Changer of Days

by Alma Alexander

  And then he was gone. Kieran stood very still for a moment, his hand dropping to his side; then his fingers closed into a white-knuckled grip on the haft of his dagger. When he turned to face the expectant men waiting in the darkness behind, the power of his resolve was about him like a bright cloak, and they had to choke down the impulse to raise what would, for all of Kieran’s determination and courage, be a decidedly premature cheer.

  “We’ll wait for moonrise,” Kieran said tightly. “Then we go. We must be in place when they come.”

  More waiting; but this time they were coiled springs, waiting only for the hour of their release. When the hour Kieran had appointed came, they filed out of the stables, ten shadows, ten intruders trespassing uninvited into the heart of Sif Kir Hama’s realm, waiting to snatch the greatest treasure in his keep. Stepping softly across the cobbles of inner courtyards, keeping to the edges where the shadows were deepest and snow still lingered in dirty gray piles against damp stone walls, Kieran stole a moment to wonder with grim amusement if Sif, tossing restlessly in the grip of his dreams somewhere in the South, knew just what would be happening in his castle the next morning.

  They found their way to the northern battlements without meeting another living soul, the castle sleeping quietly around them, sunk in the innocent dreams that come in the darkness before dawn. The ten men waited wakeful, stoically enduring the bitter cold of the mountain night, which proved winter was with them still and spring only a promise of dimly remembered warmth. It wasn’t the first time they had waited in cold darkness for the dawn. They had learned to bring themselves into a state of almost suspended animation, keeping themselves alert in anticipation of what was to come, ready for action at a whispered word, yet able to stand like a statue carved of stone until that whisper came. And it came not long after dawn broke and the pale morning sun touched the mountains beyond the battlements with a rim of luminous gold.

  They walked warily when they appeared, the ten guards Melsyr had promised: three in the van, naked swords at the ready, eyes hooded and watchful; two on either side, in single file, forming two sides of a square which was completed by the three bringing up the rear. Inside this living square walked…but there were two cloaked figures, hoods pulled forward to hide their features.

  It took Kieran a precious second to realize who the second figure must be. Dear Gods. It’s Senena.

  But it was all set, and his arm had dropped in the pre-arranged signal before the thought had a chance to properly cross his mind. And then there was no more time to think, only to call out a swift warning to Adamo, who waited just behind him with his sword naked in his hand. “The other is Sif’s queen! Beware!”

  But Charo had already taken out one of the rear guards, soundlessly, and pirouetted with a kind of deadly grace to spit another on the point of his blade even as the man turned, startled, to face him. The four on the sides had a man each to take care of them, but Charo had broken an instant too soon. The guards didn’t have the time to yell for reinforcements, but the ring of steel on steel in the silence of the mountain dawn as Sif’s men turned to defend themselves was clarion enough.

  Sloppy, thought Kieran grimly, even as he beat aside the blade of his own opponent and left his dagger in the man’s exposed throat. We had all the advantages. It should have been over quietly, quickly. He lifted his eyes and his blood ran cold.

  Fodrun had taken the stairs two at a time, leading not only the four remaining guards Melsyr had promised but another ten. Three or four showed signs of being summoned hastily, protected with leather vests instead of light guardsman’s armor and armed with sturdy quarterstaffs rather than steel, but the rest were grimly businesslike. It was obvious they would kill where they had to but their first priority was to snatch the cowled woman in the midst of the shattered guard square and spirit her away back to the darkness of her captivity. And Kieran was too far away, even as the knowledge hit him and he recognized her by her bound hands. Anghara tossed back her hood, somehow managing to unerringly meet his eyes across the battle taking place between them. Recognizing him. Saying goodbye.

  Something gave him strength. He leapt over his fallen foe, leaving Adamo to battle it out alone with the two guardsmen who had accosted him—one from the original guard square and a member of the reinforcements who had leapfrogged across to offer his support. Charo had realized what was happening and was hastening Fodrun’s way, but was stopped by one of the quarterstaff wielders. Fodrun reached Anghara a split second before Kieran, and gathered her to his side with his left arm, his sword gleaming wickedly in his other hand.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I never wanted her death?” he said. “But now…it is too late.”

