by Angus Wells
Ellyn walked those ramparts with her mother.
This high, a breeze disturbed the summer’s heat, ruffling her long red hair and cooling eyes and cheeks grown hot with weeping. She had anticipated her father’s death—Ryadne had scryed it in a recent dream—but to anticipate was not the same as knowing, and Ellyn had clung to the forlorn hope that somehow her mother was wrong, that her father would ride back victorious from his war.
Then the messenger had come—the first sad remnant of a broken army, followed by others in no better shape—and all with stories of the war and how badly it had gone. Now there could no longer be any doubt or hope, only miserable knowledge and its denial. Ellyn had wept then, and cursed the gods for their infidelity, and her father for deserting her. And Ryadne had taken her aside, away from solicitous courtiers and servants, and—brutally, in Ellyn’s view—advised her daughter that fate’s wheel turned as it would, and ground men down, and that Ellyn must be brave and put aside her grief in face of the worse things that would surely come against Chaldor. Ellyn had damned her mother for an uncaring bitch (feeling guilty even as she screamed the imprecations) and demanded to know what could be worse than Andur’s death, the defeat of Chaldor’s army.
Ryadne had told her: that Talan would come across the Durrakym with his Vachyn sorcerer and all his army and besiege Chorym. That he would likely waste the land, and demand Ryadne’s hand in marriage. That he might lay legitimate claim to all the Bright Kingdom.
“And shall you accept?” Ellyn had snarled, angry in her grief, not sure with whom and therefore snapping like a hurt dog. “Shall you take him to your bed and be queen of Chaldor and Danant, both?”
“No,” Ryadne had answered. “I shall not. So he will surround us and have his sorcerer send magicks against us, and eventually Chorym’s walls shall fall and we shall be overcome.”
Her mother’s voice had been so grim, her face so dour, that Ellyn had caught her breath and asked, “What shall you do?”
“Die before I accept Talan.”
Ellyn’s anger had gone then, like a fog scoured away by a fierce wind, and she had stared aghast at her mother. “What?”
“Better the land survives than I,” Ryadne said. “Better that Chorym stands and the Bright Kingdom have hope still.”
“What hope?” Ellyn asked. “My father is dead and you speak of dying. What hope then?”
“You,” Ryadne answered, and had taken Ellyn’s hands, and looked long and hard into her eyes. “You are Chaldor’s hope.”
“I?” Ellyn could scarce believe the intensity of her mother’s gaze, or what Ryadne said. She had felt more afraid then, as if all the gods joined to blight her life. She wanted to run away, to find her bed and huddle beneath the sheets until the world was changed back to what she knew and trusted. Yet she knew she could not do that—only listen to her mother, whose words she did not want to hear.
“Am I dead,” Ryadne had told her, “then Talan will seek you for his bride. He’ll lay much ceremony on it—speak of healing wounds, of unity. Tell Chaldor that he seeks only peace and your welfare …”
“I’ll not!” Ellyn had snatched her hands away, horrified. “I’ll not, and he couldn’t …” A horrid consideration. “Could he?”
“Yes.” Ryadne had nodded solemnly. “You’re fifteen years now. In one more you can be legally wed.”
“And do I refuse?” Ellyn had drawn herself up, pain and anger lending her a semblance of regal maturity. “What can he do then?”
She had felt her dignity evaporate as Ryadne said, “Tell the world that he takes you for his ward, to protect you. Then have his god-cursed Vachyn sorcerer bespell you so that you agree to wed him.”
“I’ll die first,” Ellyn declared.
And Ryadne answered, “You cannot; you must not. Chaldor needs you.”
“Chaldor needs you!” Ellyn wailed, fists balled in protestation of unfair fate. She crossed the chamber to escape her mother’s gaze and stared from a window at the rose gardens below. She felt afraid and miserable, and very alone.
“Listen!” From behind her she had heard her mother speak again. Ryadne’s voice was soft and firm at the same time. “This is not easy for me. I love you …”
“Then flee with me!” Ellyn had turned from the window. “We’ll go to the Highlanders, to Grandfather’s clan. He’ll protect us.” She crossed the room to stand before her wan-faced mother.
