by Cat Bruno
As she stepped away, Liang called, “Have you traveled to Tian? Few know the language as you do.”
Syrsha paused, searching for a way to answer the girl. She was not yet Sythian, the kyzkua incomplete. Syrsha had been warned by her father and by Aldric that her time-walking could disrupt her future, altering the path that she walked. Once, as a child, she had tried to warn her mother of what would come. For days afterward, she had suffered a spinning sickness, unable to move from her bed. And her attempts had changed nothing. Aldric had made her vow that she would not do such again. Half-dead, she had agreed. It had taken nearly a moon for her head to clear and her strength to return. When her father learned of what she had done, he had threatened to strip her of all power. Even so far from her, Syrsha did not doubt that he would be able to mind-lock her. His threats were never meaningless ones.
She thought of the High Lord as she answered, “My father insisted I learn many languages.”
“And your mother?”
A dark haze crossed her line of sight, painting Liang the color of nightfall. With the blood of the venison still sweet on her tongue, Syrsha struggled against the shift. Even so many moon years later, she talked little of her mother. Caryss was, for her daughter, not even a memory and only reachable by time-walking to the past. One that Syrsha could never alter.
Moments before she had been her father’s daughter. Now, she was her mother’s.
Beside her, a large log snapped and yellow-tipped flames flared high. Firelight, blood orange against a dusky blue sky, exploded around the two girls. Syrsha’s dark hair shined like polished copper, fire-stained like her mother’s as it fluttered around her. Liang did not move. Instead, she watched, fearful yet curious, waiting to see what Syrsha might do.
Understanding came, slowly, to the Tian-born girl. But she began to make sense of who Syrsha was.
Of who she could become.
Liang’s lips curved upward and her eyes lightened. The fear written there shifted and lessened.
Only then did Syrsha’s own gaze lighten and her hands cool. Beside them, the flames smoldered low.
“The others do not know you,” Liang whispered, as if the words were weapons.
When Syrsha smiled, her teeth gleaming and sharp, Liang laughed and reached for her. The two embraced, as old friends, even if only one of them remembered.
*****
6
“Did she talk often of her time here?” the man asked, pushing metal-rimmed glasses back into place.
He was seated behind a large desk, parchments covering nearly all of it except for where bottles of ink sat. With each movement the man made, the papers flitted, threatening to fall onto the floor. He did not seem to notice, and his cheeks flushed red as he talked excitedly once he realized who had come.
Tired from travel, Jarek had little desire to lie to the man as he explained, “She rarely spoke of the past, but I have heard stories of her time here. And of you, Kennet.”
“She wrote twice, and, even then, did not say much. Caryss, as she called herself, was unlike the woman who left here so many moon years ago.”
Kennet dabbed at his eyes as he mumbled. Jarek looked away, but understood the man’s sadness. He, too, had cared deeply for Caryss, even after only knowing her a moon year.
“When I received word from Aldric about what had happened, I wept like a babe. And I had to tell Sheva, for none else knew. I remember little of that day and have not been able to drink ale since,” Kennet muttered, his voice cracking with memory.
Jarek sat silent, letting the man cry, for he knew that he had sliced open an old wound by showing up at the Academy unannounced. Izaak was tidying his new rooms, but would be at the library soon, for it was all he had spoken of during the journey.
Suddenly, Kennet cried out, “What of Syrsha?”
Jarek lifted a hand in warning and glanced toward the door, shaking his head at Kennet’s folly. He leaned forward, grabbing at a quill. After dipping its point in shining ink, Jarek slowly scrolled on a sheet of parchment. When he finished, he slid the paper toward Kennet.
The librarian nodded after he finished reading it, rose, and hurriedly closed the door. With his back leaning against the dark timber door, Kennet brought his hands to his face, and, for a moment, Jarek thought him to be Aldric. It had been moon years since he had seen the mage. And none could write to him for fear of the letters being intercepted. For nearing fifteen moon years, he had lived without friend in the King’s City. Even those who thought him friend only knew him as Tomasz.
