Morik stomped and turned. “What is this we?”
“You wouldn’t want me to win the war by myself, would you?” He grinned. “I mean, after all, I defeated the mountain without you.”
Morik snorted and turned back into the cave. “Didn’t.”
Solineus followed. “I didn’t see you up there, did I miss you hiding somewhere?”
The Kingdomer grunted. “You would’ve died… The priestess and coin are your trouble, not mine. I’ve got a wife and mountain to return to.”
“Sure you do. Of course.”
Their shadows danced on the walls, ceiling, and floor, and their footfalls fell in time with the echo of dripping water. After a hundred strides: “Forge fires take you.”
Solineus grinned but hid his face in shadows. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
6
The Weight of Golden Feathers
See to sea? Lie in sky? Steal to feel? Flap to clap?
Emulsion of lies and truths into bitter recipe,
the slop, the screed, the whistling reed,
the done for no reason deed.
Struggling to crawl to flutter to fall.
Egg to worm, worm to butterfly, butterfly to dust,
dust to make me sneeze.
No matter the tale you begin to tell,
the end comes back to me.
— Tomes of the Touched
The streets of Molikîn bustled with a swarm of Helmveliners, their path through the streets so crowded that Solineus’ warrior escorts strode with shields formed in a wedge to shove well-wishers and celebrants from their path. A far cry from the subdued tranquility of his first arrival.
Men and women waved long silver poles with streaming banners, fashioned from glistening golden feathers of a multitude of hues, and every man, woman, and child wore bright silks and linens. His arrival was a celebration, and the joyous faces cut a deep emotional swath; he’d been through so much pain and hardship, seen so many folks die that awkward tears swelled his eyes. He didn’t let a one fall, and he smiled with twitching lips.
Morik elbowed him and spoked in Silone. “Wave, clap… walking like the dead will make them think you don’t appreciate your success.”
“What about crossbows?”
“A risk you need to take, the people’s love is more important.”
Solineus laughed, half-hearted at first, but the action pulled at the locks sealing his emotions until giving way, and he raised his arms, clapping, pumping his fists. Celebrating felt good, maybe he should try it more often. The power of joy. He whooped and hollered at a group of youths chanting Hîmr’s name. “Hîmr!”
Morik shook his head, but after another twenty strides joined him in his shouts and excitement. Men pounded their chests, women threw him flowers, and children rode on the shoulders of their parents just to catch a glimpse of a passing hero: Him. Solineus, Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath. Unreal, yet so real it put air beneath his strides.
The main road was packed all the way through the first gate, but only his party passed this threshold, as guards with halberds and golden helms kept the people from following.
Solineus lowered his arms, exhaled, laughed, and when he spoke his throat threw a worn-out rasp to his voice. “Godsdamn, let’s go back and do that again.”
Morik chuckled and slapped his back. “That there is a once in a lifetime, my friend, saved for new kings and victorious generals. The people will celebrate for three days.”
Solineus pulled a canteen from his belt and drank. “Those pennants… Griffon feathers?”
“Aye. Collected, not taken. The griffon is a holy animal in Helmveline and most of the Kingdoms, unhunted unless they take Kingdomer lives.”
Solineus grinned. “So they can eat as many Tek as they like?”
He chortled. “They eat goats, most oft, but stick to the wild herds higher up except in winter, but we keep our herds close during these coldest times.”
Solineus hoped he’d see a griffon someday, but from the sound of it, preferred the meeting from afar. “Did I earn a visit to the First Throne today?”
Morik shook his head and guffawed. “Third Throne. Maybe if we hadn’t lost half the coin we’d be striding for the second.”
They followed the same route to the throne-pyramid and climbed the stairs to find the King and Queen much as they did weeks before, except today they were gowned in pristine white that sparkled as if sprinkled with diamond. A single golden feather hung from each of their necks, its vein long as a forearm. They strode forward, kneeled, and bowed. The stares of the royal couple were as cold as the previous meeting.
The Queen spoke: “The Ironwing congratulates your success, but it is sad he must question your failure.”
