by Cat Bruno
“She did not seem to think so,” he told her, shaking his head. “They have been granted permission to stray from their own lands.”
To this, she gasped, “What of his word? He promised you he would see them punished if peace was not held.”
His movements were slow and heavy, and Syrsha realized how urgent his message must be to warrant such a trip.
“The Crows have secretly sided with Rexterra, and my father stands back and waits to see who will emerge as victor. Only then will his presence be known. His promises mean little, faela.”
She could say nothing for her mouth had gone dry and her life pulse pounded fast and loud against her tunic. Little time remained in peace.
“He has abandoned you and broken his vow!” she finally cried.
“Such are the whims of gods.”
“What of the Bears?” she asked, trying to clear her thoughts.
Behind her, the sounds of women readying, their voices calling to one another, could be heard. The High Lord, fading now, looked toward the camp.
“The Bears have their own peace and care little for this war. They, too, wait for the Dark One to decide.”
“What do the Crows want?” Syrsha asked, standing now and stepping toward him as his magic flickered.
With her hands outstretched, she reached for the shadow of him, steadying him with her own mage-skill. His words came more evenly now, as her power aligned with his.
“They want the Tribelands, of course. And more. They want fennidi land, too, as well as the whole of the North.”
She could hear no more and pulled her hands away as she hissed, “They seek Eirrannia to rule as their own?”
Nodding, his ivory neck like a silver slash, the High Lord told her, “Enemies who have become friends will one day be enemies again. Delwin knows that as well and has prepared an army of Lightkeepers, which the Crows seem to forget.”
“Is Ohdra safe?” Syrsha asked, half-pleading.
“They have gone deeper into the forest for now as a precaution. I came here with warning, faela, and to see that you were unharmed. In truth, you appear well.”
This was not the man who she remembered.
“There is more,” he told her, nearly gone now.
Faintly, he stated, “War will likely come within a moon year. But it is one that began long before your birth. This is not yet your fight.”
She finally understood why he had come. To order her to stay gone.
“Long ago, you promised me vengeance, father. Do you mean to take it from me now?”
“I mean to keep you safe, Syrsha, as I promised your mother that I would,” he whispered, the words spiraling around her as he slipped further into mist.
“Do not speak of her!” she screamed, spinning about and searching for him.
Twirling as if she was dancing, Syrsha spun and spun, grasping at the empty air as she searched for her father. Her cheeks reddened and her throat grew tight. Tears blurred her vision, causing her to trip over the speckled granite that circled the fire pit. As she regained her balance, Syrsha noticed that she was no longer by herself.
The High Lord had vanished, yet dark eyes watched her, gray and ancient. Across Makeena’s back hung her bow, the wood worn with use. Several leather quivers were attached to a belt at her waist. She looked ready for battle. For her, the kyzkua was no game.
Syrsha’s hair lay across her face, having come loose from her long plait. Pushing it from her eyes, she returned Makeena’s gaze, offering no explanation.
Let them think me mad.
Instead, she nodded toward the Sythian Queen. But she did not bow or kneel.
I am queen, too, she thought, letting the other woman watch as her eyes darkened.
And, soon, I will be home.
Behind Makeena stood Liang, her face grave. With a nod that none noticed, she called for Syrsha to remain.
*****
“I had not thought to see fear on your face, especially so far from Cordisia.”
When no response came, Aldric added, “You have prepared her well, Otieno. Let her be tested here, with the three of us to keep guard. We will not be so lucky once we return to Cordisia.”
The diauxie had said little since their arrival in Sythia, and it became clear that he did not want Syrsha involved with the kyzkua. Yet it had been a silent battle, for he did not lecture the girl, much to Aldric’s surprise. Which meant that he understood that she had to be challenged. They could not keep her hidden forever, trained and untested. Nor could they keep her enemies from finding her once they returned.
