by Ulff Lehmann
Now she had to intervene, again, and longed for the day when sentience would not vanish after power and ambition had beckoned. The human prince had understood, and had left his family and title behind to do what had to be done. One visionary was never enough, though, and he was usually dead before he could see his dream vanish in the mists of ambition and greed. Maybe this was what the elders had meant. Maybe she could teach herself how to use magic differently. Maybe…
She punctured her skin, drawing a drop of blood. Gods, how could elves and humans change when the one who had taught them, who aided them, had never truly changed at all? She was the addict who preached abstinence, the ultimate hypocrite. Yes, if she were to fight and defeat the forces her brother was gathering, she would have to abandon the old ways. Completely.
Blood, so pure and powerful, its tang hitting her nose even though there was only one drop on her hand. Her reaction came instinctively, leeching her will even before she realized what she was doing. “No!” she hissed through clenched fangs, resisting the urge to abuse only because she could. Nature battled thought, reason, and she recalled the multitude of lives she had taken to feed her magic. Until this moment Lightbringer had never counted, never considered how many souls she had sacrificed to bludgeon magic to her will. Millennia of death, rivers, no, oceans of blood, whole cities worth of people drained of every last drop of this purest, most powerful liquid in the world.
Old habits reaffirmed themselves even as she sought the faces of at least some of her victims. The drop in her hand became two, three, four, a tiny rivulet. How could she battle instinct, her nature, for so many years? Nearby patches of snow melted, so strong was the draw of her subconscious. If she relented now, it would kill her, and all her work would come undone.
No!
There was still too much to be done. Her work was never truly finished. Unless…
The elves had banished her kind with her help. She had given them magic, but it had been her power, her disregard for life that had sealed the gap, barred the door, and it had been blood that had barred it twice after that. Only blood could kill them, but its magic didn’t have to be wasted, smashed into shape by blunt determination. Wasn’t that what she had taught the human prince?
So many were dead because she was afraid to change. Then, as if struck by lightning, Lightbringer recalled a face, her last victim, lured like all the others by her call. The girl’s frightened eyes had been wide; terror amplified the old magic, the more of it the better. Even now she felt her fear of failure mounting. No! She refused to fail, refused to submit to the instincts edged into her being when the world was young and elves were like cattle.
No! She was Lightbringer, Firebringer; she had shaped this world almost as much as had the gods. She would not fail!
Gritting her fangs, she pushed, shoved, and fought the part of her that sat, like a petulant child, on the old knowledge. And the more she struggled, the more faces she remembered. First by pairs, and then dozens, and then scores, male and female, young and old, terror etched into bloodless faces, staring accusingly at her until the flames enveloped them. Magic she had wrought for the betterment of others, at the cost of others. No! Never again! The rivulet of blood, now nothing more than a trickle, then a single drop, pulsed in her hand, demanded more just as her instincts raged for more. But more was not needed, had never been needed. She had passed this knowledge on to the human prince, but like all advice had never heeded it herself.
In her hand she held more than enough power, for now. It sufficed to warm her, dress her more appropriately, and draw forth from the slush roots she could eat. The knowledge was there, had always been there, but her subconscious had refused to admit it. Even now, when her mind registered that she could work magic without copious amounts of blood, the part of her that still was steeped in forgotten-thought and hated tradition rebelled, wanting ever more. Just a hare, or an owl, it would have been so simple. No!
Now that she knew she could, she refused to allow instinct to wrest control from her. She neither knew nor cared if the ancestors approved. A patch of sun shown in the cloudy sky, its light lanced down to touch her. She made the circle with her thumbs and index fingers, and for the first time in ages said, “I hail thee, Lesganagh, father.” Whether the Lord of Sun and War heard she didn’t know; she was no priestess. What she did feel, though, was her spirit calming. Was that what she should have done from the start? She chuckled, raised her face to the glowing orb and basked in its newfound glory. He had made the world, but not without help, and she knew that neither could she fight alone the threat from beyond the Veil of Shadow.
