by Ellyn, Court
Thorn had no time to join them. He hurried through the marble corridors of the Lady’s palace, shrugging into his velvet robe as he ran. His eyes ached from suffering dim lamplight all night, and his hand throbbed from clutching the quill. Ink stained his fingers. His history of the Human-Elaran War was proceeding nicely now, and he left his writing desk only when forced to. Now that morning had come, he needed sleep more than food, but Lady Aerdria sent an invitation requesting his presence for breakfast promptly at the eighth hour. That hour had come and gone.
“Late again, Dathiel?” someone called as he passed. He didn’t take the time to see who it was, but raised a hand in a cursory greeting and hurried on, dodging youngsters carrying breakfast trays and towels warmed in the ovens for morning baths. Up and up the stairs he ran and arrived breathless and sweaty at the top of the Lady’s tower. He spared only a moment to straighten his robe, dry his face, and curse his neglect before opening the door to the breakfast room. Morning sunlight danced across the tops of the tallest andyr trees in the Northwest and spilled over the crystal table settings. Aerdria stopped pacing and turned to face him. She wasn’t alone. None of her guests looked happy. This was not the usual breakfast crowd. Thorn winced.
On one side of the table sat Cheriam, Captain of the Dardra, the Lady’s personal guard, and Tíryus, Commander of the Regular Army. Thorn had never had occasion to dine with the Commander. As if his scowl wasn’t fierce enough, the red marks of his rank gave his cheeks and chin the appearance of having been smeared with blood.
On the other side sat Master Aegulon, who oversaw civil order across the city and claimed to know everything that was happening within Linndun’s walls. As such, he acted as Aerdria’s chief eyes and ears. Saeralín occupied the chair next to him. She reigned as Madam Keeper over the Tower of the Veil. Her casters maintained the illusions that hid the Wood’s true nature from human eyes.
Lyrienn circled the table, pouring hot tea. She cast Thorn a sharp, warning eye.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I didn’t notice when my hour candle burned out.”
Commander Tíryus ruffled at Thorn’s lack of discipline.
Lady Aerdria pressed on a smile and took her seat at the head of the table. “You’re not late, love. I know to request your presence an hour earlier than everyone else.”
He slid into the empty chair next to Madam Saeralín, shame heating his face. The feeling was too familiar to trouble him for long. He gulped the tea, scorching the back of his throat, and reached greedily for the baked peaches that his aunt knew he loved. A sweet roll and butter whipped with delicate spices found their way to his plate before he realized no one else helped themselves to the food.
“When was the last time you ate, nephew?” asked Aerdria.
“I can’t remember. I hope you don’t mind if I dive in? I’m famished…” The mood around the table failed to lift. Thorn set down the butter dish. “You didn’t summon us just for breakfast, did you, Aunt?”
“Love, you incriminate yourself. You didn’t read the entire summons.” Aerdria looked wounded.
Commander Tíryus’s sigh closely resembled a growl as he whipped a parchment from his sleeve and flicked it across the table at Thorn.
“We’ll save you the trouble,” said Saeralín. “Another of the Moon Guard has gone missing.”
“And Iryan Wingfleet,” added Aegulon.
Thorn laid aside Tíryus’s letter. “Wingfleet?” That, he never expected. For the last three hundred and sixty years Wingfleet had acted as Captain of the Dranithion Uthiel, thoroughly devoted to his vigil. When they first met, he and Thorn, he regarded the young avedra with eyes as cold and blue as glacial ice. “A faster runner you’ll never find,” Laniel had told him, “but he doesn’t laugh enough.” In fact, in all the years Thorn spent hunting ogres with the dranithion, he’d never seen Iryan Wingfleet crack a smile. Nor had he warmed to Thorn’s presence.
But what troubled Thorn most was the timing. Dranithion didn’t mingle with dardrion. A difference in temperament and opinion about what mattered most. That they should disappear at the same time didn’t bode well.
“Which of the Dardra?” he asked.
“Ruvion,” replied Captain Cheriam, shame shading her voice.