“I cannot,” Ryadne sighed. “I am queen now, and Chorym shall need a figurehead when the Danant army comes. I cannot desert my people.”
“But you’d have me quit them!” Ellyn snapped.
“I’d not have us both fall to Talan,” Ryadne said grimly. “Chaldor must have some hope, and you are it. None must know you’ve gone until you are far enough away that you’re safe. And to that end, I must stay.”
“No!”
“We do what we must,” Ryadne said, “and ask the gods that they grant us understanding of the hard choices they offer us.”
“You offer me no choice at all,” Ellyn said as Ryadne took her hands again and drew her close.
“You must not fall into Talan’s clutches,” Ryadne explained. “You must go away from Chorym before he comes. Your father and I agreed this before …” Her voice faltered and tears sparkled in her eyes. “Before he was slain.”
“Which you’ve scryed?” Ellyn faced her mother. “Your magic’s told you this?”
“Somewhat of it.” Ryadne nodded. “But my magic is only a little thing—I can sometimes dream and see the future …”
“And did you dream my father’s death?” Ellyn barked.
“Yes.” Ryadne’s voice was hollow.
“And still let him go?” Ellyn’s voice was filled with accusation. “Let him go to his death?”
“I had no other choice; nor he. We could—can!—only react to what Talan brings against us, and fight him as best we can. Do you survive, there’s a chance.”
Ellyn had ceased her pacing at that. Had stopped and stared at her mother, who sat studying her face as if she sought answers there, or confirmations.
“How?”
“By escaping,” Ryadne had said. “By living. You must go away—survive—and find your own power.”
Ellyn had stared at her mother then, more confused than ever. “My own power? What power?”
“It will come,” Ryadne promised her. “You’ve the blood, and I’ve scryed somewhat of your future. So …”
“What future?” Ellyn had screamed. “I’ve no power! I’ve nothing, save a mother who’d send me away and a father who’s slain.”
She had fallen to her knees then, weeping copiously, and Ryadne had gone to her and put comforting arms around her and said, “I cannot tell you what it is, or shall be, for you must find that out for yourself. Do I tell you, then I … disrupt what might be. But you must go from Chorym, and to that end there are …”
“Plans laid.” Ellyn sobbed against her mother’s breast. “I know that, but what plans? Shall I go out and hide in hedgerows? Shall I wander like some vagabond? What do you say?”
“You shall be protected,” Ryadne told her. “Andur and I chose a guardian for you. Gailard …”
“That Devyn hire-sword?” Ellyn lurched back from her mother’s embrace. “A Highlander mercenary?”
“He’s a good man,” Ryadne said, “who loved your father, and would give his life for Chaldor.”
“But he lived!” Ellyn wailed. “I’ve heard the stories. He was in the vanguard and lived! He should have died with my father. But he lived. He led the retreat!”
“Because Andur pledged him to it,” Ryadne said. “Because your father trusted none other so much as Gailard, and set a geas on him—that he come here and protect you.”
“Him?” Ellyn had snuffled, outraged. “A stinking, hairy Highlander?”
Almost, Ryadne seemed to laugh. “I think he’s no more respect for you than you’ve for him, but there it is. There’s no other way, believe me.”
/>
Now Ellyn walked the ramparts with her mother and watched the bedraggled remnants of Chaldor’s army straggle home, broken and defeated. She wondered if she might recognize Gailard amongst them. She remembered that he was a handsome man—in an ugly kind of way, with his long hair and beard, his Highlander ways—and that he seemed always ill at ease amongst her parent’s courtiers, as if he knew he belonged elsewhere, outside, where the wind blew free. She remembered that he had danced with her, embarrassed, but nonetheless light on his feet. She remembered that once he had let her hold his sword, which was very heavy, and snatched her hand away when she tried to stroke the cutting edge. Beyond that, she remembered only a smell of leather and sweat and the oil the soldiers wiped on their blades.
“Is he there?”
“Not yet.” Ryadne drew her mourning veil tighter about her hair and set her hands on the sun-warmed stone of the wall, staring down at the streets below, the opened gates beyond, the sorry, limping men who came home to … yet another defeat? Some heroic resistance that could lead only to a worse fate?
