by Niki Florica
“Lord Thunderfoot,” the Usurper purred, seated languidly upon his stolen throne. “I am so pleased to see that you have received my summons at last. Welcome.”
Thunderfoot nodded, forcing a diplomatic smile. Worm.
“I had expected our meeting to occur upon your arrival in Rosghel.”
Thunderfoot’s grimace faded. “I was otherwise occupied. One of my Greys was murdered by a Silver warrior upon our arrival. This night has been spent in a hunt for the fugitive.”
Tasnil’s expression screamed disinterest. “You were successful, I presume?”
A jaw-clenching, teeth-grinding, “No.”
“How unfortunate. Nevertheless, our business must continue.” Tasnil gestured to a gold-gilt chair that was comically small in comparison to his grand, white throne. “Please, sit.”
I shall sit precisely when and where I wish, you miserable, wretched, thieving, murderous—
“I insist, Storm Lord.”
Thunderfoot sat.
Tasnil made no move to stand, but even seated he was a giant of a creature, broad-shouldered, long-legged, and folded into the stolen throne that seemed, somehow, too small for him despite its grand size. Thunderfoot knew himself to be taller and broader than most, but in the presence of the Usurper he was a child. His pathetic excuse of a chair was, clearly, a direct insult to his masculinity.
Oh, how he loathed this creature.
“I have anticipated our meeting for many long years, Lord Thunderfoot,” Tasnil remarked coolly, propping an elbow upon an arm of the throne. The dawn cast grey light over his sallow face, lighting a jagged white scar that ran from his left brow to his chin, over one misty eye. “Our peoples have wasted far too many years upon empty wars, have they not? The time has come to unite.”
Thunderfoot blinked. “The wars were beneath different leadership, you will recall.”
Tasnil regarded him unreadably. “The former Storm Lord and I shared a strained relationship,” he conceded, white lips quirking. “But you, Thunderfoot, promise to be a far more practical leader. I have high hopes for this alliance, and for a prosperous relationship between our realms.”
“Prosperous,” Thunderfoot repeated, testing the word, rigid and stiff in his chair. “We are agreed, then? A Grey army in exchange for the Rains? You will send for them?”
Tasnil’s expression was placid. “Of course. Is our alliance sealed?”
Thunderfoot hesitated, his flesh crawling with a thousand screaming warnings that any association with this wretched tyrant was pure lunacy, pure insanity. The Usurper was a serpent, with a mind that had festered in madness since the disappearance of Brondro Tarmilis. And Thunderfoot thought it wise to give him an army? His fists clenched the gold-gilt arms of his chair.
An alliance with Tasnil the Usurper. An alliance, with Tasnil the Usurper. He had lost his mind.
But his people were dying. The melsith stores in the Storm Realm were all but drained away, and without the Rains, without the waters beneath Tasnil’s control, the only Greys in his command would soon be the dead. Tasnil was mad, but he was power in Ariad, the last hope for Thunderfoot’s people. Surely one army was worth the survival of the Storm Realm?
“Are we agreed, Lord Thunderfoot?” Tasnil pressed, eyes gleaming white-blue in the dawn.
Thunderfoot blinked, swallowed, clenched his fingers into tight-knuckled fists as somewhere in the east the sun broke in golden glory over the horizon, beaming through the balcony doors.
“Yes,” he replied at last, “my king.”
The words were pure poison upon his tongue.
The Nelduith did not taste like poison, but Kyrian was hardly an authority.
From the moment the clear waters chilled his throat he waited, tense and silent, for the painless end promised by the Adamun. His thoughts were a haze of justifications, condemnations, and prayers—a toxic blend of hope and dread—every heartbeat certain to be the last, even as each pulse was followed by another. The Adamun watched him in courteous silence, but the huntsman’s jaw stretched tighter as time wore on and still Kyrian sat before him, elbows propped on his knees, very much alive, and very much surprised. The goblet was abandoned upon the dust at his side, empty. His throat was miraculously cured of its ache, and for the first time in near four years, Kyrian felt no thirst.
The Man’s hands were shaking. “You should be dead,” he growled. “The river Nelduith is forbidden to any but the Naiads. Any creature that drinks of the waters dies instantly, as is the Naiad law. You should be dead, Skyad. You should have died long ago.”
