by Niki Florica
Five
But Moses fled from the face of Pharaoh . . .
-Exodus 2:15B
The air warmed as Kyrian descended, step after step, boots sinking redundantly into the pale skyladder that had not seen use in decades. He kept his hood pulled low over his head and paused only once to look backward, to Rosghel. Once was enough. As the third moon broke the horizon, he turned his eyes to the Green Lands below and did not look back.
The moons sang of summertime, glowing golden and grand above the wasted Lands. The first and second were slivers in the Skies high above, the third a gleaming orb as it gave desperate chase from the tree-lined horizon. As ever, its race was in vain. The other moons were content in their solitude, and by the time their companion reached the summit, they would have fled beneath the horizon. Equally alone in his fugitive’s descent, Kyrian found himself pitying it.
He coughed suddenly, raggedly, halting to support himself upon the stair as a spasm racked his shoulders. The hot, dense air was heavy in his lungs, unnaturally warm and suffocatingly thick. Kyrian winced, pressed an arm to his ribs, and coughed again. Oh, for all the Skies. His chest ached and his throat burned when the spasms released him, and for a long time he hesitated, on hands and knees, heaving for breath and clenching cloud in white fingers. The skyladder waited tolerantly, the moons the only faces to share in his victory when he found the strength to stand, tore a hand through his dark hair, and continued—step by step, breath by breath. One. Step. At a time.
The first moon began to dip, the second followed devotedly, until Kyrian and the third full moon were journeying alone—rejected, unwanted, and guarded by stars. The air grew heavier. The Skies grew distant. A low whisper could be heard below from the shadow that was the Green Lands, the chorus of a thousand dying leaves, stirred by night wind. Kyrian did not allow himself to think of Salienne, spouting lies, or Avel, scraping blood from the watchtower floor, or—Skies forbid—Melkian.
He swallowed hard and buried the desire to look backward, to the cloud that hid them—all of them—from his tired sight. Aradin, please be with him. Protect him. Protect all of them.
If the Good King heard his plea, Kyrian received no response, and he was not surprised.
Perhaps the Grey had spoken rightly. Perhaps Aradin was dead, and belief that he would return to free Ariad from Tasnil was little more than a dying world grasping at hope. Perhaps his guardian had been mistaken, and his father had been wrong. Perhaps the Sword of Kings possessed no more power than an ordinary blade and the Good King was truly dead, and Ariad would wither to dust despite the prophecy of Aradin, the one claiming that an Heir would arise to free it. Kyrian had never heard the prophecy himself for it had been forbidden by Tasnil long ago, but Melkian had heard it, once. And still believed it. What was the phrase he had once recited?
He who bears the Sword of Kings, unworthy of its power,
Shall suffer righteous judgment by Aradin’s icy fire,
But he who bears the Sword of Kings, the chosen of the Skies,
Shall bear the world to utter peace when Blood of Legends rise.
Standing upon the skyladder in the warm night wind, breathing Green air and as far from his mother’s people as he had ever been in his life, Kyrian questioned all that he had ever believed of Aradin, his father, the Sword of Kings. Perhaps Melkian and Elyis, and Brondro himself had spent a lifetime believing in a myth, believing in a King who loved his people and could not be divided from them, even by death. A loving King, his chosen Heir . . . Perhaps it was all a false hope. Or a lie.
He caught himself suddenly and choked on a humourless laugh.
Or perhaps Aradin just did not waste his time with the prayers of murderers.
The Green Lands grew beneath him, the murmur rising to a roar, until all the world below was a shapeless blur of forest and wood. When the first yellowed leaves brushed the stair, the terror of an unknown world threatened to seep into his resolve before he buried it, killed it, and forced himself onward. Ever on, ever down, white step by white step, through the leaves he had heard but never felt, until suddenly there was no stair. Only the dark, foreign expanse of solid ground.
Kyrian, you are a half-blood. Silver and Green. He hesitated upon the last step, bracing himself, hating himself, knowing that no pure-blooded Skyad would have fled to the world of the Greenfolk, knowing that he was no pure-blooded Skyad. The world was dark beneath the canopy of leaves, suffocating after the clear, wide Skies and the light of a thousand stars to guide his way.