“Is there a ward in place?” he asked quietly.
When Kennet nodded, Jarek added, “Do not speak her name or the names of her kin.”
Again the librarian nodded.
“They have recently left Cossima, although I know not where they have traveled. The girl is nearly grown and has the look of her father about her,” Jarek told him. After a pause, he quietly added, “Except for her eyes.”
“The others stay with her and have taught her much. Her skill in the healing arts is not what her mother’s was, but she knows enough. She is unmatched in sword, or nearly so. Despite warnings, she time-walks still, which is how I came to know her. And to know of my own history.”
It was only then, after informing Kennet of the girl, that Jarek reached for his sword. Rising from the chair as he pulled the blade free, Jarek stared upon Kennet.
With a few steps, he was upon the librarian, who had whitened and now leaned heavily against the door, his legs collapsing beneath him.
“What do you know of the Lightkeepers?” Jarek asked, his words no more than a whisper.
For now, his sword did not move, remaining near his side as he waited for Kennet to answer. The King’s City had taught him much, and Jarek trusted few. Not even those who called themselves friend.
His hands out in front of him, Kennet stuttered, “I know more than any about them.”
“Are you one of them?” Jarek harshly questioned, suddenly uncertain as to Kennet’s loyalties.
Shaking his head quickly back and forth, he answered, “No you don’t understand! I would never join them. Please, you must listen. It was me who encouraged Bronwen to leave. And I am to blame for Pietro knowing where she had gone. Since I learned of her death, I vowed I would do all that I could to keep her daughter safe. For moon years, I have been unable to help. But I readied for the day that I could.”
Jarek placed his sword back into its sheathe, yet did not move from where he stood.
“I must learn all that I can about them,” Jarek explained.
Kennet’s fingers, dye-stained and long, wiped at his face then combed through his thinning hair. His body trembled, long after the sword had been put away, and Jarek watched as he glanced rapidly about the room, as if searching for something.
“What is it that you seek?” Jarek demanded.
Hopping from the doorway on wobbly legs, Kennet stumbled toward a wall lined with shelves. After a moment, he seemed to have found what he needed, and he turned back toward Jarek.
“We mustn’t stay here. The wards would not be able to shield what I must show you. But there is a place where none know. Well, one knew of it, but she is gone now.”
Listening to the librarian’s words, Jarek suddenly realized that he was half-mad. Not slow-witted or feeble, but strange, as if he cared little for human interactions. Or had little of it.
“Will you come with me?” Kennet asked, his voice squeaking.
He did not think the man a threat, nor did he think Izaak would have need of him, so Jarek agreed, following as Kennet hurried from the room. It had not been difficult to find the library, as it was a building more suited to the King’s City than to the Academy. Tall and imposing, built of glass and stone, the library was home to more books than Jarek had ever seen, even at the Grand Palace. As they hurried down spiraling stairs, he thought of how much his brother would enjoy it.
The doors were massive, twice his own height, and Jarek thought that K
ennet would exit, but the librarian turned sharply. He continued, trailing Kennet as he neared a back staircase. Aldric had occasionally talked of his nephew, telling of his inability to master healing or mage-skill, yet Jarek kept a hand on the hilt of his sword.
As they descended unkempt slate stairs, cracked and crumbling, Jarek asked, “What kind of place is this?”
Still hurrying and breathing hard, Kennet told him, “Beneath the library there are hidden rooms, older than the library itself I believe. I discovered them moon years ago, and there is old magic there, more powerful than mage-skill. Once I understood the currents, I was able to weave them for my own use.”
Jarek halted abruptly and balanced himself against the crumbling, stony wall. Kennet did not notice and continued.
“Heyo!” he called loudly.
