by Niki Florica
“Fell him?” Kyrian choked, his patience dissolving like sand through a glass. “Skies ablaze, creature, I do not wish to kill him. I need a guide.”
“I shall not be deceived by your Skyad treacheries.”
Kyrian’s knuckles tightened on the Sword. “I speak no treachery. I do not know these woods, and this Robin’s strength and cunning are well-known by the Master who has sent me. I need his guidance to the skyladder in the west. You have my word, creature, upon Rosghel itself, I am not an enemy.”
“And I am not a fool,” the stranger purred in reply. “I grow weary of our fruitless game. It is evident to me that you are a servant of the Usurper, sent to destroy this Robin you seek.”
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know all that I must to end your life,” he hissed. “I know your blood.”
Perhaps it was the rigidness of the blade against his back, or the dwindling composure of the stranger’s venomous voice, but Kyrian could almost feel the coming strike, sense it like a falcon could a rising storm. Time was dwindling, dissolving, slipping through his fingers. The creature behind his back would suffer no sleeplessness for his spilled blood; his hatred for Kyrian was far too intimate to be the product of mere moments.
Evidently being Skyad in this land was a crime worthy of death.
The stranger radiated cold contempt, his knife still as stone, but Kyrian no longer felt its edge. He was focused instead on the rhythm of his heartbeats, on the slick pommel of the Sword of Kings, on the flicker of the light as a shredded veil of cloud wafted over the bright third moon.
The knife wavered against his spine. Subtle—and fleeting—but a breath of uncertainty.
Kyrian lunged.
He braced one foot and pivoted on his knee, simultaneously drawing the Sword and twisting free of the stranger’s knife for the breath he needed to stagger to his feet. The mud crippled him, slick beneath his boots. Darting forward on his left foot he whirled and, in one swift movement, sliced the Sword of Kings toward his captor, tearing a silver gash in the shadows of the night as the hilt blazed cold in the darkness.
His slice was met by open air.
Stumbling with momentum, he was scarcely able to raise the blade in time to deflect the creature’s deadly thrust from his right, then dropped to avoid another. The moonlight played dangerously in the creature’s shadowy eyes. Green. Vivid green. And ablaze with hate.
Correcting his stance, Kyrian instinctively deflected a third thrust and stepped left, using his momentum to continue into a sideward slice. The stranger evaded it like a wraith, flickering in the mist and shadow, features bathed in gloom by the hood of his cloak. A glimmer of green accompanied a sharp forward lunge and a combination that drove Kyrian into retreat, struggling to meet each blow while each footfall sank relentlessly into the Nelduith’s bank. If nothing else, his opponent was a worthy one, but Kyrian had fought too fiercely, too long to be felled by—of all creatures—a Green. His heel met stone and he braced himself hard, ending the retreat, locking his defence, lending him a fraction of a moment and forcing the stranger back. He lunged, swinging the Sword of Kings over his shoulder in a violent vertical slice, weighted with every drop, every shred of his strength.
Silver flashed in the dark as the stranger raised his blade to meet the blow. A blinding shower of sparks exploded from the clash, blasting his weapon from his hands and across the muddy bank.
The tip of the Sword was at his neck in an instant, glinting subtle silver against a shadow-cast throat. Kyrian smirked, sweat stinging his eyes. “You should have taken my weapon.”
Two gleaming, viper-green eyes mocked him above the Sword of Kings.
“You should have taken mine.”
The moons illuminated each heartbeat in perfect detail. The flick of a pale wrist, a flash of silver, a streak of iron through mist and shadow, a stab of pain as Kyrian’s knee buckled beneath him and he fell to the muddy bank with a cry. His hand flew to the inside of his left knee and drew away bloody; already his black trousers were damp scarlet with the dripping badge of his exhaustion, his recklessness. He should have known. He should have sensed the attack. He should never have dropped his hood.
The stranger stood silent, green eyes gleaming as he watched blood seep from the graze wound. “You are fortunate to have your life, Skyad,” he remarked lightly, stooping for his first fallen knife. He crossed the bank and knelt to retrieve the other, a perfect silhouette against the moonlight though still shrouded by cloak and shadow. “My enemies do not often see such generosity.”
“I am not your enemy,” Kyrian snarled. His hand was stained scarlet from holding his fingers to the wound, and he felt his wrath renew as he glared into the stranger’s eyes. “You know nothing of me.”