Kyrian swallowed, met his eyes, and saw the same words written in the Man’s mind that were racing, blurring in his own. Aradin shall be your judge. The commander nodded to his Men and Kyrian was pulled to his feet, his hands forced behind his back and bound, a reeking brown hood pulled over his head. Before the cloth fell over his eyes, the Man leaned forward, brown eyes mere breaths from his own. “Will you swear, Skyad, upon your city, upon your people, upon all you hold dear, that you are not a servant of Tasnil the Usurper, enemy of Ariad, massacrer of the Adamun?”
To hesitate was to die. Kyrian nodded. “I swear it.”
The hood sank to his chin, and his world was thrust into darkness.
He was marched blindly through the forest, Adamun before, Adamun behind, listening to the leader of the woodsman bark commands in the common tongue of Men. Breathing was difficult, but Kyrian held to silence, knowing his position, and knowing he had survived a sentence intended to be his doom. He was an anomaly . . . a deviation. Or simply very skilled at avoiding death.
The air was stale beneath the hood when the terrain changed beneath his feet. He felt the sun’s heat on his shoulders, evidence that they had left the shadow of the trees; the dust turned stony beneath his feet, roots and leaves replaced by pebbles that scattered with their footfalls. There were voices beyond the hood, high and low, female and male and child dancing on the faint morning wind. He drew a stale breath as the familiar sounds of village life conjured a distant sense of home in this strange, foreign, earthbound world. He wondered how Melkian had fared that night, then banished the thought with a wince.
They halted in the blaring sun, the voices of the villagers distant and soft. “Come, Skyad,” the huntsman barked coldly, voice taut and thin with unease. “Midian of the Adamun awaits.”
A firm shove and Kyrian stumbled forward, through the doorway, onto a wooden plank floor of a room that reeked of smoke, fire, and blazing embers. An image of the old, abandoned metal forge in Rosghel flashed in his vision as the clash of hammer on anvil rang throughout the room. Someone beyond the hood laid the hammer to the iron once, twice, thrice more before taking notice of the hooded Skyad prisoner who had stumbled through his door, and suddenly the room fell silent.
A deep, quiet, firm voice gave a command. Someone drew the hood from Kyrian’s face.
He blinked in the light until his eyes snagged upon the Man standing before him. The Man in the soot-coated tunic and trousers, with the wild brown hair and shining copper eyes and cheeks stained black by smoke and ash. The Man with the close-shaved russet beard, broad shoulders, and calloused hands that had held a sword once, in Rosghel, and held a hammer now.
Kyrian could not breathe. The Man’s jaw fell.
The heavy-headed, soot-stained blacksmith’s hammer clattered to the floor at Brondro Tarmilis’ feet.
He was dead. Surely he was dead. There was a Skyad in his forge wearing Melkian’s garb, Tasnil’s insignia, and staring at him openly with Jas’ bright black eyes. A Skyad he had never before seen and yet stood before him like the flesh incarnation of memory itself, staring at him—no, gaping at him—with the shining, ebony gaze of the maiden that held Brondro’s heart.
He was dead.
Something rang on the border of his thoughts, and distantly he was aware that the smith’s hammer was no longer in his hand. He did not stoop to retrieve it. The Skyad seemed not to notice.
“He was found a
league east of the Nelduith before dawn,” his second-in-command reported. “He refused to reveal his business in the Lands, until . . .” A hesitation. Brondro’s eyes remained fixed upon this face he knew and did not know all at once. “He mentioned Brondro Tarmilis by name, Chieftain. He claims to be seeking him. He is a warrior of the Silver Guard, and very likely an assassin of the Usurper, too treacherous a creature to remain alive.”
Skies, was he still speaking? Brondro glanced at him, distracted and only partly attending. “What did you say, Caynan? Speak your mind.”
Caynan tensed, jaw clenching. “I gave him the water.”
Something twisted in Brondro’s chest. “The water? The water of the Nelduith?”
Caynan’s jaw tightened with words yet unspoken. He drew a breath. Raised his brows. “Midian,” he said softly, “Chieftain, he is still alive.”
Oh.
