those chosen by Simaerin’s citizens. He hoped this would prevent such tyrants as the Crow King from taking power ever again.
A hand gently caught Gwyn’s arm, and he turned to smile down at his beautiful wife. Nathaera beamed back at him, glorious in a gown of white, her flaxen hair woven with flowers.
“Hello, Gwynny,” she murmured.
“Natty my love,” he replied.
Together they l
aughed, and he ran a hand along her cheek.
“You seemed awfully glum just now for your wedding day, sir,” she said, holding his eyes.
His smile faded a little. “I was thinking of Kive.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “Poor dear Kive. I wish he were here. Funny, isn’t it? He was so horrible at first. Eating rats and people, so terrifying and pathetic, yet life is hollow without him now. Do you think he could’ve healed from what was done to him? Do you think he’s found some kind of peace?”
“I hope so.” Gwyn’s gaze turned skyward as Parsha the dragon streaked across the sky to land on the city wall far across Londolin proper. Gwyn let a fond smile brush his lips. No doubt Sir Nox rode upon the mighty beast’s back now that the wedding ceremony had finished. Nox and his dragon were inseparable as they went from city to city and village to village, helping to rebuild what was broken, teaching the people how to defend themselves. Simaeri were becoming rather accustomed to dragons and unicorns these days. Gwyn often rode across Simaerin, letting the people know him, coming to know the people.
The war had ended, but battles continued. Not upon a field with swords and shields, but within the halls of the Winter Castle where men brandished ideas.
Some wished, as he did, to end slavery and make all men free. Others resisted the idea with vehemence. But Gwyn wouldn’t give up; not until liberty had been obtained for all, or he died in the effort, and others took up the same cause—for he knew there would always be honest men who fought for right.
“It’s time for our dance,” Nathaera whispered.
Smiling, Gwyn took her hand, led her to the center of the throng, and as the music played, he swept her off her feet. Nathaera laughed, a sweet singsong sound that filled the Winter King’s soul with light.
The Complete Duology Page 55
