by Ellyn, Court
The voice tried to push him down, but he refused to kneel. “What are you riddling about?”
“Heed me, child. Dwinovia is just as Lady Dorelia named it, the Land of the Dark Ones. This land is not your home. You are but a visitor here. You are the stranger. You are the exiled. It is you who stole from them.”
Lothiar shook his head vehemently. “You lie! We were given this land when we came over the sea. We had nothing. And now we have little because they took it.”
The opal eyes flashed with green and yellow fire, and the creature seemed to swell, filling the room with rage like a hurricane. Before Lothiar was aware, he was pressed to the floor. His hands pushed against the rug, even while the voice forced him down. “You would correct me?” boomed a great thunder. “You speak of things you know nothing about. I was there! You call me a liar, when I speak with the Mother’s authority? Has there ever been such arrogance in the heart of one of her Firstborn?”
The weight of the voice would snap his spine, crush his skull. Where were the ogres he had stationed outside his door? Why didn’t they come?
“You, little one, may pride yourself on your one thousand and fifty-two years, but Rashén Varél has indwelled this universe since its inception. I sat at Ana-Forah’s feet when you weren’t so much as a glimmer in her thought. And the Mouth of the Mother speaks no lies!”
The echo of the thunder subsided. When the voice let him rise, Lothiar found the creature leaning close. A grin curled the youthful mouth. “But let us not argue over matters of perspective. Rather, let us discuss your options.”
Lothiar scrambled backward. This creature must think itself clever, tossing Lothiar’s own words in his face.
“Ana-Forah is displeased, yes. But she is merciful. She offers you this choice: turn from your present course, dismiss your armies, release the avedrin, and return to Linndun—”
“Slink back, you mean? Aerdria will have my head.”
“—or continue into the storm wind and receive the emptiness, isolation, and torment of the Abyss.”
“For doing what’s right?” How was this just or merciful? “The Mother wants her devoted children to cower, to hide, to die out?”
“No,” Rashén insisted. “But this is not the way. She has laid out her own plan for your return. Would you interrupt that? Listen to me. I urge you, Lothiar, to turn. I have seen it, the Emptiness lying at the end of your path. In that way lies only pain. Disband these abominations of avë you call an army. Wait for the Gatekeepers who are coming to lead you home. It will happen soon. Help us regain the balance. Please.”
The plea mesmerized him. Lothiar sat back on his knees, staring into the silver face inside the hood, considering. What did ‘soon’ mean to a goddess? Another thousand years? Did she mean to wait until all but a handful of her Elarion remained? And no doubt she expected them to hide in their prison of trees until it suited her. Lothiar could not return to Linndun unless he bowed to the death sentence Aerdria had handed him for summoning the rágazeth. He doubted she was ready to hand him a pardon. Yes, he might dismiss the ogres he had labored to raise, but what then? Was he to cower in a cold, dank cave until the Goddess saw fit to work her miracle?
No, we have waited long enough, he thought. It’s the Mother’s fault if she chooses to work too slowly to save us. We must save ourselves.
Rashén’s narrow shoulders slumped, and pity creased his brow. The sight of it set Lothiar’s teeth to grinding. Was he to keep nothing from this creature, even his own thoughts? He lunged for the table where he had dropped his sword belt. “Take your pity and get out! I want nothing to do with you or the Mother’s offer.” He spun and the naked blade sang a sweet note, but Rashén Varél only twitched his shoulders and a great wind buffeted Lothiar off his feet. The sword was ripped from his fingers, though he knew not how.
The opal light diminished in the youth’s eyes, revealing black narrow pupils and strange silver irises. A serpent’s eyes.
“Avarith,” Lothiar whispered. The tales were true? All those chants he had sung as a child, the stories he had read in those dusty books. They claimed dragons taught the First Children how to speak, how to sing. Dragons taught them of the Mother-Father’s love for them, her care and guidance of them. Lothiar lowered his eyes of his own free will, but deference came too late, and he knew it.
“You have made your choice, Azhdyr,” said the dragon, “and grieved will be Ana-Forah to hear it. Thus sentence is passed through the Mouth, and you, Lothiar the Exiled are the Damned. There remains no reprieve for you.”
