by Cat Bruno
When the room quieted, Conri explained how Syrsha had traveled to the land of Tian, far to the east and too far to be contacted by time-walking.
“You would do better to ask Queen Ohdra for aid, Lord Conri. My skills with the runes are not a quarter as fine as hers. I will try all the same, but think on what you might do next, if I cannot find Gregorr.”
“There are others in this room that can offer you strength, Tigorra. Even Blaidd has learned more of the earth magic.”
With a nod, she asked what he would have her tell Gregorr.
“Only this,” he stated, caring little that the others would hear. “Tell Gregorr that it is time for Syrsha to come home.”
“When Luna appears, I will make the call from the outer courtyard,” Tigorra instructed. “Have those readied who would offer me help.”
The woman could have long ago returned home, yet she had chosen to stay in the Tribelands. Conall had once suggested that she might be a spy for Ohdra, and Conri did not doubt that his brother was likely correct. However, Tigorra had become near kin to them over the moon years, especially to Blaidd.
To the boy, she said, “Your mother has your dirt. Find me before the moonrise.”
Before Tigorra could say more, Conri called out, “Conall, show the others to their rooms. I would speak with Jarek further.”
There was an edge to his voice that none would question, and the room emptied. When only he and the Elemental remained, the Tribesman offered the storm-mage a glass of Conall’s firewater and invited him to sit.
“Do you know why I asked you to stay?” Conri inquired, twirling the amber liquid between long fingers.
If Jarek was afraid, he did not show it, for the High Lord would have smelled and tasted the fear. As it was, Jarek smelled of the sea and tasted of salt. Mortal scents and unthreatening.
“I would imagine your request involves our argument last moon,” Jarek replied, with an ease that surprised Conri.
“You blame me still for Caryss’s death,” Conri murmured, his full lips hovering just above the glass’s rim.
After emptying his own glass, Jarek declared, “I know that she called for you. And that you came too late.”
Conri rose and reached for the firewater.
As he poured, he said, “I should never have permitted her leave here. Of that, you are right to be angry.”
But the Elemental did not accept his words, and with thunder behind him, rumbled, “Yet you did. For moon years, I did not remember what occurred that day because of the mind-lock you placed on me. It was not until Syrsha visited that I began to recall what happened in the field.”
Jarek swilled another gulp of the elixir, nearly draining his glass again. But before the High Lord could explain, he continued.
“Lord Conri, you did nothing to keep her safe. Instead, you encouraged Caryss to flee, with my grandfather as bait. Would you have me believe that neither Crow nor Crown knew of our coming? I have full memory of the field where we were ambushed. Nearby, the icy waters served as a natural boundary. And the grass had not been trampled before our horses strode upon it. In the days that we rode, none had watched us pass.”
The Elemental made no attempt to veil his accusation. His eyes, windswept and bold, gazed upon the High Lord. The once-quivering boy had disappeared. Moon years spent in the King’s City had hardened him, and, now, Jarek appeared as the enemy his kin once were. Around them, the fire-warmed air swirled and became sharpened with ice. Jarek’s fingers still grasped the glass, and he did not rise. With no call or movement, the storm readied.
I have misjudged him, Conri knew then and allowed a small smile to edge his stone-like face. The only sign of his displeasure was his darkening eyes, which blackened until Jarek could see his own image reflected there.
“Do you think I would sacrifice my daughter in such a way?” Conri growled, tightening the loose ward that encircled the room.
“Your daughter lives. Three others do not.”
He did not know if Jarek sensed the ward, for he still had not risen. Conri stood, just behind the leather-bound chair, and let the other man watch him. None would enter.
None could enter now that Conri had strengthened the room’s shielded walls.
“Why have you come, Jarek?”