Several steps ahead, Kennet stopped and turned back. There was little light here, except for a small orb that hovered over Kennet’s shoulder. The man was pale, more so than most, as if he spent little time outside of the library. Frail and thin, Jarek suddenly realized that Kennet appeared ill.
“When is the last time you left here?”
Like a skittish mouse, Kennet looked about wildly, twitching and uneasy. “This is my home. I long ago gave up my sleeping rooms.”
“What of food?” Jarek pressed.
“Each year the Academy sends me a first-year to assist me. Kesper brings me food and water and other such necessities.”
Trying to keep the surprise from his face, Jarek asked anew, “When did you last leave?”
He watched as Kennet glanced about, the orb-light casting a golden glow over his sun-starved skin. The librarian would not live to meet Syrsha if he continued this way, Jarek thought.
Before Kennet could reply, Jarek told him, “The girl plans to return to Cordisia within a moon year. I do not know what you have learned of Rexterra, but war is not long off. For moon years, a fragile peace held. But no longer. Delwin plans to attack the Tribe. And Tribe allies.”
Much of what he admitted was already known, yet Jarek hesitated to add more, still uncertain about Kennet.
“He will strike Eirrannia as well,” Kennet croaked, as if he had not known.
With a curt nod, Jarek said, “Aye. His first act as king will be to avenge his father. He has long waited for the chance to do so. He seeks to be Rexterra’s hero, destroying all her perceived enemies with force. He will turn Cordisia into ruins and keep Rexterra shining, flush with coin from those he conquers.”
“But it was not Eirrannia who killed his father,” Kennet gasped.
Shrugging thick shoulders, Jarek said, “Delwin’s hatred for Caryss has never lessened. Perhaps it has grown, as he had moon years to think on his plans while he waited for Crispin to die.”
“Are the rumors true regarding Crispin’s death? I had heard that it was a woman who killed him, in the Lower Streets.”
“Crispin traveled unguarded through the piers for many moon years. Despite the warnings of his own men, he continued visiting women there, often at night. It did not take long for Delwin to learn of his brother’s travels, and of the women he favored. You heard true enough about who killed him. Yet, few know how. His death should not have come as easily as it did. The dagger could not have been a simple one.”
He had expected Kennet to express surprise, yet he did not. “I long suspected something like this would occur. I once even wrote to Crispin, without identifying who I was, and warned him to be wary of poisoned weapons, especially ones of the North.”
As the orb-light flickered, Kennet added, “I never heard from him.”
“He should not have died with such haste. Not with the blood of gods in him,” Jarek explained, trying to get the librarian to understand.
“God-touched as he was, even Crispin could not survive the a dagger dipped in the sap of tallora, for it is older than the blood he was blessed with.”
Jarek begin to reply, but Kennet raced up the stairs that separated them. Panting and shaking, the librarian cried, “What of Pietro? Does he still live?”
“He has been under constant watch ever since our return to the King’s City. Delwin would have had him hung, but Pietro’s father controls much of the merchant marines, and his healing skills have become useful. He yet lives, but I have been unable to visit him.”
“He will know of the poison!” Kennet shrieked. “While he was at the Academy, he studied much of what was not allowed. If I had thought on this before, Crispin might yet be alive.”
No other words could have silenced Jarek. Yet, he could say nothing as Kennet continued.
“If Pietro could be freed and join me here, I have no doubt that we could find the antidote to the tallora. Jarek, is it possible? What must be done to see him free?”
“There is nothing to be done for him,” Jarek answered haltingly, as if in disbelief.
When Kennet weakly grabbed his tunic, Jarek’s eyes narrowed, yet he did not fear the madness of the man.
“None can survive this poison. I have read much on it, Jarek. Even the girl would die if exposed to it. When I heard of Crispin’s death, I knew that it was not a natural one. Just as Herrin’s was not. Delwin has planned well for this day. For if any discover that the spear was laced with poison, he will blame it on Eirrannia, for that is the only place the sap can be found. Do you not understand? Crispin’s death was always his goal, and, even better, he can place blame on the North.”