Odd, but it felt as if a warm cloak lifted from his shoulders and behind him opened a great chasm from which burst an icy wind and a dry, hissing laughter that he had heard too often before. He whirled to look, but there was only the bureau, the bed, the window, all lit by the dragon’s silver glow. “Take your reprieve and your sentence to the Abyss with you!” he shouted.
The silver light became as blinding as the sun. A vast snout and horned head lashed out with jaws gaping. Lothiar threw his arms over his face, prepared for the snap and tear of the fangs. But the blow never fell. When he dared look again, the light and the youth were gone. He stood alone in the dark. Forath’s red light bled through the window.
~~~~
28
I did not see this coming. The wine wagon jolted along the rutted track, jarring Kelyn’s teeth, rattling his nerves. After a week-long journey, his bones were bruised, his muscles stiff and aching. What was that compared to the anguish of shame? How did I not see this coming? The boy commander grows old and slow.
Lord Rhogan had taken a turn at the reins. Beside him on the bench, Kelyn tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He thought back on everything Thorn had told him in the library on that night he had returned to Ilswythe. Creatures from legend waging war on humankind, and here it was, not a fear but a reality, yet it made no sense. How did Valryk fit in? If elves meant to avenge themselves by waging a second war, why work with a human? What had they promised the Black Falcon in exchange for the lives of his people? And that was the critical piece that, for him, distorted the whole picture. While there was no love lost between him and Valryk, Kelyn had trusted him to do what was best for Aralorr. Time and again, he had demonstrated profound care for his subjects. He was arrogant and envious, but not vicious. I never thought him a monster. I read him wrong. That’s where I failed. But looking back he could not see how he might have read Valryk differently.
It doesn’t matter, Kelyn scolded himself. What mattered was what he meant to do in response. He could summon every man from every village across the Northwest, but if his soldiers couldn’t see their enemy, they would die with their swords sheathed. What happened at Longmead proved that clearly enough. How to plan a war against an enemy he didn’t understand? Against a host he couldn’t see?
Over his shoulder he heard his daughter chatting with young Aisley and Lord Rorin. Feathered hats and fur cloaks seemed to be the topic of the hour. Listening to that desperate need for petty cares, Kelyn’s heart ached at the realization that his armies wouldn’t be gathering for victory, but merely to make a stand of defiance before the hammer fell. What else could they do? Did ogres understand surrender? Would elves permit it? Was living under an enemy’s conditions better than dying on his own terms? Maybe he ought to ask the White Falcon that question.
The fairy sleep lay heavily upon Arryk. Every time the horses stopped to rest, Carah tended to his wound. The rest of the highborns sulked and bickered and sobbed in turns. Even the wagon complained; after the mad dash toward Longmead, one of the rear wheels started squealing. During the first couple of days on the northbound road the sound had driven every one of them half out of their minds. Tempers had been short. But after a while the squeak and grind became a part of the landscape, as easily ignored as another tree, another stone. At least the fires stopped. A few days had passed since they saw the last plume of smoke rising between the hills, and neither Thorn nor Rhian reported signs of ogres o
r elves or soldiers.
One of the avedrin stayed with the wagon at all times while the other scouted ahead. Their vigilance provided tangible comfort, and the oppressive fear enveloping the wagon gradually waned. Drenéleth was close now. They should arrive sometime after dark. Spirits had lifted since dawn. Laughter rose occasionally from the back of the wagon. Kelyn tried to feel their happiness but failed to muster it. Too much uncertainty.
When they arrived at the lodge, would they find themselves safe or among enemies? Though Kelyn had declared his trust in Eliad, Rhogan’s fears and Lady Drona’s statement had struck a chord. Had Eliad known what his brother was planning for his dinner guests? Suspicion made Kelyn sick to his stomach.
As did his certainty that Rhoslyn was dead. After such an angry parting. Yesterday, as the wagon trundled higher into the foothills, he saw Thorn gazing west toward Ilswythe with a dark, murderous scowl on his face. Kelyn hadn’t felt brave enough to ask what he knew. He let himself believe the worst while he told his daughter to hope for the best.