He was a warrior. He was a fugitive. He was a Silver of the Rain Realm.
Kyrian clenched his jaw, cursed his fear, and stepped white-knuckled from the skyladder.
Because, after all, he was also a Green.
Melkian stepped from the Silver barracks and into utter chaos. The sun was bright in his eyes, his senses dulled by a guard assembly that had lingered far too long and covered far too much, but somewhere someone was shouting. Beside him a Silver warrior cried, “What in Skies’ name—?” and Melkian was hastening, calling, pushing through the throng toward the source of the cries. There was a crowd of children beside the fountain, all of them shouting and cheering in a close ring about the fixture of their attention. Berdon, the young, fair-haired son of Melkian’s second-in-command, was grinning wickedly, his high-pitched voice crying, “Traitor! Son of a traitor!”
He watched the lad’s fist fall. His Silver warriors sprang to life, pulling the children away, rebuking them, shouting sense into them, attempting to diffuse the fight that was not a fight at all. Berdon was striking hard and fast, grinning, shouting, “Traitor!” The strongest of the others pinned his victim to the cloudy ground while he struck and struck again. The child beneath their arms was small—very small—kicking and flailing and screaming bloody murder, daring them to fight like true warriors, roaring their cowardice to the very world. Melkian’s heart sank.
Kyrian.
His warriors had succeeded in dissolving the war when at last his leaden feet bore him across the square, where only Kyrian remained, lying upon the cloud, scarlet and tear-streaked, breathing shallow, rasping gasps, tears leaking through eyes tightly closed. Melkian was at an utter loss. Jas would have known what to do. Skies ablaze, even Brondro would have known what to do. His heart ached in his chest. Breaking and uncertain, he knelt to one knee and simply whispered, “Kyrian?”
The son of Brondro’s eyes opened, black and wild and filled with tears.
Melkian broke. He was so young. So young and fragile and filled with fire, too young for the burdens left upon him by the father he did not know. Distantly Melkian was aware of Salienne, standing at his side, emanating concern with every quiet breath. Seven winters old. So very, very young. Too young . . .
Melkian blinked to alertness to find the manor swimming before his eyes.
He felt Thunderfoot’s gaze upon him as he halted upon the manor stair, steadying himself on the terrace rail until the Skies dissolved into focus. The red light of flickering torches was burned into the dark behind his eyelids, and though the Greys had fallen silent behind his back he could still hear their curses, their roars for justice and death and the spilling of the murderer’s blood.
He swallowed hard, pushing away from the column as the Storm Lord’s sharp eyes coldly assessed him. “Ill, Captain?” he asked smoothly, broad against the white terrace.
Melkian stared. Ill? No, my lord! Simply suffering the ailment of any Skyad whose duty shall soon force him to execute his own surrogate son. Very common. It will pass. Perhaps when the poisoned arrow is fired?
“No, my lord. This day has simply been a weary one.”
Thunderfoot’s lips quirked. Melkian produced a manor key from his tunic and fitted it blearily to the tarnished lock, noting for the first time the gouges in the once-shining polish, the stains upon the terrace, the filth upon the shuttered window. He could not remember when it all had happened.
“A key, Captain?” The Storm Lord’s voice was dark w
ith suspicion.
Melkian had not the motivation to disguise the truth. It would not soon make a difference. “Naturally, Storm Lord,” he replied, almost testily. “It is my house.”
He felt the heat of Thunderfoot’s surprise but chose to ignore it as he thrust the door wide and entered the flickering blue glow of the front hall, empty but for the tendrils of cloud clinging to the curved stair to the west wing. Salienne had neglected to remove her boots again. He had never been so relieved. If she was here, then perhaps—perhaps—Kyrian was not.
Kyrian.
He could still remember the way Brondro’s son had clung to him that day, heaving for breath, cheeks streaked with tears of pain and humiliation and black, writhing anger. Melkian had felt the heat of Kyrian’s wrath within his bruised, small body, radiating from him in waves, burning in his bright eyes, heavy in each painful breath. He had almost heard the blood roaring in Kyrian’s ears, could still hear his small, rage-filled voice screaming in defence of his father, of Brondro, with every blow to his battered, shuddering chest. The bruises had been terrible, he recalled, angry scarlet and dark violet, the work of a disillusioned child with far too much power at far too young an age. But Kyrian had been proud of them. Seven winters old and already a warrior. A survivor.