Solineus cleared his throat. “While the Seblêsu made rubs of Hîmr’s Coin, she…” He’d practiced this a hundred times in his head, but spoken aloud his words felt weak, and he stumbled over them. Desperate, he latched onto one of Morik’s sayings. “By the Five Earls, I don’t know! She unscrewed part of the blessed thing and left with it, escaping through the Eight Ways of Arumbor’s tunnels. It looked as if she rode west, four horses.”
“You have these rubs?”
Morik said, “I do.”
The queen strode to stand a foot before their faces, and the smell of roses wafted into Solineus’ nose. “The coin and rubs, if you will.”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the coin, placing it in her right hand, the rubs already in her left. She took the articles to the Ironwing. He examined the coin before placing it in his lap, then twisted a wire and opened a scroll. He stared for two wicks before saying a word. “What should we make of a priestess stealing a piece of such an artifact?” The king’s eyes raised, boring into Morik.
“After sharing words with the locals, we know she was from the Kingdom of Barkush.”
The king flexed his fingers, agitated. “To what end? All know it was a man in service to Helmveline who claimed the coin, this theft would dishonor the crown. I thought to say she sought to hide something on the back of the coin, but these rubs prove otherwise.”
Solineus said, “If I may… could there have been some message inside the coin?”
The Ironwing grinned. “Indeed. But what kind of message?”
Solineus shrugged, then shook his head as well, emphasizing his ignorance. “I know not enough of your lore to guess.”
“She risked her life to steal this in front of your open eyes. And the attack?”
Morik’s knees shifted and a scowl crossed his face. “Gold masks.” Solineus knew this now to mean swords-for-hire. “Not a one who survived could name who hired them, but their goal was Hîmr’s Coin.”
The Ironwing’s fingers balled into a fist. “A distraction? Or a second interested party, do you think?”
Morik said, “My gut says she didn’t hire them.”
The Queen sat and stretched her legs, head cocked to stare at the coin. “It’s worth a fortune even melted into an ingot; some king might wish to possess it even if not rightfully theirs… Does there need be a message?”
Solineus said, “No. But the way she stared at the coin on touching it… hindsight to say I should’ve suspected something, but, do the other coins twist apart?”
The Ironwing shook his head. “The coins in our possession are this same size and one piece.”
“Yet somehow she knew Hîmr’s coin came apart. It must have a value unto itself, whether it’s a message… a map? Directions? Instructions?” He hated the word he was about to utter. “Prophecy?”
Royal brows furrowed, and the king’s fist unbound, his fingers drumming the arm of this throne. “I’ve never heard of a map hidden in such a way, but we can’t discount it. No prophecies surrounded the coins… Pîlôstar the Skywind left them as marks of his passing, and as challenges for the holy of the Eight Kingdoms to seek. Nothing more, so far as I know.”
Solineus grumbled, this conversation wasn’t getting them any nearer to tracking
the priestess down. “The symbols on the coin, what do they mean?”
“This is not so easy to say. Hammer, lightning, a single-toothed skull, goat’s horn, griffon beak, Rising Sword… they are ancient symbols dating to the God Wars.” He leaned, an elbow on the arm of the throne. “What do you know of our history?”
“Only so much as Morik has shared.”
“These symbols aren’t our written language, they were fashioned in a time after Hîmr and other gods were murdered, and our people fell into ruin and slavery. These symbols have meaning, but to hide the message from dangerous eyes, the meaning shifted with the order of the symbols in a way Forgotten.”
“Some scholar must know… have at least an idea?”
The royals shared glances, and the queen answered. “Tulstenar of Hedridôk is wise, if he still lives.”
Morik’s voice came soft. “He was hunched and ancient last he passed our way, and that two decades past.”
The Ironwing said, “We’ve had no word of his passing. You should seek him out.” The Ironwing handed the coin and a single rolled rub to the Queen, and she brought them to Solineus.
He took them with a bow and placed them deep in his cloak. “I will, again, need a guide.”