  “It is never,” said Kieran through clenched teeth, “too late.”

  “I must have been mad,” said Fodrun, more to himself than to the foe who faced him, “to have ever sanctioned this.”

  Kieran had enough presence of mind to offer a grim smile at this admission; Fodrun’s eyes darkened, his own lips thinning into an almost invisible line as he shifted his grip on his sword in anticipation of Kieran’s challenge.

  But then Senena screamed, and things became a blur.

  Kieran was aware, as though watching things which were both ludicrously speeded up and enacted in grisly slow motion, of an expression of pure agony that washed across Anghara’s features even as she sagged into a dead faint in Fodrun’s arms. Fodrun, to whom she had become a sudden encumbrance, let her slip down at his feet and turned back to face him. At the same time, Kieran was aware of Charo’s exultant shout as he made his opponent stumble on the edge of the stairs, lose his balance, turn on his heel with the quarterstaff flailing out of control in his hand, and tumble backward head over heels down the steps. The end of the man’s quarterstaff caught Senena a glancing blow across the abdomen, making her double over in pain. She lost her footing, stumbling over the edge of the first stair, falling awkwardly while trying to protect her swollen belly to slam side on into the battlement wall, then sliding down it into a graceless sprawl. Kieran’s sword seemed to have moved of its own accord; when he looked at his weapon again, he found it streaming with blood. He blinked, looking around for the victim—and saw Fodrun lying face down at his feet, the general’s blade flung an arm’s reach away, balancing precariously on the top stair. The blood pooling beneath him was beginning to ooze out, reaching for the edges of the soft dark cloak they had given Anghara.

  Who lay motionless a few steps away, her eyes closed, pain still etched into a deep line on her brow.

  Kieran dropped his sword, heedless of his surroundings, and knelt beside her. Her head lolled almost lifelessly on his shoulder as he lifted and cradled her against him, smoothing away strands of bright hair that had fallen across her face. The moment had him by the throat—after all this time, all these years, here she was in his arms—had it all been for nothing?

  But no—she breathed. Kieran closed his eyes briefly, sending every prayer of gratitude he ever knew to whatever Gods cared to receive them. His own dagger was lost; Fodrun’s, bound at his waist, was close enough to snatch. Kieran reached for it, too dazed by the moment to appreciate the irony of Fodrun’s dagger being the instrument of Anghara’s release as he cut away the rope that bound her hands.

  “Anghara?” he said softly. Now that he was looking upon her again, he was unprepared for how strange the name still seemed when applied to his little foster sister from Cascin. But this gaunt, pale young woman was no longer the little girl he had left behind. It was Anghara Kir Hama he held this day, not the child he knew as Brynna. “Can you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes even as a finger of sunlight found its way around the towers and poured itself onto the battlements where so many lay dead or dying. The pain was still there, the pain he had seen touch her not a few moments ago, but receding. She stared at him for a long moment, and then the gray eyes filled with tears. “Kieran…”

  He had to swallow twice before he could speak.
“Can you walk? It’s time we were away from here…before they send what’s left of the entire garrison.”

  “Help me up.” Her voice was faint, cracked, faded. Gods, thought Kieran, shocked despite himself as his arm went around her thin waist while he helped her to her feet. What has he done to you?

  But the physical punishment had been nothing, he could tell, compared to the specter of pain that haunted her eyes. Inside, there was something broken—something that would take a great deal more healing than simply reversing the effects of solitary confinement and starvation.

  Charo was beside them, his wild warrior’s eyes unexpectedly brimming with tears. Anghara saw him, held out a hand; he took it, clasped it with both of his, for once completely bereft of words. It was, uncharacteristically, left to the usually mute Adamo to break the cocoon of silence being woven around Anghara—but only because, as usual, he said everything important with his eyes, pools of remembered love and affection as he gazed at Anghara. The words he found to say were sensibly practical. “It’s time we were leaving,” he commented, and at that Kieran took charge again.