Brondro’s attention returned to the Skyad whose gaze had not once left him since his entrance. The Skyad warrior of the Silver Guard, reminiscent of a young Melkian, the Skyad who had tasted the waters of the Nelduith and yet stood before him, untouched. Impossible. The river Nelduith was the property of the Naiads and forbidden to all but Aradin and the riverfolk.
All, save one.
He alone shall claim the throne from evil tyrant hidden,
And he alone shall taste, untouched, the waters long forbidden . . .
Brondro’s heart palpitated wildly in his chest. Aradin’s prophecy roared in his ears beneath the shallow breaths of the Skyad and the distant words of Caynan that he could not have begun to sift from the chaos even if he had wished. He barked a command, his deputy reluctantly complied, and suddenly Brondro was alone with the Skyad. With the Silver. With his son.
Black hair fell dishevelled past his jaw, longer than Brondro’s but shorter than Melkian’s. Not tall among Skyads but taller, if slightly, than Brondro himself. White complexion, typical of Skyads, broad shoulders—an Adamun gift—proud features and those gleaming, shining dark eyes that Brondro knew so very, very well. He felt himself brush a sweaty strand of dark hair from the young Skyad’s eyes, his hand hesitating there, stalling, as the Silver watched him, shaking.
Brondro swallowed, drew a ragged breath, realized the Skyad had ceased breathing beneath his touch but he could not pull his hand away and he could not break the spell. He knew this face. He knew these eyes. He knew these pale, honest features like windows into the heart beneath.
When the Skyad spoke, his voice was hoarse, soft, and breaking. “Do you know who I am?”
And the voice. Deeper than before, and stronger, and firmer, but still the voice. Still Kyrian.
Brondro nodded as the first hot tears traced salty paths down his soot-stained cheeks. “Yes.”
His son crumbled at the word, slumping forward, breathing hard, his dark hair falling over his face to hide the tears spilling from his eyes. Brondro held him—fiercely, savagely—sputtering into the white-cloaked shoulder, “Of course I do, Kyrian, of course I do. Of course I do.”
Kyrian laughed weakly in his ear and Brondro closed his eyes. Of course, of course, of course I do.
With the knife in his belt he sliced his son’s bonds, felt himself shatter when the Skyad warrior’s arms returned his embrace, and then Kyrian was laughing and Brondro was crying, and he felt the way he had when he had stood upon the skyladder and tousled the little black head for the last time.
Aradin. Oh, Aradin, my King, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing him to me.
“I knew you were alive,” Kyrian breathed. “I knew. I tried to tell them but they did not believe. I did not know the code, the—the blessing, and they did not believe me. I thought . . .” He drew a shaking breath. “I thought I would die and you would never know . . . never know how close I had come—”
His father’s arms tightened. “I cannot believe you are here, Kyrian.” He spoke the name as if testing it upon his tongue, then laughed. “Kyrian. My Kyrian. Here.”
Melkian had always said Brondro’s laughter had been enough to cheer a coroner. Kyrian believed it now. He believed all of it. How could he have doubted any of it when the living, breathing protagonist of Melkian’s every tale was alive, was real, was here? This was the creature he had defended all his life. This was the timid blacksmith who had come to Rosghel unannounced and insignificant, and left it in a blaze of hate and glory, slander and honour and praise. This was Brondro Tarmilis, whose Green blood tainted Kyrian’s veins. Brondro of the Adamun. His father.
Skies and moons, he had a father.
Brondro drew back to study him, golden brown eyes creased to shining crescents. “Jas thought you would favour me when you were young. Thank the Skies you didn’t.”
Kyrian laughed. “You looked different then.”
Brondro grimaced. “Do not remind me. I care not what the Skyads say—it is unnatural to be so deathly pale, and it never suited me well. How beautiful Jas chose the likes of me, I shall never know.” His expression turned earnest. “How is she, Kyrian? Jas? And your sister? And Melkian . . . is he well? I haven’t heard from him in years—he should have sent word . . .” He looked away. Frowned. Ran a hand through his hair. “Kyrian,” he said suddenly, forcefully. “Kyrian, please tell me he is not dead.”
Kyrian drew back. “Dead? No. He is captain of the Silver Guard.”