CHAPTER 31
Seventh of Cold, 1475 K.C.
So far, the Baron Duasonh had proven to be a good host. Anne and her people were quartered in one of the barracks, and although guards accompanied them on the rare occasions they did go out, they had no reason to complain. Even Paddy and Dubhan were happy. The food was decent—there even had been some mead—and the building was heated. Despite this, Anne wondered why Duasonh had not yet spoken to her. Her recent inquiries had all yielded the same answer: the Baron was busy.
She sat on a windowsill. The glass panes were iced from without and within, offering no good view of the outer bailey. Not that it mattered; this place was much like home where, even in deepest winter, warriors trained. She heard the wardens shout at freshly levied troops, barking orders as if their own lives depended on it. Which, she guessed, they did, given that this was only a respite until the new year, when Mireynh’s forces would lay a real siege to the city.
Here near the outside, a biting chill emanated from the brickwork, the air was much colder, and she enjoyed it. Back home life, even in summer, had never been cuddly, and though she liked a hot bath as much as the next person, the heat spreading from the iron ovens on each side of the barracks was too much for her. She missed the mountains, her mountains, and worried how her father was faring, wondering still why he had broken with Herascor, and if Chirnath valley was crowded with Royal troops.
She realized she had been staring at the frosted glass; the moisture from her breath crystallized as yet another layer of ice. “Bugger that move.” “You touch it, you move it!” She glanced over her left shoulder. Dubhan and Paddy were playing Chiath. Like every other table—just how many tables did they allow the troops in the barracks anyway?—it had been shifted to the walls; beds now formed a mound in the building’s center. Warmth at night was good, but no one in House Cirrain would be caught dead sitting comfortably and warmly by a fire for longer than it took to eat a meal. They were all so used to the chill that some—she noted Natheira and Connar arm wrestling by another window, dressed only in their shirts—wore their coats only when it became very cold. “What doesn’t chill you, makes you stronger” was a saying coined by one of her ancestors. It had stuck, and every generation kept inventing new madness to prove they were hardier.
The far door banged open, and she felt the cold wind against her legs and face. In any civilized place people would have started complaining the moment the breeze hit the room, shouting, “Close the door!” Dubhan and Paddy shouted, “Leave the damn thing open!” Then Paddy added, “Guess you should roll your legs down, cousin.”
A guard stood on the threshold, waiting. Unlike her folk, this man wore a heavy woolen cloak, and tried to inch closer to the far oven without actually intruding. “Lord Baron Duasonh will see the Lady Cirrain now,” the man said, and then scowled, obviously wondering if he should close the door. He shut it, anxiously looked around as if expecting them to complain, when nothing happened, he relaxed visibly. “Lady Cirrain?” he asked, probably expecting her to be dressed according to rank.
She jumped off the sill and rolled down her trouser legs. “I heard you,” Anne said, wondering if Cumaill Duasonh expected her to wear any specific wardrobe. If so, he was bound to be disappointed. She slipped into her boots, buckled her sword belt, and threw a white traveling cloak on her shoulders. The cloak was standard in winter, a
llowing for an extra layer of stealth in snowy terrain. Every man- or woman-at-arms in House Cirrain owned one, and though they had left most unnecessary things behind, these garments were as much a part of their marching gear as weapons, shield, and armor. It kept enough of the cold at bay, but the warrior, who now had reached the oven, would probably complain about the chill within moments. Not that the Danastaerians were weak, but they were not used to the biting cold of her home.
The look the man gave her when she approached was one of confusion mixed with surprise. They left the barracks and once they reached the inner bailey, he pulled his cloak tighter and asked, “Aren’t you cold, Lady?”
She shook her head. She had felt worse.