Only then did the other man stand. His hair, like the rest of him, had grown, and golden strands framed his face. He was of a height with the High Lord, although he was broader by far, thickened with muscle from the time he spent with the Rexterran Army. Little about Jarek reflected his claim to the throne, for he was too light-haired to have the look of Rexterra about him. Even his clothing hid his identity, for it was faded, threadbare, and ill-fitting, more suitable for a farmer than for a king.
“Why did you allow us to leave the Tribelands?” he asked, granting no heed to Conri’s question.
Here, under slate roof and behind bricked walls, Jarek could not call for a lightning streak. Conri knew as much and did not step back as he answered, “If Syrsha would have stayed in Cordisia, my father would have found her, which I could not allow.”
Simple words, and mostly true ones, which they both must realize.
“Was Caryss no more than a ruse? A distraction while the real prize escaped?”
No longer in control or submissive, Conri roared, “I did not want her death!”
At the edges of his elegant tunic, shining and black, his hands curled as a shadow fell upon him. The curse of his father threatened to spread as Conri’s anger deepened. Somewhere near, a pounding drummed in quick succession. His tongue, thicker now, lapped against his lips.
The High Lord struggled against the longing hunger that no mortal could understand.
“I did not want her death,” he repeated, breathing heavy as if he choked on the words.
Panting now, with his charcoal hair obscuring his face, Conri whispered, “I loved her.”
“I loved her!” he howled, backing away from Jarek, who glowed silver, streaked with Luna’s kiss.
The Dark Lord stumbled further from the Elemental until he struck the tall windows on the northern side of the room. There, his mother found him, casting a calming spell as her pearl light flittered across his heated body. Pressed against the window, Conri let the rays of Luna comfort him. Under her watch, his hands uncurled, the shadow lifted, and his vision cleared. The haze of bloodlust disappeared under Luna’s silvery embrace. When he came to, Conri noticed that Jarek had not tried to leave, nor had he moved.
Instead, he calmly called out, “Your love was not enough, High Lord. Just as it will not be enough to keep Syrsha safe. You seek her return, but why will her fate be any different than her mother’s?”
When Conri had not answered, Jarek stepped nearer until he, too, leaned against the moon’s rays.
“I am not the boy I was once. I know of the war that comes, Conri. Not the one between Crown and Tribe. The war that will come after, between gods and mortals.”
Jarek grabbed Conri, his storm-tempered fingers smelling of rain, and demanded, “Will you side with mortal or god, High Lord?”
It was the first time that Jarek had ever placed his hands upon Conri, and he felt as if the room spun. Swirling and suddenly cold, Conri charged, leaping at Jarek until the two fell to the floor. Nearby, a crystal chalice shattered, twinkling chards falling like shattered stars across the entwined men. Over and over, they rolled.
Chairs toppled, splintering onto the floor in pieces. A small, circular table fell across Jarek’s face, but neither man would release the other. Each place that the Elemental touched burned with a coldness that Conri had not known before. He shivered, trembling from the unknown pain.
However, both refrained from calling storm or fire. Here, in the private room of the High Lord, the men fought like mortals and not like gods.
Into Jarek’s ear, Conri gasped, “How will you answer the same query? He who can move the skies is more than mortal! Why have you come?”
The High Lord left unsaid
that no mortal could grapple with a Tribesman with such skill. And survive with such ease. Breathing hard, both men fell back, releasing the other.
“I did not expect you to be so strong,” the Elemental admitted, leaning back onto his heels and pulling away further as he spoke. “I know little of my kin, as I told you moon years ago. I know not if I have the blood of gods in me or if my mage-skill is stronger than most. For moon years, I have been a soldier and little else. But what I desire has not changed since I was a boy, Lord Conri. I will have the throne, and any, be it man or god, who seek to rule Cordisia must make way for me. My goals are mortal ones, you must admit.”
“Is that why you have come? To enlist my aid when the true war is waged?”
Wiping blood from his nose and lips, Jarek stated, “I came to ask what I already have. I have sworn to not harm Syrsha, but have made no such vow to you.”