How could I have accused her…? He groaned aloud.
“You all right?” Rhogan asked.
Kelyn nodded. How to tell a stranger that he hadn’t trusted the wife who never wronged him? Was that not proof of love more than words? Fool. Damn fool. Kelyn bailed off the bench. When thoughts weighed him down, he needed to move. He was like his father that way.
“Should we stop?” Thorn called. He was their escort for the day. Only when the wagon topped a hill did Kelyn catch a glimpse of Rhian scouting in the van. An enviable position, he thought.
He waved the wagon on and for a while walked beside the drays until his anger drove him ahead. Yes, it felt good to attack the road with his heels and breathe the sharp evergreen-scented air.
The lowland lanes surrounded by fields and farms had turned into stony tracks cutting through thick pinewood forests. Steep hills and deep gullies crossed by narrow bridges slowed the wagon’s progress, but over the bristling treetops, the snow-patched summit of Mount Drenéleth beckoned them onward.
Dusk settled early beneath the blue-gray canopy. The orange glow from the setting sun slipped slowly up the spire of the mountain like a lady lifting a scarlet veil. The face beneath was flat and gray and freckled with stars. Kelyn stopped racing the drays; he had won a hundred times over, and the last thing he needed was a fall in the dark. Climbing back into the wagon, he heard the others arguing. “Surely we’re almost there,” said Rorin.
“Are we on the right road?” asked Drona. Her nephew huffed, shook his head. Daxon had brooded since his aunt wielded his dead father against him and compelled him to stay. They provided no end of arguments. Now this petty pile of shit.
As if Kelyn didn’t know his own lands. He cast his brother a scowl. Thorn laughed, understanding him full well. “Does Eliad keep a full cellar?”
“Not as full as I’ll need it,” Kelyn said. In truth, he hadn’t been drunk in over twenty years. He suspected he might make an exception.
Thorn’s chuckle stopped abruptly. His fist darted into the air. Rhogan leaned back against the traces and the wagon grinded to a halt. Fear quieted the chatter. Kelyn’s ears pricked at the sound of horse hooves. Rhian rode out of the twilight and everyone relaxed.
“People ahead,” he announced. “Half a dozen hiding in the trees, both sides of the road.”
“Highwaymen frequent these woods,” Kelyn said. “It’s one of Eliad’s jobs to keep them cleared out.”
“Did they see you?” Thorn asked his apprentice.
Rhian replied with a harrumph meant to scold his mentor for insulting him.
“Look,” Kelyn said, “if the two of you can beat back a dozen ogres, I’m not worried about a few highwaymen. We’ll proceed with caution. Lieutenant, you have the sword?”
Rance nodded and, crouching behind the bench, leaned on the blade.
Rorin chuckled, though there was a maniacal quality to it. “Imagine their faces when the thunder starts.”
The wagon rolled ahead, an avedra riding to each side. As soon as they topped the hill that overlooked the last dark valley, they saw Drenéleth Lodge sitting high on a shoulder of the mountain. A light blazed in every window; the lawn was strewn with torches. Kelyn had never seen the place so lit up, not even when Eliad hosted large hunting parties. “He knows,” he said.
“How?” Rhogan asked.
“I told him,” said Thorn. “Yesterday I sent Saffron ahead to warn Eliad to expect us.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Kelyn.
Thorn decided other details were more important. “I waited to notify him because if he’s in league with Valryk, any message he sent to Bramoran won’t have arrived yet. We’ll have time to investigate the situation and flee if we have to. Proud of me, War Commander?”
Kelyn wished it weren’t so dark, so Thorn could see him roll his eyes.
Where the valley bottomed out, two silhouettes emerged from the trees and took up position amid the road. Six-foot-long pikes crossed.
Kelyn motioned for Rhogan to stop the wagon. When the clopping of hooves and the squealing of the wheel grew quiet, he called into the dark, “Eliad? Damn it, is that you?”
The pikes did not waver, but from the trees to the left a voice answered, “M’ lord?” A third silhouette entered the road and jogged toward the wagon.
A ball of blue light ignited over Thorn’s hand and sped toward the silhouette. Eliad threw a hand over his face and skidded to a halt. His sword was still sheathed, the fear on his face plain and reassuring.