Unlike other royal houses, Dunthiochagh’s Palace bore little resemblance to an abode of kings; she had noted that much upon arrival. It was a fortress, most likely had never been anything but a fortress. None of them had been allowed to walk the ramparts, but if the gatehouses were indicator of the thickness, the stone that had gone into building and patching the walls could have built a small town. The keep, which she had until now only seen looming across the inner curtain wall, was as much patchwork as the palisades surrounding it. Bits and pieces had been added over numerous years, but it retained much of its original shape. It looked decidedly plain, had nothing of Harail’s charm, and promised as much subtlety as a mailed fist pounding into one’s face.
Anne liked it. It reminded her of home, and the feeling grew when she entered. Of course it was chaos, organized and disciplined, but chaos nonetheless. Even the servants had scabbarded knives at their belts. She saw few children which she found only fitting. The retainers’ families were probably lodged in the added buildings, or dwelled within the city. A pair of warriors, Swords mostly, seemed to guarded every door and passageway, but there were also some Pikes. They passed several corridors, and on more than one occasion she saw Wardens inspecting their charges, making them stand at attention, and barking orders when necessary.
Soon she lost track of where they were heading. Obviously, her guide was not leading her to any reception hall. The lack of pomp reinforced her impression that Baron Duasonh had no patience for courtly affairs. “What’s your name?”
The man-at-arms glanced back at her but remained silent. His reaction was nothing new, for although they were treated with the necessary courtesy, the Baron’s warriors barely hid their resentment. She and her people were, after all, Chanastardhians, and still viewed as the enemy, even though they had deserted and were the Baron’s guests. She couldn’t begrudge them their reservations, would’ve acted the same had roles been reversed.
They stopped in front of a nondescript door, guarded as all the others, but in this corridor the sentinels were more alert. “Wait,” the warrior told her, nodded to his comrades, and walked off.
For the first few moments the sentinels’ unease was palpable. She answered their scrutiny with calm. These types were familiar. They bore scars, none too recent though, and their hardened features softened a little when she gave them a lopsided grin. “Rough day, eh?”
“Boring more like,” the taller of the two said.
“I know how that feels,” she said, leaning against the wall opposite the door.
The two shared a glance then the other said, “What do you know of guard duty?” She regarded him; his temples were touched by grey but the rest of his hair still showed a rich chestnut brown. Unlike her people, these southerners preferred to shave their beards. Beards hid scars; the guard’s shaved chin displayed his proudly. “Well?” he asked, apparently in a better mood than the one who had brought her here.
“Done my share of standing and waiting,” she said.
“Right,” the taller fellow said. His chin bare but unscarred. He scratched his thinning hair. “Like you high-ups do that sort of thing.”
Was he goading her? The past weeks had worn her pride down, but now her temper rose. It took her a moment to rein her anger in, and then she said, “How many battles have you been in?”
Grey-temples chuckled, and slapped his comrade’s shoulder. “Come on, tell her.”
Baldy frowned. “Well, how many have you fought?” he asked instead, an obvious attempt to save face. Anne had seen it all before, men who struggled to maintain their bluster. She decided to not offend him.
“Not many.” Then pride got the better of her and she added, “In the last year anyway.”
“Oh,” Baldy said, crestfallen, while the other guffawed.
She was about to add to her statement, when the door opened and the Chosen, Kildanor, poked his head out. “Ah, Lady Cirrain, come in.”
Giving the two a warrior’s salute, she entered, wondering whom else she would meet inside. Once over the threshold she paused, surprised at the smallness of the room. Somehow, given the size of the Palace, she had expected more than this little study. It wasn’t much bigger than her own chamber back home, and the shelves and massive table gave the room a more intimate feeling than the Royal study Mireynh had occupied in Harail. Her gaze wandered from the stuffed bookracks across a map of Danastaer to the impressive desk behind which sat a man in well-worn tunic. He looked at her and in his eyes she saw a fierce will not unlike her father’s. She bowed. “My Lord Baron.”
A nod, and then Cumaill Duasonh returned to the parchment spread before him.