Thunderfoot entered the manor and stood, arms crossed, in the blue light of the hall.
Melkian shouted for Salienne.
She descended in cold grace, eyes widening demurely at the sight of Thunderfoot as she bowed smoothly to greet him in typical Silver fashion. She was clothed in Kyrian’s old tunic and breeches, her nightly apparel, black braid slung over one shoulder, dark eyes flickering blue. Melkian searched her wintry features but found nothing. “What is it, Melkian?”
A ruse. She had not spoken his name in a fortnight and he doubted she was beginning now. He held her gaze, searching. “Your brother has murdered a Grey. He is a fugitive of the guard and if you have seen him, Salienne, I must know.”
He had been attempting to pierce her armour, but as ever, she was impenetrable.
Thunderfoot growled at his side. “Captain.”
Melkian worried his sword-hilt. Salienne still wore the black boots of the guard. His gaze dipped to her right calf, but the ever-present bulge of her knife was absent. “My lord?”
The Storm Lord’s voice was dagger-sharp. “I demand to know your relation to this fugitive.”
Salienne’s nostrils narrowed. Melkian met his eyes and answered flatly, “I raised him.”
The curse that escaped the Storm Lord’s lips was articulate to say the least, and Melkian turned to the ring of metal on metal in time to find a Storm knife pressed to his throat and the steely grey eyes of Thunderfoot blazing before his face. Salienne did not move. Nor did he. “Captain,” the lord growled through clenched teeth, “if you expect for a moment that I am blind enough to fall prey to your deceptions, you are sorely mistaken. My warrior is dead, and for it your Silver shall die. If you or this wretched creature have played a part in this murder, I swear to you upon Tar-Yvonn that I shall kill you—both of you—swifter than my warriors may set fire to this manor.”
Melkian felt the cold blade against his throat but he was grossly undaunted. He clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his chin slightly upward, noting that the Storm Lord’s knife shifted to allow him the movement. Good. The Grey commander did not truly wish to kill him.
“My lord,” he intoned, “I am the captain of the Silver Guard and Rosghel in the silence of King Tasnil. Order and justice are mine to uphold and I shall uphold them, no matter the personal price.”
“Then he is dear to you,” Thunderfoot snarled. “More than a mere second-in-command.”
“He is a son to me,” Melkian replied coldly. “But it is irrelevant. I assure you, my lord, his crime is as much a betrayal of loyalty to me as of justice to you. If he may be found within the bounds of my city, I shall deliver his consequence.” He paused, feeling suddenly, exceptionally reckless. “And if you doubt my competence as captain, Storm Lord, I suggest that you discuss it with Tasnil.”
The last words were bold, perhaps overly so, and Melkian watched a gleam of surprise flicker in the Storm Lord’s eyes before the knife was removed from his throat and sheathed. “Very well, Captain,” Thunderfoot answered after a moment’s hesitation, straightening to his full height. A pure-blooded warrior cloaked in smoky grey. “I am sure, then, that you will allow a search of the manor and grounds?” His eyes gleamed. “If indeed you have nothing to hide.”
Melkian blinked. “As you wish, of course, Storm Lord.”
Thunderfoot cast him a venomous glare before stepping from the hall to address his warriors from the terrace, his deep, strong voice laced with ice and dripping naked contempt. His back was graciously turned. Melkian looked to Salienne. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
She was beautiful, standing on the stair in breeches and a loose tunic, eyes spewing hate as the Greys beyond the door dispersed onto the manor grounds like vermin, like wolves. She had always been beautiful, even as a child, standing at Melkian’s side while Kyrian coughed blood into his chest and explaining in her small, grave voice what her brother could not find the strength to say. Who attacked first? Kyrian. Why? They called our father a traitor. Do you believe this?
Kyrian had answered for her. No! He is a liar, he is a liar! Before his gasps had turned to sobs.
Melkian winced, clutched the door to support himself as the room swayed beneath the vividness of the memory. Salienne watched in scrutinous silence. Always judging, always watching.