The Queen placed her hand on Morik’s head. “It seems you two are bound together.”
Morik didn’t protest, but his fists clenched.
Solineus sympathized but would never let the man know it. “And if we find some clue, what then?”
“You send a pigeon to me, track the priestess down, kill her if need be, and return the lost half of coin. If she survives, by all means, send her along as well.” The Ironwing stood, opened an ornate chest beside the throne and withdrew two cloaks sewn with golden griffon feathers, and walked to Solineus. “Stand you men, who have done such service for Helmveline, and who seek to do so much more.”
Solineus glanced to Morik; the Kingdomer was wider eyed than when he’d found the bolt sticking from his shield. The man held out his hands, so Solineus did the same, and the Ironwing draped the cloak across his arms before giving the second one to Morik.
Solineus didn’t know how honored he should be, but Morik’s frozen stare suggested he should say something. “I am honored that Ironwing entrusts us with such an honor.”
“ Mîhemnar Il-lestir, words in the old tongue which mean ‘men of the holy griffon’. Their weight on your shoulders will see you through cold, rain, and snow, and legend says help you take wing in a strong wind… but they will open Tulstenar’s door as well as the coin, without needing to show the coin until in his presence.”
Solineus bowed, and the Ironwing placed a hand on his shoulder. “Drink and feast tonight, as our pigeons seek word on her travels. We will take a day to find her route, then you will seek Tanzarêu the Huntress, so she may lead your way to Hedridôk upon Kingdomer Roads, under the auspices of the Holy Griffon Ilîzô herself.”
In a previous life, Solineus would’ve considered a pigeon an emergency meal when he couldn’t get his hands on a chicken. Helmveline esteemed pigeons as a crucial means of communication, going so far as to nickname them the cousins of Griffons. Birds weren’t eaten (by Kingdomers at least) and if they managed to evade hawks and other hazards for a decade of service, the birds were retired to live out their natural lives in cozy coops. And the folks who raised and trained pigeons lived well, earning coins from everyone who desired a message sent.
It was one hells of an enterprise.
Kingdomer pigeons were fascinating. Beautiful birds, blue-gray and sometimes mottled white, with purple tints reflecting the sun. Watching them fluff and puff and preen brought to mind the Luxuns, but the pretty and nostalgic paled before their utility of bearing messages from point to point.
As he understood it, Kingdomers toted a crate of pigeons to the Choerkin tent, the Warlord’s tent… that would take some getting used to… and all they had to do was strap a note to the pigeon’s leg and let it go. The bird did the rest of the work in coming home to roost.
In Molikîn, Tôltô was the Pigeon-master to the Ironwing, and it was a privilege for Solineus to meet with her. She was a tiny gal in her middle years, judging by a few streaks of gray, and she was nimble on her toes, dancing up and down ladders and stairs which lead to a multitude of pigeon houses. The woman managed a complex system of winged messengers, with birds flying back and forth from thirty-two locations daily, not to mention one-way birds like those the Silone would loose.
The woman handed him a tiny scroll and Morik handed her a piece of silver. He smiled and bowed. “Would it be possible to set up daily pigeons to the Silone?”
“For a fee, and with permission from the Ironwing. And they’d need a Pigeon-master… hired or trained.”
“I’m sure that could be arranged. How long would it take?”
“A few months, to start. But mastery takes time.” A pigeon fluttered past their heads, circled, and landed on her shoulder to coo. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
The woman walked away, the pigeon hopping to her finger for a treat, and Solineus unrolled the scroll. The message was short, a week old, and printed in tiny letters, but it was all he had.
Fish-lips is writing this for me until my penmanship improves, so I can’t really say how much of an awful bore he is. I’ve been told to tell you my learning comes along well.
Alu is to marry next month so practices with her sword every minute she can. The first Helmveliner stone-smiths arrived, and a foundation begun on what folks already name “Choerkin Castle” and this keeps Ivin busy. I will never be a queen, but it looks as if I will get my castle. Fish-face thinks this should make me happy.