She waited. Kildanor shifted uncomfortably, then walked past her and settled on one of the chairs at their side of the desk. Duasonh looked up briefly, regarded the Chosen, and then continued to read. Anne considered taking a seat as well, but remained standing. Her warrior’s upbringing, determination and pride dictated that she impress the Baron. A yawn escaped the Chosen’s lips, causing Duasonh to once again raise his head and scowl in irritation.
Only the crackling of fire in the hearth, and the occasional rustle of paper disturbed the silence. And still she remained standing, wondering when her host would deem it time to talk to her.
Finally, Duasonh spoke. “Who is the High Advisor?” He raised his head and regarded her. “Well?”
“I don’t know.” She had never heard the title officially, though there had been rumors of a man in whom Drammoch confided more than anyone. She said so.
“Could he be the reason your father seceded?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. Until Jesgar Garinad had revealed House Cirrain’s warband had been put under guard, none of them had known of the events back home. “I haven’t heard from home since our departure.”
“What do you know of crystals?”
She regarded the Baron, surprised. “Other than that, they are shiny rocks dug from the earth? Not…” She hesitated; remembering a story her grandda had told her when she was young.
“There is more, I take it?” Duasonh asked. Somehow the master of Dunthiochagh had managed to draw all her attention; she barely noticed Kildanor had also turned to look at her.
“Yes, no, I don’t know, Lord Baron.”
“Well, girl, spill it.”
“Nothing but a fiery tale, really.”
“Most fiery tales have a kernel of truth,” Kildanor said, “believe me.”
She regarded the Chosen, blinking. “Well, it is a tale of the dwarves, nothing but superstition, really, for no one has ever met a dwarf.”
“Not entirely true,” Duasonh said.
“Well, the northmen claim they speak to them and work with them, but they are a bunch of liars and bandits.”
“If they are such, why then has your father allied your House with them?” the Baron asked.
Her da fought with the highlanders against Herascor? “That can’t be true,” she blurted out, upon which Duasonh held out one of the parchments he had been studying.
“This is a translation of a coded message we intercepted. Go ahead, read it.”
Anne took the paper and what she read stunned her. “This can’t be true,” she stuttered. “We kept the barbarians at bay for generations. There’s so much bad blood
between us, we would never come to terms.”
“Why then encode the message?” Duasonh regarded her. “Why then put you under guard?”
She had pondered the same thing for a while now, and would never have considered the possibility of an alliance between House Cirrain and the northmen. “I don’t know.”
“What about this fiery tale?” the Chosen asked. The worry in his eyes was obvious. “What about crystals?”
“It has been a long time,” she replied. “It was said that the smiths, the warriors of stone came to aid the gods in the old days, and that the enemy they fought burned their crops.”
“Stones have crops?” Duasonh and Kildanor exclaimed.
“Aye,” she said, looking from one to the other. “But not like we know them, not wheat, oat, barley. No, the dwarves grow their food from the rocks that are their shelter, and the oldest enemy destroyed it.”
“They eat crystals?” Duasonh sounded incredulous.
“That’s what the fiery tales say. If you ask me a bunch of nonsense.” The Chosen cleared his throat and the Baron grimaced. “You’re joking, right? You can’t be serious.”
“Well, a whole lot of refugees saw one. And he—it—told them that they are killing the crystals.”
“Who is they?” she asked.
“Why did the highlanders fight you?” the Baron said.
“They raid our lands and mines whenever we…” She fell silent, wondering if the barbarians’ claims were also true.
“Whenever you what?” Duasonh insisted
“Whenever we dug too deep, milord,” Anne said, realizing her voice had risen in pitch. “They say we have no right; that we intrude on sacred lands.”
“What else do you know of the northmen?” Kildanor asked.
“Nothing more than rumors and what a few prisoners revealed. They claim to be allies of the dwarves.”
“Thank you,” Duasonh said, holding out his hand until she returned the parchment. “That’ll be all.”