Syrsha stood near a line of small shrubs, which, Aldric learned, marked the start of the course. The tented camp could no longer be seen, although it now sat empty. Along the edges of the course stood armor-clad Sythians, at least eight by Aldric’s count. Each carried bow and arrow, and, as a group, the women looked as if they were being sent to pillage and conquer.
“Is it eight by your count?” Aldric asked.
Finally, the Islander spoke.
“Seven more than she has ever faced.”
Aldric nearly laughed, but realized that there was no humor in Otieno’s words.
To calm the man, Aldric told him, “There is nothing in place to stop us from interfering.”
“You think yourself faster than an arrow aimed at her throat?” the Islander growled.
Shaking his head and trying to keep his voice steady, Aldric answered, “I might not be, but she is. Otieno, you forget that she is Tribe. There is little that can harm her.”
His eyes angry and shining, Otieno fumed, “Do you forget we have killed Crow? They are not limitless, mage.”
“Do you think the Sythians have atraglacia? Should we examine their arrowheads?” Aldric countered, hoping to appease the man.
In a lowered voice, Otieno asked, “Could you do so without causing alarm?”
“Aye,” he nodded, “But I must get nearer to them.”
The Islander understood and motioned for Aldric to follow him as he crossed the grassland. Once he neared where many of the women waited, the diauxie addressed them in Common.
“Your bows differ from the ones we use in the Southern Cove. Might I see one closer?”
A fair-haired girl understood his words and quickly explained what he asked to the others. Beside her, the Tiannese girl nodded, handing Otieno her bow. While he ran thick, scar-striped fingers across the gleaming wood, Aldric’s own fingers twitched.
Spinning the air around him, the mage weaved a web, like an invisible net, and cast is over the gathered women. To them, it would feel as if the air had suddenly warmed, but he did not think they would be able to sense what it was that he did. Overhead the morning sun was climbing out of the east, thinning the early fog that clung low to the ground. Aldric pulled at the net, letting his magic search for the ancient black-ice.
As Otieno continued to examine the bow, Aldric cast his web farther, letting the spell reach across the field to where Makeena and another Sythian stood. He did not look to them with eyes, but his hands spun the air to circle them, searching yet again. All the Sythians had been without wards, making the mage-spell an easy one. Within moments, he called back the net, unraveling it quickly and quietly.
His hands cooled as they now fell unmoving to his sides. When he next looked up, Syrsha strode toward him. She was not so easily fooled, he knew.
To the group, he said, “Dawn has broken. And Syrsha comes. Let us delay no further.”
Otieno handed the bow back to the short-haired Sythian just as Syrsha stepped close. Aldric felt a tug on his tunic and looked to see Syrsha pulling at him, as if she needed to speak with him privately. With his fingers still tingling, he walked away from the Sythians. When the three of them were far enough to speak without being heard, Aldric turned toward Syrsha, who was dressed in all black, including a leather breastplate that looked new. Stitched into the center with thick, silver thread was the head of a wolf, jaws open and sharp teeth exposed. He had seen nothing like it during
their time in Cossima.
Armor to honor her father, even though the High Lord himself needed none, thought Aldric.
She noticed his startled face and teased, “Would you have me carry lavender and mint into battle?”
Unable to remove his eyes from the image, he stuttered, “I have not seen it before.”
“I had it made before we left Cossima.”
“It is not of Cossiman design,” he told her, running his fingers along the laces that kept it tight against her body. “And the leather is rare; few could afford such.”
Nodding, Syrsha explained, “It is from Teutania, as was the man who made it for me.”
“What of steel? Leather hardly seems enough for battle,” Aldric warned.
As she tightened her laces, Syrsha said, “Steel will only slow me. Aldric, what were you doing when I approached? I could hear the air humming.”
He could not lie to her, he had long realized. “Checking for atraglacia. You take too many risks, Syrsha. Had their arrowheads been made of the black-ice, you would have suffered greatly.”
Instead of arguing with him, Syrsha smiled. “You worry too much. But I thank you for the assistance all the same.”