  Looking around, he saw his men mopping up the remainder of the guard. The rest of the keep still was—still seemed—deceptively quiet. Whatever chance they had of carrying this off was here, right now. The keep could rouse at any second.

  “Adamo, round them up,” he said, his voice swift, quiet. “Twos and threes, as before. There’s still a chance they will open the keep gates before all this is discovered, there will be people crossing into the city—slip into the crowd. If you have to, leave your weapons—we won’t be tagged immediately as intruders, not if we leave quietly. Charo, help me; you and I will stay with Anghara. I can carry you,” he said, turning to the girl whom he still supported in an upright position with an arm around her waist, “but it might look a little bit less conspicuous if you walked. Are you able?”

  Anghara began to nod; then her eyes slid past his shoulder and onto the stairwell littered with corpses, and lighted on the ungainly bundle of wheaten hair, sprawled limbs and great belly that was Senena. Her breath caught. Kieran turned, saw what she was looking at. His arm tightened a little, in support.

  “I must go to her…” Anghara breathed, retrieving her hand from Charo’s grasp. Her frail form was imbued with surprising strength as she stepped away from Kieran, stumbling toward the stairs and the still form lying there. Kieran exchanged a glance with the others; at a nod, Adamo peeled away and began collecting the rest of the men together. Kieran and Charo followed Anghara.

  The little queen’s gown was soaked with blood, and her hands were clenched into tight fists of agony; Anghara covered her legs with her own cloak, folding the child-queen’s small hands into her own. Tears were running freely down her cheeks. “She was kind to me,” Anghara said, very softly.

  Kieran came down on one knee beside her, a hand on her shoulder; Charo bent to touch Senena’s brow.

  “It’s the babe,” Charo murmured softly. “She would have had it hard anyway—she was so small and frail. She’s still alive, but barely; and death will be a mercy…”

  But Senena, slowly and in infinite pain, opened her eyes and stared into Anghara’s face. “To walk…in the sunlight,” she whispered. “To see…the sky.”

  “Senena…”

  But Senena’s eyes were lucid, and oddly triumphant. “I am not his,” she said, finally seeming to understand the motives which had led her to befriend Anghara. “He will not raise a dynasty out of a son of my body…Come back to Miranei, Anghara…Reign for me in Roisinan…”

  Her eyes remained open, but her spirit was suddenly gone—they were empty, windows of pale glass. And Anghara reached again, for something she remembered—something she had once done as if by right—the presence of a God, and the glory of his gifts. But there was nothing there, nothing but emptiness and white pain which bent her double once again over Senena’s body.

  Come to me now, al’Khur! I am an’sen’thar…I wear your gold…

  But through a veil of pain his voice came back to her: Another whom you might have wished to save will come to me before we meet again…I see suffering…

  And another voice, from years later, the voice of the oracle which had given her a cryptic rhyme at Gul Khaima: Beneath an ancient crown the unborn die. The Crown Under the Mountain. Senena’s unborn son. And Anghara’s own helplessness.

  “I am blind,” she whispered, finding in the hour of Senena’s death the courage to name something she had known for a long time but avoided facing. “He has taken the Sight from me. I am blind.”

  4

  Anghara wept as though her heart would break, as though all the world’s sorrows were contained in the still body which lay before her—broken promises, divided loyalties, shattered lives. When Kieran slipped an arm around her shoulders, the slight pressure of his hand an invitation to rise, Anghara lifted a tear-streaked face up to him and shook her head violently.

  “We can’t just leave her!” she said, and her voice was hoarse from crying.

  “Let them find us here, and we all join her in Glas Coil before this day’s noon,” said Kieran. “We will burn a wand of incense for her soul in a temple as soon as we may, for she was a friend to you, and a great lady…but for now, Anghara, come, it is past time we left this place. Or it will all have been for nothing. And Senena herself would have wanted you to win free. Come.”