Lelishen arrived a week back with dignitaries from Yolilcoz, a Woodkin city, but I get kept out of most of the boring stuff. She asked after you and was distressed you traveled the Foundations.
Rumors of war to the north are persistent, Teks killing Teks, which pleases everyone.
More the next time they allow me a pigeon.
Your adoring daughter,
Kinesee
Fish-breath wrote that.
Solineus chuckled as he rolled the parchment, then stuck it in his pocket. “Ivin’s in for a hellsuva marriage.”
Morik said, “Your daughter is a kick to the hungover gut as well? A sweet girl when I met her.”
“She’s got a fire. But at least they won’t wed for over a year yet.” He stared east toward the Roemhien pass. Messages by pigeon were one-way for the time being, he’d have to write her a note and send it by horseback. “How long for pigeons to reach more distant Kingdoms?”
Morik tugged his beard. “Ask her .”
Tôltô stood behind him without his noticing. “If the finest pigeons are available, meaning a royal pigeon house, two days or under, three if the weather is bad.”
“I should be able to send you a pigeon then, and have a message sent to the Choerkin or my daughter, and get an answer back in five to six days?”
“As you say. Quicker most often. I would be pleased to pass your news along.”
There were other staggering ramifications. “If the Hundred Nations struck Helmveline, every Kingdomer to the furthest stretches of the Foundations would know in two days. Or warning another of an attack.”
“As you say. Helmveline got word from merchants of an army marching toward Remden of Ômkinter, and a single pigeon turned a slaughter of Kingdomers into a route of the Nations.”
Solineus added pigeon houses to stables full of war horses as the top of his list for Silone survival, but for now it was good to know he wouldn’t lose all contact. Then the question struck, and his heart quickened. “Could a pigeon come so far as the Parapet Straits? Near the Edan?”
Her lips curled. “It is better to move messages by stages. Birds over such distances make their own schedules, and are more apt to get killed and eaten, but yes, it could be done.”
“I take it the nations don’t know of your birds?”
“
They are enemies, enemies don’t learn our secrets. That you know speaks much of the esteem the Ironwing holds for you.”
Her eyes rose to a bird soaring in from the southwest, its leg tied with a yellow string. He sucked a deep breath; yellow meant urgent words. “Bodo, from Hervesh.” Tôltô knew every bird’s name, far as Solineus could tell.
The pigeon lit with a flutter on a perch with a grain filled feeder, and Tôltô took swift strides to the bird’s side. She pulled the string and unfurled the roll; good to realize that pigeon-masters knew many of the secrets passing from Kingdom to Kingdom.
“Your priestess passed through Hervesh this morning along the Urzin Trail. Five with her.”
Morik said, “Southwest instead of west as we expected.”
Solineus clenched his fist and smiled. “I don’t give a damns what direction, it’s a direction. Time to ride.”
7
Kingdom Roads
Sunshine or rain,
warmth or drenching chill,
dusty desolation or vibrant verdant.
Your whims do wander to extremes,
idyllic or pain,
all things a direction,
never the same.
Change is a luxury I cannot share.
— Tomes of the Touched
Tanzarêu was a squat woman, maybe in her fifties, with deep brown eyes surrounded by sun-browned wrinkles. A round face sat atop square shoulders, framed by hair so disheveled there was no knowing how long it might be if combed. Solineus heard such a mess called a bird’s nest before, but with this woman the comparison was appropriate; her clothes were a patchwork of linen strips, greens, browns, and grays, interspersed with sticks and leaves that might’ve been intentional or stuck there from her last jaunt through a prickly bush.
Folks called her Izimdwî, The Huntress, but Morik made sure to note she was much more. She was a Wayfinder. She’d spent her life in the peaks and valleys and caverns of the Foundations, learning the trails and paths of both man and beast for so far as the mountains stretched, but so too did she study Waystones. Fashioned from a rare mineral, Wayfinders tuned their senses to individual stones and hid them throughout the Foundations, whether high atop peaks or in deep caverns, and no matter where they went, they could find their way to one of these, even through mazes deep in the world.
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