The Elemental was either a fool or fearless, Conri thought, watching as the man’s fingers stained red.
“If Delwin’s armies are defeated, what will you do next?” Jarek asked, as if he had not recognized the threat in his own words.
“Could I not question you the same?” the High Lord answered.
With his hand still to his nose, Jarek proclaimed, “We could spin in circles for days with such talk. Let us be brief, Lord Conri. For now, we have the same goal: to defend Eirrannia and replace Delwin as King. Who would you see crowned? And what promises would you make to keep your father from ruling the land I seek to lead?”
Again, Conri was reminded that Jarek sounded like more than the soldier he had been for half his life. He was wise for his moon years and understood that the greater threat would not come from Delwin.
“You ask if I will oppose my father.”
When Jarek nodded, Conri confessed, “He cannot be defeated, Jarek. Not yet.”
His answer surprised neither of them.
“Why does he desire Cordisia now, after so many moon years spent in slumber?”
Grunting with jest, Conri told him, “He was not in slumber. He was waiting.”
A look of confusion creased Jarek’s brow. Few could make sense of the workings and thoughts of the gods.
“Waiting for what?”
It was then that Conri had to decide if the boy was to be trusted. None but Conall knew of the deal that Conri had once made with the Dark God. Silence replaced conversation as Conri considered what he might say. Without Jarek, whose kin had once brought the Dark God to submission, he could not win. Nor could his daughter.
With a raised hand, Conri said, “Let me call for Tigorra. With her runes as protection, I can speak more freely.”
They waited, without talking, until the fennidi woman returned. When she entered, her gaze paused on Jarek’s face, for his lips had become swollen and a slice crossed the bridge of his nose. She offered no aid as she laid out a handful of runes, all marked with dim, blue markings. After a moment, she collected two and placed them on the floor between the men. In the language of the Ancients, she told Conri that he did not have much time, but his words would be unheard by any beyond the walls.
Quickly then, he explained what Nox desired. Of how Syrsha would be the Dark God’s Queen, ruling over only those mortals who professed fealty to Nox. Part mortal herself, she would be little more than his plaything, but the Tribe would rule Cordisia once more under her watch. A mortal’s watch.
“What about those who will not worship the Dark One?” Jarek interrupted, his face stern and serious.
“They will be killed. Or enslaved. I know not the whims of my father.”
“The Lightkeepers have grown strong, in numbers and in power,” Jarek informed him. “And why has Nox allowed the Tribe to kill kin? Would a wiser god not try to unite his children?”
Conri, in agreement, said, “That is not the way of our father. He lets us battle to see who will remain standing when the rest have fallen. He wants only the strongest to lead.”
“Will the Wolves be the ones standing, High Lord?”
The question required a lengthy answer, but he had little time remaining.
“With Syrsha’s return, none can defeat Wolf. Not Crow, nor Bear, nor Crown. Do you understand now why I sent Syrsha from the Tribelands? Had she stayed, Nox would have taken her for his own.”
“She is your weapon!” Jarek hissed in disapproval.
Rising, the High Lord said, “No. She is her own weapon.”
“How do I know your words to be true?” Jarek demanded.
“You won’t. Not yet. But I have long been my father’s son, and I have grown weary of his ways. Jarek, you know little of me, of what I have done and who I have been. Caryss changed much for me, although she knew it naught.”
It was not until another glass of firewater was in his hand that Conri said, “She reminded me of my mother.”
Tigorra again spoke, telling him that the rune-spell had faded.
“For both, I will not allow Cordisia to fall into darkness,” the High Lord confessed.
Conri could say no more.
The Elemental crossed the room, his torn tunic hanging from his waist. He did not stop until he reached Conri. Without any words, he grabbed the decanter shining with amber firewater and brought it to his lips. After several swallows, he handed the empty bottle back to the High Lord.
“Do not give me cause to regret coming here,” the Elemental warned.