Much of what Kennet said made sense, yet the man was half-mad, isolated behind glass and stone with only books as friend. Jarek no longer knew what to believe.
“Why can you not find an antidote without Pietro?” he eventually asked.
Dropping his hands, Kennet explained, “It will not be possible to find what works without testing it. I have long feared blood, you see.”
“And Pietro does not,” Jarek sighed.
With frantic nodding, Kennet told him, “Yes, just that. He had no fear of killing animals to test new tonics.”
“Many moon years have passed,” Jarek reminded him, “But I owe Pietro much, for he tried to save me on the field long ago. He has some freedoms, although he is never without guard, even now.”
The smile that edged across Kennet’s face was odd, as if the man was himself. “You must get him to me,” Kennet begged.
“Even if I could free him, I could not bring him here. Delwin will not allow it.”
“Do you think he would come? To Litusia, I mean.”
“Are you asking me if I trust that Pietro, once freed, would come here to help you? I know not the answer.”
Hopping from step to step and slapping against the stones, Kennet cried, “He must come. We must make him. If not for him, Bronwen might still live.”
“I will see what I can do,” Jarek conceded, thinking on the man who had once tried to save him.
Spinning around, Kennet hurried back down the stairs, calling, “Yes, yes. This will work. Pietro will know what to do. Hurry now, Jarek, there is much I need to show you.”
After the realization that he could do nothing, Jarek followed. As he walked, he thought on ways to free Pietro, who, moon years before, had flung him across the back of his mount. They both had fled, clinging to the saddle slick with rain, until Delwin’s men had captured them.
*****
7
Luna, with a missing half, shined red against the early, gray sky. Threads of cloud and mist crept over her, far to the west. Somewhere over Cordisia, she reigned, watching over a land threatened with war. Out of the east, the morning sun rose, golden and new, as if beckoning. In between moon and sun sat Syrsha, alone next to a dying fire.
She pulled her jacket close, shivering and exposed. Needing all of her strength, Syrsha had abandoned her wards, although she told none of what she had done. Before falling asleep, she had decided that she must run the kyzkua as anyone else, earning Sythian honors on her own.
The others would wake soon, although the Sythians had stayed awake fir
eside long after she had retreated to her tent. Around her, skylarks sang, their calls insistent and vibrating. Their cries continued, even when she saw him approach.
Without rising, she asked, “When did you learn to time-walk so far?”
He was cast in shadows, glowing like embers under Luna’s gaze. His hair was longer than she remembered, but not even Luna’s kiss could lighten its blackness. His face, pale as ever, seemed drawn, although it was unlined still.
His voice, when it came, sounded distant. “It is not a skill I needed.”
They did not have long, she knew, and hurriedly questioned him. “Why are you here?”
Syrsha did not need to ask how he had found her, for he often knew when her wards disappeared. It was his way of watching, as any father might.
But he was no ordinary father. As he walked toward her, Syrsha noticed how he swayed, unbalanced and shaking. The High Lord was unaccustomed to time-walking and had become weakened by the travel. As he reeled, Syrsha quieted, watching as Conri stumbled toward her.
“What is this place?” he asked after his legs steadied.
Where his hand circled, sparks trailed, as if shards of the night sky trailed behind, polished like onyx. He had come late, she realized, and did not know what she intended or of the kyzkua.
Fearing his reaction, Syrsha stammered, “A tribe of female warriors calls this place home. I came to them to train in archery and to make allies.”
The High Lord paused, staring upon her as if he knew that she was not telling him everything. And as if he could taste the salt of her lies. Syrsha had not seen him in flesh since she was a babe, yet she was not fool enough to think to deceive him. She nearly confessed all, but his next words caused her pause.
“Ohdra sent word that the Crows have begun to stir and are showing a new interest in the high forest, as if searching for something.”
“Or someone,” she added.