Kyrian. Kyrian, listen to me. I know it is difficult for you to understand, but there are many within this city that believe your father a traitor. This shall not be the last time you hear it. You must not allow them to taint what you know to be true. He is not a traitor. He is a great hero and warrior. I have said this before.
In his mind he watched Kyrian scour tears from his cheeks with a white fist. “But Berdon’s father knew him, Melkian. Knew him. I did not know him. Salienne did not know him.”
Melkian placed Kyrian upon his feet and knelt before him, gazing into his face. “Kyrian,” he replied, with a ghost of a smile, “I knew him.” A blink of wide dark eyes, aglow with dawning realization. “It is difficult for you, Kyrian. I know. I loved your father as a friend and a brother, and if you trust me truly, you will trust that I knew him more surely than anyone. I knew him, Kyrian. I know he is not a traitor, as surely as I know you are his son.” He paused and raised a hand to ruffle Kyrian’s dark hair in a rare gesture of affection. Why had it been so rare? “Do you trust me, Kyrian?”
“Melkian.” At Salienne’s cold voice, the memory fragmented to a thousand jagged splinters and scattered at his feet. She was speaking to him. They were alone, and she was speaking to him.
He stiffened, slightly disbelieving, and met her eyes. They were empty. “Kyrian?”
“Safe.” A plain response. Unadorned, unembellished. “You need not ready the noose, Melkian.”
He frowned. “Salienne—”
“He wished me to say that he loves you, he thanks you, and he is sorry.”
“Salienne.”
She scowled. “He is safe, Melkian. Come dawn he shall be beyond the reach of the Storm Lord, secure within the Green Lands. He is beyond our aid now. Both of us.”
He drew a breath, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Her glare was venomous. “I did not do it for you. I did it for him. To protect my brother.”
“There was a time that we would have protected your brother together.”
Something seemed to flicker in her features for a moment: a shadow of regret, a hint of memory. “That was before,” she replied at last, hardening again, like resin. “Before I knew that you are a liar.”
“Salienne—”
“I am speaking to you upon Kyrian’s behalf, Melkian, not my own. Nothing has changed. You are not my father. Whatever it was that you once shared with Kyrian you shall ne
ver share with me. He forgave, but I shall not. You are a liar, Melkian.” Her lips pressed whiter. “You are a coward.”
She ascended the stair. Red light filtered dancingly through the windows as a regiment of Greys stalked the manor grounds beneath Lord Thunderfoot’s command. They would be thorough, Melkian knew, in their wrath, but they would find nothing. Kyrian was gone.
He sighed, steadied himself upon the wall, a dark void yawning in his heart with the sudden realization that he had gained his wish, and with it his greatest fear. Kyrian was gone. He was gone.
Melkian willed himself across the hall and collapsed onto the lowermost step, burying his face in his hands, bathed in conflicting red and blue glows from the torches within and without. The manor was surrounded, crawling with Greys, but to him it was empty. Kyrian should have been at his side, but he was gone—not only the tear-streaked, bloodied child outside the barracks, but the warrior, the second-in-command, the one who believed in Brondro, in Melkian, in the Good King Aradin himself. He would not have killed, or even fought, unless provoked by something great, for he had promised to cease fighting long ago, and he had kept his vow. Always. Even when it had threatened to claim his life.
Melkian winced, burying the thought before the memory of Kyrian’s Last Fight could resurface. He was balanced precariously upon the edge of breaking, and could not now afford to lose his mind. Rosghel was certain to need its captain if the alliance was forged. He begged Aradin for strength.
Torches blazed; the wind hissed. Somewhere in the Green Lands, Kyrian walked alone.
“Brace yourself, Brondro,” Melkian said to his manor with a sad, small smile. “Your son is in your domain now.”
Kyrian was lost.
If he had ever nurtured a fantasy of the Green Lands, of lush woods, carolling birds, and the hum of a thousand insects among Dryad-filled trees, reality was a stark disappointment. The trees were withered, bent and yellowed with thirst, their roots protruding in gnarled fingers from the ground, gasping for water beneath the surface. The forest floor was dust, littered with leaves that crumbled beneath footfalls and clung to his boots like cirrus cloud. There was no sound of life. Not a bird, not a breath. Only silence, wind, and the beat of his heart. Only thirst, hunger, and death.