Before he could answer, a loud bellow sounded, trumpeting across the field. The call of the horn marked the beginning of the kyzkua, as the Sythians had explained the previous night. Four times the horn bellowed, once for each direction of the winds.
Joining them, Otieno barked, “Stay low. Examine your surroundings at all times. You are fast, but do not overestimate your speed. Be smart, faela. An arrow to the hip is better than an arrow to the knee. Your daggers will do you little good, for you are not permitted to fight, only defend. The more you move, the harder it will be for them to strike.”
Otieno would have said more, but Makeena yelled for Syrsha. Aldric watched as she hurried to the queen. She was unwarded, he had noticed, yet he did not tell the diauxie. Her unmarked leathers shined like midnight, ebony and glazed.
If she is a true wolf, it would not matter, he thought. Not here.
*****
“Did I tell you I once showed this place to Bronwen? She could not remember anything then and knew nothing of the Tribe.”
In each corner of the room, orb-lights shined and soft circles of light reflected off piles of books, stacked from the dirt-floor to the stony ceiling. Jarek was not surprised by the room; the Grand Palace had many similar ones, which he had long ago discovered and explored. His boots were covered in a thin layer of ash and sand, as were many of the books stored here.
“Is there not a better place aboveground to keep these books?” Jarek asked, picking one from the nearest pile.
Examining it, he noticed that the words were ones he could make no sense of. Soon after, Kennet rushed across the room and grabbed the small, leather-bound book.
“You mustn’t touch anything!” he cried. “I have everything arranged and readied.”
Jarek would have asked the librarian what he was preparing for, but he suspected the answer would make little sense, as much did with Kennet. Around them towers of books wobbled under the flickering watch of orb-lights. Many of the books were written in languages that Jarek did not recognize, and he wondered if Kennet could read them all.
A sudden thought came to him.
“Do you know of the Elementals?”
With an unpleasant grunt, Kennet stated, “Of course I do. They come from across the Eastern Sea, you know, although they once called Cordisia home, many generations ago.”
“I have a book on them somewhere here,” he mumbled, searching the far corner of the room.
By the way he had spoken, as if Jarek knew nothing of the Elementals, Kennet proved that he had not heard much of Jarek. Few knew of his mage-skill, for it was a closely guarded weapon, one that Delwin wanted none to understand. Not even the Lightkeepers were told, which suited Jarek fine as he did not trust most of them. Often, they could be found walking throughout the palace, in shimmering robes, although he tried avoiding them in total.
His thoughts were interrupted by a mousy shriek as Kennet cried out, “Ah yes! Here it is. The Annals of Lysandia. It is not particularly well-written, but there is some fascinating information in it.”
Jarek watched Kennet lay the book on the sooty desk, causing dust to cast a shadowy cloud around it. When he walked near, he noticed the librarian gently turning the pages, slowly, with nearly his full hand.
“Not many of these books exist elsewhere. That’s why I have hidden it here. As with the others, some knowledge must be mine alone,” Kennet explained with a great deal of certainty.
Like most people who were half-mad, Kennet did not think himself to be, Jarek realized. Yet he did not pity the man, for he seemed content enough among his books and with little company. And he was not wrong that few shared the knowledge that he had acquired.
“What would it take to get you to lend me that book?” Jarek asked, trying to keep his voice even.
Closing the book, which again caused gray smoke to spread, Kennet told him, “Take it as my gift to you. I have read it twice over already.”
As if he was no longer interested in discussing the Elementals, Kennet left the book on the desk and walked to the only empty wall. Bricks covered it, much like the walls outside the room. Kennet stood staring at its center, unmoving. While he did, Jarek hastily grabbed the book from the desk and placed it in a satchel hanging from his belt, before Kennet could change his mind.