Brondro sighed in tangible relief, toying with his collar. “Captain . . . good. I have heard nothing in years. He came to meet me only once, and years came and passed, and I was sure . . .” He frowned, looked to Kyrian. “Why has he not kept our meetings? Even one? It has been years. Surely he knew I would fear the worst.”
Kyrian hesitated. “It was too great a risk. Tasnil was always watching, and he could not afford to lose his position as captain.”
Brondro’s brow furrowed. “That does not sound like Melkian.”
“It was . . . complicated.” Oh, Skies. Not yet. Please, not yet. “The position meant wealth. Without it he could not have supported himself and his . . .” He hesitated, and winced. “Us. Supported us.”
Brondro blinked, confused. “You? But what of the forge, and Jas? Why would Melkian—” Something in Kyrian’s expression must have answered him, for he allowed the thought to dwindle into silence as his hands fell lamely to his sides and his brown eyes grew wide, his lips parting for a single, broken, “No.”
Kyrian was sinking into a cold abyss. He heard himself say it but felt far, far away. “Melkian raised us,” said the soft, distant voice that belonged to him. “After she . . . after she died.”
Brondro’s expression was a knife to his heart but he ignored it, fought it, determined to speak the bitter truth before he lost the strength. Before he could lie. “The blue ague claimed her the day Melkian was promoted to captain and . . . and Salienne and I became his. We were young, four winters, and Melkian . . . he became our family. Our life.” One hand rose to his hair and he cringed, hating himself, hating his callousness, hating the truth. Wishing he felt more loss than he did. “He raised us. Melkian. She—Jas—is gone.”
He was staring at a streak of soot on the wall, one hand buried in his hair and one broken half of his heart wishing he had died in a noose that night and spared both of them this pain. He should have chosen the crossbows over the water. He should have fled to the outskirts. He should have died with a Grey’s hands about his throat and everything would have been so very, very simple.
The streak of soot blurred in his vision.
How had this burden fallen to him?
“No,” his father breathed. Kyrian did not look at him. He focused upon the soot, upon the ash in his nostrils, upon the lack of thirst in his throat. Upon anything that was not Brondro. “No, Jas. No.”
He closed his eyes. It was a nightmare. A hallucination. He had drunk of the Nelduith and died and his father was living in blissful ignorance somewhere in the Green Lands with the Sword of Kings. It was not real. This was not real. Hot tears leaked from hi
s eyelids, tears of sorrow this time, not of joy. Brondro Tarmilis’ shaking breaths were thunder in his ears, deafening, all-consuming, each driving the knife-blade deeper into his heart. “She can’t be dead,” Brondro whispered hoarsely. “Not Jas. Not my Jas. She promised to wait for me. She promised to wait.” His voice broke.
This is not real this is not real this is not real . . .
“The blue ague,” his father murmured. “Her mother died of it. She always said it could not touch her because it was borne by fear and she feared nothing.” Kyrian dared to open his eyes. Brondro was staring emptily through the forge window, shining paths traced in the soot on his cheeks, some by tears of joy, most of bitter grief. “She feared nothing, Kyrian. Nothing.” His face twisted in agony. “But it was me . . . I see now. I defied Tasnil and took the Sword and declared myself a fugitive of the most powerful mortal in Ariad. I risked my life and hers . . . and then I left her alone. I forced her to fear. For me.” He sank to his knees.
Wrong. It was wrong, so very, very wrong, but Kyrian could not speak the words.
Brondro buried his filthy, tear-streaked face in black hands. “I’m so sorry, Jas. I love you. I love you. Forgive me. I didn’t keep my promise. Forgive me, Jas, please. I am so, so sorry.”
He remained that way for a long time, face buried in his hands as he wept on his knees for his wife, for his love, for the one he had left behind and would never see again. Kyrian could not watch, but he heard. Every sob, every breath, every whispered word he heard, fighting and failing to drown them beneath his own misery, his own guilt, his own hot tears. It was not supposed to be this way. It was not supposed to be this way.
“Melkian always dreamed of travelling, Kyrian,” Brondro rasped suddenly. “Did you know this?” Kyrian cringed the negative. “He wished to be Aradin’s captain, to walk the Green Lands and sail the Azure Sea and look upon the deep Skies. But he has never stepped beyond the Rain Realm, has he?”