“And those?” A jut of Thorn’s chin indicated the men with the pikes.
“My highlanders. We didn’t know who to expect first, soldiers or you.”
“If we had been soldiers?” Thorn glared down from the back of that black animal, eyes hard and unfriendly in the severe blue light, but Eliad grinned.
“We’d have loosed our arrows and asked them to tea after.”
Thorn let the light dim to a comfortable lamp-like glow. Kelyn climbed down from the wagon. Eliad took his hand even though he was busy peering at curious faces. “Goddess’ mercy, is this all? Tell me more are coming.”
“No, my friend.” Kelyn’s heart eased. He should no more have doubted Eliad than Rhoslyn.
“Where’s Carah?”
She hopped over the side of the wagon and hugged him.
“Kethlyn isn’t with you? Is he…?”
She smiled and shook her head. “He wasn’t there either. Why didn’t you come?”
He made no pretense to hide his disgust. “Go to that party? Were any of my other siblings invited, hmm? I sent letters asking them, all eleven of them. Only half bothered replying, we get along so well, and none of them received the king’s invitation. If they didn’t have to go, why should I? Now it seems … well, glad I didn’t bother. But come to the house. We have beds, baths, and food enough for all.”
The wagon resumed its last gasping stretch of the journey. Eliad left orders with his men to warn him immediately if anyone else approached the house. Kelyn soon saw that the torches strewn across the lawn weren’t only meant to act as a guide to fleeing highborns; they also provided light for teams of men working well into the night. Some dug ditches, others hauled massive logs on sledges, while more still sharpened them into fat stakes and raised them in a palisade. Two spindly watchtowers flanked what would soon be a gate.
“And not an order issued,” Kelyn muttered, proud of his former squire. He and Eliad stepped aside to let the drays pull the wagon inside the barricade. “But you didn’t start constructing this yesterday when Thorn told you we were coming. How did you—”
“No, as soon as Her Grace arrived—”
“Her Grace? Rhoslyn, here—?”
Carah overheard, stopped fussing in the wagon, and ran to him. “Mum’s alive?”
“She rode in five days ago with Etivva and her handmaid.”
Kelyn found his brother dismounting in the yard nearby. “Did you kn
ow?” he demanded. Was his brother so cruel? “You could have spared me, spared us, so much fear and grief.”
Thorn raised an eyebrow. “I wanted to make sure Eliad could be trusted before I told you.”
“Me? What? Why?”
“You might’ve been holding the duchess for ransom. Knowing that wouldn’t have done my brother any good.” Everything for our benefit, Rhoslyn had said. She knew Thorn better than his own twin did. Misjudgment seemed to be the fare Kelyn had eaten most lately.
“Ransom?” Eliad exclaimed. “Now listen here—”
Thorn clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You were in my sights but no longer.”
“We can’t trust anyone, Eliad,” Kelyn added. “Not after what happened.”
“It was … as bad as I imagine?”
“Worse. We’ll talk of it later. Take me to Rhoslyn.”
She must have heard the commotion in the yard. The front door opened, light spilled onto the veranda, and she was running toward him. “Kelyn! Carah!” She flung her arms around them both, her face already wet with tears.
People poured from the house to surround the wagon and unload the weary and the wounded, but Kelyn didn’t care about any of that. How good Rhoslyn felt in his arms, like holding a second chance. “All those things I said, forget them, I didn’t mean any of it.”
Her laughter tumbled across his ear. “You idiot, I already had.”
She was right. How small those suspicions seemed now. Part of a petty life now past. “H-how is it you’re here?” he stammered, words rolling over themselves. “Why? I mean, I know why, but how?”
“It was Jaedren’s doing. Oh, Kelyn…” One moment she was laughing, the next sobbing. “He warned us. He saw them coming. He helped the garrison hold them off long enough for us to get some of the household out. We made it to Bransdon using the old tunnels. But on our way here, those monsters caught up to us and they took him. Jaedren just disappeared. I tried to ride back for him, but Etivva didn’t let me. I could hear him screaming.” She sagged against him, sniffling and shaking.