“He does not exactly hurry to my defense.”
Ryadne sighed and turned from her observation to face her daughter. They stood between two watchtowers, alone and unheard, save for the crows that vaunted the ramparts like dark omens borne on the wind. “Perhaps,” the queen said as calmly as she could, “he stayed. Perhaps he’s hurt.”
“He should be dead beside my father.”
“And what good would that do?”
“I do not understand this.” Ellyn fisted her hands and drove them hard against her hips. “My father is dead and you speak of dying. You tell me I’ve some great destiny ahead, but will not tell me what. You tell me I must run away in care of some clansman hire-sword, but where shall he take me? Where shall we go?”
“Oh, child.” Ryadne hugged her daughter close, stroking the lustrous red hair, finding brief comfort in that touch. “If I could tell you that, I should—but I do not know. I cannot. Perhaps it’s better than none know, for fear Talan’s Vachyn sorcerer winkle it out.”
She took her daughter’s face in her hands, cradling the teared cheeks. “Things move in this world of ours, beyond my comprehension, and all I know is that you must go away with Gailard. Trust him! And in time you’ll find that power you own and yourself know what to do. The gods forgive me, but I can tell you no better than that.”
“Poor advice, Mother.” Ellyn drew back, breaking Ryadne’s heart. “You consign me to some unknown fate in care of a Devyn hire-sword. What if he rapes me? Or sells me off to some Naban trader? What if he …”
Ryadne raised a hand to silence her daughter. “He’d not: he’s a man of honor, Gailard.”
“That he forsakes his clan to hire out his blade?”
“You know that story. And you know he swore allegiance to Andur, to Chaldor.”
“And left my father to die!”
“Do we let him tell that tale?” Ryadne asked. The gods knew, but it was hard to own the scrying talent; to see somewhat of the future, but all misty, like segments of some dream dispersed with the sun’s rising. Knowing she must put together the bits and the pieces to create some whole, and even then not sure it was the right thing, save there was the conviction, the horrid certainty that lurks behind on waking like a remembered smell.
“Have I any other choice?”
Ryadne steeled herself before she said, “Yes. You can die, or become Talan’s ward—marry him. Or you can—” Oh, the gods grant she said it aright, that Ellyn understand and accept—“do as I ask; as your father would have it.”
Ellyn said, “You leave me little choice.”
“No,” Ryadne allowed, “save to deny your blood and forsake Chaldor.”
That hurt: her and Ellyn, both. She saw the pain in her daughter’s eyes and felt it in her own heart. She thought then that wearing armor as she was, wearing a sword and a battle-knife, it should be easier to take out those blades and slay her daughter and herself. That should be the easier course, but she could not take it, for love of Andur and her daughter and Chaldor, all mingled in a desperate lack of options. Ellyn must live—else all her dreams were false, and all Andur had sought and hoped for lost. And Chaldor doomed.
“So I must,” Ellyn said slowly, hurt in her eyes and voice, “do as you ask.”
Ryadne said, “Yes.” And wondered how many times a heart could break.
CHAPTER THREE
I saw the city readied for siege. Soldiers watched from the walls, and catapults were loaded in place. Horsemen in the royal livery supervised the flood of farmers and shepherds and cattleherds who came in seeking refuge, and I knew that word had arrived of our defeat and that Ryadne prepared for a long war. I wondered if her Dur magic had scryed the outcome.
I vaguely recognized the youthful captain who hailed me as if I were some great commander, and thought that I did not like him much. He was, did my memory serve me right, of noble Chaldorean stock, without much liking for outlanders such as I. He wore polished armor and all his trappings were clean and bright; his horse was groomed and fresh and well fed. My own mount was bedraggled and weary as I, who smelled of sweat and longed for nothing more than a bath and bed after the ride from the coast. I thought I recalled disparaging comments about Highlanders, but he was polite enough now, halting his mount to advise me that Ryadne waited on my arrival. I grunted acceptance and followed him into the city.