Finally, moments later, the librarian began tapping on the wall with an ink-stained finger. Over and over he tapped, his finger moving about the clay-colored bricks. He said nothing as he tapped, but the orb-lights dimmed, as if he had forgotten them. Kennet’s shoulders twitched, causing his upper body to shake. Yet still he tapped.
Jarek tried to memorize the pattern, yet he could not make sense of what it was that Kennet was doing. And he began to wonder if anything the librarian did made sense. And then the wall shifted.
When the bricks opened, Jarek gasped and reached for his sword.
Piles of bones lay scattered across the stone floor. As the orb-light strengthened, Jarek stepped closer.
A human skull, whitened and intact, stared up at him.
“What is this place?” he hissed.
Holding up both of his hands, Kennet cried, “I did not kill them, if that is what you are thinking. No, no. I only used their bodies once they were already dead, you see.”
Eyeing another skull, Jarek demanded to know more.
“I sometimes borrow the bodies of the dead from the clinic. Only the unclaimed ones, of course.”
“What need do you have of them?” Jarek half-growled at him, surprised that there was no smell of death coming from behind the wall.
Hopping around again, Kennet explained, “Well, before they were just bones, I would test poisons on their entrails. To see what would happen when I poured them on.”
“Then what would you do with them?”
“Most of them I buried, for it seemed fitting. But those three have become my guardians,” Kennet pointed.
Jarek eyed the man as he flitted, bug-like, around the room. Behind him the bones glowed pale against the crumbling sandstone floor. Lined up in a row, Jarek now noticed, the skeletons did seem to watch them. Beside long-boned fingers lay daggers.
Stepping nearer, Jarek breathed, “What need do you have of undead guardians?”
As if Jarek’s question was a sensible one, Kennet contently answered, “They watch over what is stored here. And keep me safe. They are more than just bones, you see. I have gifted them with special powers.”
It was then that Jarek understood how damaged Kennet’s mind had become. Now, he was much like a child, one who knew much, yet could not silence his thoughts.
“Kennet,” Jarek softly asked, “Does anyone else know of your guardians?”
Angry now, Kennet retorted, “Were you not listening earlier when I told you that none know of this room? I have
spent moon years binding it with spells. You were only able to follow me in because I permitted you to.”
Knowing there would be nothing gained from arguing with the man, Jarek inquired about the bones once again.
“Some call it dark magic,” Kennet began. “Others call it earth magic. Far to the east, I have read it named wu-ku magic. You might find it similar to Elemental magic, Jarek, if I am not mistaken. My talents are far less than yours, I would guess, but I was able to infuse a great warding spell into the bones of the dead men. The spell keeps the wall from being opened except by me.”
He was more lucid now, yet Jarek did not like that Kennet seemed to know much about him, more than he had let on.
“What has Aldric told you?”
“He wrote quite infrequently and always in coded form. One letter took me a quarter-moon to understand before I knew why he had made it so difficult. For that letter named you and the girl.”
And so he does know about more than I guessed, Jarek thought.
“You are certain your guardians will shield us even from the Lightkeepers?”
Surprised, Kennet cried, “We are far from the King’s City, Jarek! They hold no power here. Let us waste no more time. You want to know of your past.”
It was not all that he wanted, but Jarek did not disagree.
“Are you sworn ally to the girl?”
The question seemed as if it was what Kennet had wanted to ask from the start, so Jarek hurriedly answered, “We are more than allies. We are near kin, and our goals are similar ones. When she returns to Cordisia, I will be by her side.”
“Who killed your father?” Kennet challenged.
Again Jarek was silenced by the librarian’s query, his words half-squawked, as if a calling bird had asked.
“A woman of nightfall,” he stammered.
With a vigorous nod of his head, Kennet added, “Your father was long known to visit such women. She might have held the blade, but who gave it to her?”
“There has been nothing offered to suggest it was any but her.”
Cackling again, the noise echoing loud off the bricks and stones, Kennet half-yelled, “You are a fool if you believe such! I figure it must have been Delwin or you.”