  He thought she might resist still as he helped her rise, for her shoulders were rigid beneath his hands, but she had bitten down on her sorrow and held it all ruthlessly in check as he bent to gently close Senena’s eyes. Charo had already arranged the little queen’s limbs in a more seemly fashion underneath the merciful concealment of the enveloping cloak, and now Kieran, murmuring a prayer of passage, reached to pull the cloak up to cover her face. Anghara had shut her own eyes, and tears welled unchecked from underneath her closed eyelids, spilling through the long eyelashes and down her cheeks. When Charo came round to take her arm, and the gentle pressure of Kieran’s hand guided her to take a first step down the staircase awash with the blood of dead men, Anghara went where they led her, submissive to their will.

  They had done the impossible—and it had all seemed, in retrospect, to have taken a ridiculously short time. Luck was still with them as they left the scene of the carnage; there was a sense of violation in the courtyards of the keep as Kieran and Charo, supporting Anghara between them, slipped through—but the keep still knew nothing of the vile deed, or who had done it. However, there were more than the usual number of the guards at the open gate, and they seemed uneasy about something. Kieran had stopped just out of sight, behind a jutting corner still deep in morning shadow; he and Charo watched grimly as two of the guards stopped a handful of servants on their way to the city marketplaces and rummaged through their bags.

  “They’ll never let us through,” said Charo.

  But Kieran was remembering something—throwaway words, quickly forgotten in the gathering power of the night before, uttered back in the stables. Melsyr’s quick grin in the darkness…a flash of white teeth…I’ll swop duties with someone; it might be more useful if I’m guarding a back gate…

  “The postern,” said Kieran brusquely. “It’s our only chance. Come on.”

  They wheeled and stumbled back the way they had come. Kieran hesitated at the next corner, and Charo leaned closer. “Do you know where we’re going?” he hissed.

  “I know where Miranei’s postern is from the outside,” Kieran hissed back. “I could hardly ask directions for it in here. Adamo found out from one of his friends, and he said…give me a moment…”

  “Go left,” said a faint, unexpected voice. “There’s a passage from this courtyard.”

  Kieran glanced down at Anghara with a sense of surprise. He should have remembered this was her childhood home. He nodded. “Come on, Charo.”

  He saw the archway leading into the passage she had mentioned, and then had to flatten the three of them against the
wall as five soldiers emerged, moving fast. Their faces were set into expressions ranging from unease to what was almost panic in the case of the youngest. They passed without turning their heads; Kieran waited for a tense moment to see if any more were likely to emerge before drawing his blade with a soft hiss. “I’ll go first,” he said softly. “You follow, Charo, help Anghara. Be careful.”

  Charo nodded, wasting no words, loosening his own weapon. Kieran moved forward with wary caution. The narrow arched gate widened into a broad walkway—initially a tunnel, torches guttering in sconces on either side, abruptly metamorphosing into a cloister surrounding a grassy square with a fountain set into the central sward.

  “Keep to the left,” Anghara’s voice came from behind, pitched only just loud enough for Kieran to hear. “There’s another arch straight ahead.”

  There was; Kieran slipped inside. A sudden noise made him lift his hand, stilling the other two into silence, but the sound of footsteps faded into the distance and Kieran crept forward cautiously once again.

  “Turn right at the end of this corridor,” came the instruction, just as a blank wall seemed to cut off all forward passage. A narrow lane branched right and left at the T-junction, and Kieran, peering both ways, stepped into the right passage.

  “At the end of this corridor,” whispered Anghara, “there’s a door; the latch is on this side, but there might be a guard on the other. We’ll come out at the foot of the West Tower; the postern is set into the base of the tower itself.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Kieran softly. “The West Tower? This isn’t the postern I know. That lets into the city. This one…”

  “This one leads into the foothills,” said Charo, a touch of quickening excitement in his voice. “Well done, cousin. If the unease spreads out into the city, at least we’ll be well out of it…”

  “In the mountains, on foot, with no supplies at the tail end of winter,” said Kieran. “Still, the idea has merit. If we are seen to enter Miranei for the first time only after this whole mess, it might be easier to get out again quietly, as opposed to us trying to sneak out of the city once what happened this morning becomes known.”