I was very weary, and at first paid no attention to the looks I got, the sidelong glances and pointing fingers, but as we climbed the avenue toward the palace I heard snippets of the talk.
I head my name spoken, and the titles “mercenary” and “Highlander” and “coward” (which no man says to my face), and snatches that suggested I was held responsible for the loss of Antium, and even for the defeat and Andur’s death. I looked about and saw faces turn quickly from my gaze. I turned to the captain and asked him what rumors spread.
He averted his eyes, his smooth cheeks reddening, and I must press him to tell me. “Folk say you fled the battle, leaving Andur behind. They say you fled Antium, leaving the town to Talan.”
I spat and asked him, “Do you believe that?”
He hesitated a moment before he shook his head.
“And what does the queen believe?”
He frowned. “It is not my place to interpret the queen’s thoughts.”
I murmured. “No,” and looked to where the towers of the palace shone in the afternoon sun. Andur’s banner fluttered there, alongside the great flag of Chaldor, and I saw the bright sparks of light the sun struck from spearheads and polished helms, glittering shields. I paused, turning to look back down the avenue to where remnants of our army trudged in. Those helms were dented and dark, and all the spearheads were brown with old blood. I shrugged and went to my fate.
I felt out of place in the palace. I was dirty and bandaged and bloodstained; I could smell myself and it was not a pleasant odor. All around me were folk in pristine silks and linens. Their footgear was not dusty from the road, nor their hair in need of washing. Their perfumes scented the air and they glanced at me as if I were some upstart contaminating their privileged domain. I supposed it indication of urgency that my escort did not suggest I first bathe and find myself clean uniform prior to my audience with Ryadne, but instead brought me directly to those sanctums where first I’d met Andur and shouted at the guards to announce my arrival. The guards stared at me curiously, but the doors were swung ceremoniously open and I stepped through into a chamber all filled with sunlight, so that I was awhile blinded and could not clearly make out the shapes before me. I do not like to be blinded. Too often I’ve seen shields polished for that purpose and then lofted to dazzle opponents.
I heard a voice I knew say, “Welcome, Gailard—sorry welcome that it be,” and dropped awkwardly to my knee. As protocol demanded, I had left my sword and other weapons outside.
“My queen.”
“Am I, truly?”
I ducked
my head.
“My blood is Dur,” she said, “and yours Devyn.” She left a question dangling in the hot air that smelled of roses and women.
I squinted into the glare and said, “Yet we both serve Chaldor, no?”
Ryadne laughed as if my answer pleased her and said, “Get up, man.”
I stood and she beckoned me, ignoring the curious glances of her attendants as she led me to a second chamber where blinds were drawn and I could see her clear. She was lovely as I remembered. Her hair was that shade the oak leaves attain in autumn, brown and copper mingled, and it fell in a great spill of curls about an oval face that seemed all bright eyes and wide mouth. If she wore cosmetics I could not discern them, nor much jewelry other than a silver necklace and two rings. Her gown was blue and flowed over the contours of her body as does a river over the shoreline. She crossed to a table on which stood a decanter of Naban work and two crystal goblets that she filled with pale red wine. She handed one to me.
“You look thirsty.”
I was; I drank deep.
“Was it bad?’
I nodded. “You’ve heard?”
“Yes.” In the chamber’s dimmed light I saw pain course her eyes, like fish glimpsed fleeting beneath a stream’s surface. “Word came. And I scryed it …”
I had for a while forgotten her Dur magic, which must have shown on my face, for she said forlornly, “I cannot help my talent, Gailard. I was born with it.”
I looked at her and asked bluntly, “Did you know, how could you let him go?”
She met my accusing gaze and answered, “I could not stop him. I can foresee some little part of the future, but not the whole. Only the … possibilities. And events moved too swift. Talan’s Vachyn hireling owns far stronger magic than mine, and planned all this better than we imagined.” She turned away, crossing the chamber to a window that transformed her to a shape of light and shadow, her hair a glowing corona. “My husband had no choice but to defend the kingdom, even to his death. He was caught in the Vachyn’s web—the gods know, we are all caught in those strands—and could do naught else.”