Ah, Ruvion, with that human-colored hair and cool sneer. “I wish I could say that surprised me,” Thorn muttered. What he kept to himself was that Ruvion’s absence delighted him. Thorn was not a favorite among many in the city. The hostility that emanated from Ruvion, as from so many others, might be compared to the faint stink rising from a well-maintained sewage pit. Under control, but unmistakably present.
“Was foul play involved?” he asked. “I mean, might Iryan have caught Ruvion trying to slip away and been murdered for it?”
Cheriam shook her head; her golden hair shimmered like beaten gold. “They left by different paths.” She explained that Wingfleet’s troop found his trail low among the ferns and high in the branches. He struck out alone and, unmolested, crossed the boundary of the Wood. The dranithion tracked him as far as the Leathyr River, but beyond those banks they lost all sign of him.
“And Ruvion?” Only three of the original ten guardians who had served under he-who-is-not-named remained. Aerdria and Cheriam usually kept the matter quiet. The truth leaked out only because a new face appeared among the Lady’s guard. “What’s so special about his disappearance that you would call us together?”
“The Lady needs us to decide on a trustworthy replacement,” snarled Tíryus. “From among my regiments, no doubt.”
Aegulon cleared his throat. “Soldiers from your regiments have disappeared as well, or have my sources deceived me?”
Red stripes between the commander’s eyebrows pinched together to shape an arrowhead. “Only half a dozen.”
“So far,” Aegulon purred.
Aerdria intercepted before an argument broke out. “The matter is more grave than that of replacements.”
The Elders leaned forward, curious. Ah, so here was information they had not yet heard.
“Most of you know that … after our first tragedy … when he-who-is-not-named committed his crimes against us, I moved the Dark Tomes to a new vault, whose location I hoped was known only to me. But my guards are vigilant, it seems.”
Madam Saeralín sat back with a groan.
A chill crept up Thorn’s nape. He tugged his robe snug about his throat, remembering a darkness so complete that, had it captured him, he would still be falling into it.
“Which of the tomes did he take, Lady?” asked Aegulon.
“As soon as Cheriam reported his absence, I ran to the vault. He hadn’t even bothered closing the door again. The tome I did not find was the Book of Barriers.”
A gasp from Saeralín implied she understood the full meaning behind this particular theft. The others looked bewildered. Thorn was no exception. “Barriers?” he asked.
“It contains the only copies of the Spells of Impediments,” Aerdria explained. “The original scrolls were brought from Dan Ora’as by Dorelia herself and have long since disintegrated. I copied them, with Saeralín’s help, into this volume.”
The Keeper elaborated, sounding sick, “Many of the spells are well-known by all Elarion, even you, Dathiel. The spell-word for the Veil that we all use is recorded there, and so are the incantations my keepers use every day to hide our city’s towers from sight.”
“Then why is this book among the Dark Tomes? Surely these spells are good.”
“Well, the Veil is a barrier of sorts, isn’t it,” Saeralín went on. “So is the formula for baernavë, the iron of un-magic. So it really depends on how these barriers are used, whether they’re dark or not.”
Aerdria took up the thread, words terse with a hint of impatience. “I classified the Book of Barriers among the Dark Tomes when I learned that among the Impediments there is an incantation that renders our Veil obsolete. There’s the heart of the matter.”
For a long moment, no
one spoke.
Thorn glanced at Lyrienn. She sank into the chair opposite him but avoided his eye. Deep, old pain lurked under her brittle mask, and he didn’t need to pry into her thoughts to know that she thought of her oldest brother as well. He-who-is-not-named had been dead for nine years, slain by ogres in the Gloamheath, but long-lived Elarion are slow to set aside their sorrow.
“If you two alone copied the spells,” asked Aegulon, “how would Ruvion know what the book contains?”
The Madam Keeper cleared her throat. “He could have asked some of my students. They would know enough of its contents to answer some of his curiosity. You see, I found him lingering about the towers during the last few weeks. He may have seduced one of my girls for the information. I’ll ask.”
“My concern is why,” said Tíryus. “Ruvion couldn’t possibly want to expose the city to the outside. What is the advantage in that?”