Moon years before, to a wide-eyed and scared boy, the same words had been uttered. That time, though, it was the High Lord who had spoken them.
And Caryss had yet lived.
*****
After Syrsha arrived back at the temple, Ru had found her in the training room, where she had gone to practice without the others. Her thoughts had become mist-covered and her skin had tingled the last few hours. But there were many around her, and Syrsha dared not call upon her power. Ofttimes, when the shadows came, her father would appear, yet it was not so today. Without seeking him or attempting to time-walk, she could do nothing, for Aldric watched, his hands still unhealed.
The shihon, without any further chastisement, spent hours with her in the anjin room, with few words being exchanged. As the hours passed, the two had sparred, and, more than once, Syrsha suspected him of testing her anew. But he was a skilled fighter of the highest ranking, and she enjoyed the exchange, so much that nightfall had come without her knowing. Dinner had been served hours before, which bothered Ru little. For Syrsha, however, the late hour made her hurry from the temple, for she had forgotten her meeting with Jiang.
By the time she reached the western edge of his family’s lands, it was near midnight. Overhead, the skies blended gray and black, as if storms neared. None had mentioned his presence at the temple, and, in truth, she knew not if he had come at all. Most would not have sought him, but Syrsha could not yet sleep, so she continued on.
It was not until she spotted the gated entry that she realized that Jiang would not know of her arrival. Two guards, clothed in simple black robes, stood at either side of stone tortoises. The guards, much like the statues, were squat and round, and Syrsha had little difficulty escaping their notice as she silently climbed over the red-stone wall.
His home was not as large as the temple, yet it was larger than any other in the province and spread wide across the treed plain. More than a dozen windows looked upon the other courtyard, and Syrsha crept along side them, low enough that none from inside could see. Toward the end, she slowed, breathing deeply as she laid her cheek against the cool terracotta wall. In Tian, windows were not made of glass. Instead, they were covered with silk curtains, supported by lattice-cut, wooden beams. Through the thin silk, she could smell Jiang, and smiled as the mixture of pine and citrus filled her nose. Only here, with the scent of orange blossoms around her, did Syrsha’s foggy mind clear, and she quietly pushed open the window. Her eyes, unlike most, could see in the darkness with ease, and, as she slithered into the room, Syrsha spotted the sleeping man. A light colored bl
anket covered him, but his face lay exposed, surrounded by his loose hair. Red curtains hung from towering bedposts, which had been carved into swirling patterns.
Pressed against the wall, the open window behind her, Syrsha watched as Jiang slept.
How easy it would be for me to kill him, she thought as the silken blanket rose atop his chest.
She had no weapon and had come right from her session with Ru and wore the simple robes of the temple. Her own hair, like Jiang’s, fell dark and unbound, in waves after she had undone the plaits. Stepping toward the bed, she smiled, knowing that he would not hear her.
As Syrsha bent toward him, her hair tickled his face, covering his eyes with feathers of black. Her lips moved from his ear to his mouth as she lightly kissed him, more weapon than aught else.
Only then did he wake.
With a shy smile, he glanced up at her and said, “If only I could wake each day to such a sight.”
His words tasted of peaches, ripe and sweet, and Syrsha kissed him again, biting gently on his lips.
“Have I come too late?” she half-purred.
Jiang did not move, lying still beneath her. His face, paler even than hers, glowed bright against the darkness of the room. At his throat, his life pulse thumped, but not with fear. He was man only, a prince, but no god. And, for that, Syrsha liked him more.
“You missed the evening meal,” Jiang told her, without anger.
Sitting up straighter, Syrsha asked, “Did you dine on peaches?”
“How did you know?” he laughed.
“Your lips hold traces of the juice.”
As Jiang pushed himself against the carved wooden bedframe, he said, “In Tian, the peach is highly valued. It is known to serve two purposes. One is to cast spells of love, and the other is protection against demons.”