Cheriam sat back heavily. “Ruvion’s loathing for humans and everyone dwelling outside the Wood was unchanged when he left. This was once something we valued in him, because it meant passionate devotion to his responsibilities to the Lady. No, I cannot believe his motives are to threaten the Wood. If we can find him, we can ask him ourselves.”
“Have you looked into the scrying pool, Aunt?” Thorn asked.
“Of course.” Aerdria’s complexion had dulled to gray. “As soon as I found the book missing. But I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. The pool showed me a shimmering field.”
“Field, what do you mean?”
“A curtain of sorts. Like oil on water. Or oil on light, actually. It blinded me to Ruvion’s location.”
“The result of one of the spells in the tome?”
“Likely. He must’ve known I’d look for him and made quick use of it.”
“One cannot simply start using spells,” said Saeralín, then cast a snide glance in Thorn’s direction. “We are hardly avedrin.”
Thorn shrugged. “I set fire to the wrong things more than I like to admit, Madam.”
“You argue my point for me, Dathiel. ‘Make quick use’ seems unlikely. Captain, did you see Ruvion practicing innocuous spells?”
Cheriam shook her head. “But he did spend more and more time alone.”
Thorn shifted uneasily in his chair. Neither why nor where could be established. “What about the other six dardrion? Did you look for them when they vanished?”
Aerdria picked up her teacup, set it down again untasted. “I tracked Lasharia as far as the foothills of the Silver Mountains, then she disappeared from the waters. Not dead. Just gone. Removed elsewhere and the pool could not keep up. It was the same with all of them. Solandyr, Elyandir, Tréandyn.”
“Transported? In the blink of an eye?” The tea did not satisfy. Thorn needed something stronger. “That is massive magic at work, Aunt. How can they have access to spells of which we are ignorant? Ruvion, yes, but the dardrion who left before this book was taken? Are you sure there’s not another book missing?”
“Besides the Tome of Sigils?”
That felt like a slap to the face. The book stolen by he-who-is-not-named was never recovered. Consulting its pages, Lothiar had summoned the rágazeth and changed the course of many lives. Likely the tome moldered in some dank cave in the Heath now, lost forever. Unless Lothiar told his dardrion where he had hidden it.
“Lasharia disappeared years ago, Lady,” said Aegulon. “Have you looked for them since?”
Aerdria’s eyes narrowed, as if she peered into the waters even now. “As of a moon’s turn ago, Lasharia appeared to be deep inside a castle with sheer stone walls and torches for light. A well-furnished room, not Elaran things, human rather. No windows. The room had the feeling of a dungeon, but she was not a prisoner. She was even armed and polishing her sword. She looked up suddenly, and I thought perhaps she had detected me. But she rose to inspect something, a space of darkness I did not understand, then she stepped into that darkness and was gone.” Aerdria rose to pace behind her chair, silver robes flowing like water behind her. “Why do they flee our beloved halls and our sunlit trees to live in these dismal places?”
“Surely they gather together,” Tíryus suggested. “Surely the dardrion do not leave to go their own way. That is a long loneliness beyond the Wood.”
“I trusted them!” Aerdria cried, and Lyrienn surged from her chair to offer comfort. “I trusted them with my life and the safety of our city. But their loyalty was not to me. That is more than clear.” She shook off Lyrienn’s hand. “No, there is something happening that I cannot see.” Turning to Cheriam, she said, “Gather the Guard, all of them. I want them interrogated.”
“Lady—”
“All of them! Iryan’s troop, too. Someone must know something. Go.”
Cheriam gathered herself from the table and bowed from the breakfast room.
“Dathiel, assist her.”
He opened his mouth to protest. How could she, of all people, ask this of him? She knew how he felt about using his abilities in so blatant and violating a fashion. The plea storming across his face did not move her. Forbidden escape, he rose from the table without a word.
~~~~
Late the next day, Aerdria called her council to the Moon Hall. For the first time, the Lady’s ten bodyguards were not present. She occupied the dais alone. After their questioning, the dardrion had been secured in the barracks and the dranithion in an isolated tower. Commander Tíryus and a squad of his Regulars guarded the exits. Yet how well could the Regs be trusted?
At the heart of the ancient palace, the Moon Hall looked as effervescent and temporal as a cloud. Rows of chairs, carved from white thellnyth wood ranged about the Lady’s throne in a crescent. Half a hundred Elders from across the city occupied them as Captain Cheriam presented her findings. The vaulted ceiling, lit by hovering orbs the size of grapefruits, resounded with arguments over the disappearances.
Thorn sat in the back row, his head throbbing from hours of listening to one frantic mind after another. The fay light from the orbs stabbed his eyes. The silken voices of the Elders clanged like brass pots in his ears. He pressed down an unease tickling the edge of his thoughts, an unease that had nothing to do with Ruvion or Iryan or the Book of Barriers. Throughout the autumn months, this same vague sense of dread had surfaced whenever he used his avedra skills for a prolonged period of time, whether listening to birdsong at dawn or holding onto the heat of a fire until the damp wood in the campground caught for good. It set a nameless anxiety to twisting in his belly. Worse, in his nightmares, he heard a voice crying his name, his old name, the name of his childhood. Search as he might, he could not find the source.
It cried out again in the bright circle of the Moon Hall, and he pressed it down into the dark vault of his mind, telling himself he was merely tired.
“Dathiel?” Aerdria’s question rippled along the current of his thoughts, banishing the unease. “Tell me of the dranithion. What did you learn?”
He forced his eyes to open and endure the light. His voice sounded raw to his own ears. “All confirmed that Wingfleet had not behaved like himself in some weeks. He wandered off by himself more than usual. And he began hinting that he wouldn’t be captain forever.”
“Meaning?”
“He approached one of two of his troop about replacing him as captain.”
Aerdria turned that over, then asked, “But none had answers?”
Thorn shook his head.
“And of original three dardrion? Those who served under he-who-is-not-named. You confirm Cheriam’s report regarding them?”
“I detected neither spite nor thoughts of rebellion in them. Murienna, Branedyr, and Thrainor are true in their loyalty to you. They will not abandon you.”
“And the Book of Barriers?”
“Ruvion did not confide in his brethren. They knew nothing about it, though according to them Ruvion hadn’t been acting normally either. Murienna must’ve suspected an ill wind. Her thoughts raced with ‘I told him
not to listen. I told him’.”
“Not to listen? Listen to what?”
Thorn exchanged a glance with Cheriam. “It seems that one of the others, who abandoned his post years ago, has been communicating with the dardrion.” And likely with soldiers of the Regs and people throughout the city as well, but Thorn kept that to himself.
A rustle of outrage passed among the Elders.
“Communicating in person?” Aerdria demanded, breathless.
“Through magical means. Murienna said she was approached six, seven, years ago—”
“By whom?”
“By Tréandyn,” supplied Cheriam.
“He was the first to leave,” said Aerdria, troubled lavender eyes gazing at the floor as if her memories were painted there. “The first after Lothiar and Maliel.” Did she realize she had spoken his name? It must be ever in her thoughts. “What was the communication, did Murienna say?”
“She had no wish to hide it, Lady,” said Cheriam, “but confessed it freely. She described something like a window that opened in the night. Through the window she saw a cloaked and hooded figure who sounded like Tréandyn. He tried to convince her that a revolution was coming and he needed generals.”
“Revolution,” Aerdria breathed. Her eyes flicked toward Thorn. Yes, she remembered. Lothiar’s words.
“Until Ruvion left,” Cheriam went on, “Murienna thought she was the only one who’d been approached. But today’s events convinced her that Tréandyn had approached many more and convinced the others to give up their post.”
“Tréandyn was never one for elegant words,” Aerdria said. “Still, he was well-respected. They might follow him. What kind of revolution did he describe?”
“None of our ten could answer that, Lady.” Cheriam finally lowered her gaze and stepped away from the dais.
“They must be found,” said one of the Elders.
In agreement, Aerdria asked, “Is there no indication of where these traitors are gathering?”