A green blink. “Still, you are mistaken. You are Skyad. Your blood alone is worthy of my hatred.”
Kyrian ground his teeth, fingers tightening over the bloodstain. “Where is Rydel of Robinsdwel?” he spat. “Guide me to him and you have my word that I shall never again intrude upon your woods.” You ignorant, worm-hearted bigot of a—
Tauntingly, the stranger laughed. “You have found him without my guidance.”
“Do not patronize me, creature,” Kyrian growled. “Who are you?”
In answer the stranger tossed back his hood, revealing a head of dishevelled, russet curls and sharp, pointed features stained dark by shadow. He swept a scarlet feather from behind his ear, flashed a smirk, and bowed with a mocking flourish in the faint, misty moonlight.
“Rydel of Robinsdwel, at your service.”
Melkian ascended the last stair of the tower in the darkness of the third night watch. The wind was soft this night, almost nonexistent, a rare occurrence during the summer moons over the Green Lands. His boots were soundless upon the white terrace of the Siguri, the easternmost guard turret in Rosghel; for leagues he could see the billowing white wall as it stretched from the tower in both directions, the proud last defence of the Silver city, studded by turrets from which the last warriors held guard beneath his command. Most nights the sight brought him hope, even pride, but this night the mist obscured the distant towers from view, and it was difficult to believe in a defence he could not see, and certainly could not feel.
The terrace was encircled by a high parapet, where stood two watchmen clothed in silvery sky-cloaks. The first, upon sighting Melkian, saluted in greeting, then vanished into the spiral stairwell, his duty complete for the night. The second’s salute was graver and less eager. His attention returned swiftly to the Skies.
“No sign of a threat?” Melkian inquired, skirting the massive pyre of moonfire dust still piled in the centre of the open terrace. The mound was overshadowed by a white pavilion, intended to protect the dust and reflect the blue flame when lit. It still performed its duty with tireless vigour, despite the fact that the beacons had sputtered to death long ago, along with any hope they had once brought to the world. To him. They seemed a foolish custom now, even if Jas had once believed in them.
His Silver watchman frowned in response to his question. “No, Captain. The Skies are quiet.”
“Good.” Melkian came to stand at the Silver’s side, resting his hands on the parapet to gaze over the open sky and the shreds of cloud drifting upon fiercer winds. The watchman was not a member of his regiment but had served some years in the guard, and, if Melkian’s memory was accurate, had willingly proffered himself for night watch. He wished he could remember his name. “I do not expect attack from beyond our borders. Marauders shall not likely chance a raid while the Greys lie within the city.”
The Silver did not reply, but his throat bobbed slightly. Silence returned once more.
Melkian had brought Kyrian and Salienne here, once, on the evening of their eleventh birthday. He had always tried to find some makeshift gift, some surprise with which to please them, if only to prove to himself that he was capable of bringing them happiness, capable of giving them a home. He had been worried that the to
wer would seem a foolish surprise, but he ought to have known his warrior-hearted charges would see the opposite. Still he could remember their bright, black eyes, Salienne entranced by the cloudscape beyond Rosghel’s edge, Kyrian darting to and fro and spouting an endless stream of questions, both of them aglow with excitement and, even then, desire. That evening in the sinking sunlight, Melkian had known. Despite all the efforts that followed, all the vain, shouted battles with Kyrian to persuade him against a warrior life, he had known in that moment that the children of Brondro could be Skyad in no other way. They had been warriors then; they were warriors now. He had been a fool to stand against it.
“Rosghel has changed,” he sighed to his companion, raising his eyes to the moons. “Sometimes in these dark days I can scarcely recognize this city . . . It is a shadow of the golden age of old.”
The Silver stirred but said nothing, and for the first time Melkian recognized his silence to be unnatural, abnormal, too still and too strained to be wordlessness alone. He glanced sidelong at the Silver warrior with the pale, flaxen hair drifting lightly in the wind, the warrior whose name he did not know. The blue eyes were fixed upon the distant stars but they were glazed, somehow, distant; as Melkian looked on his lashes fluttered and he drew a shaky breath, raising his hand to his temple and wincing as if it pained him. He was pale. Unnaturally, dangerously pale. Skies, how could Melkian have missed it?
“You are ill,” he said concernedly, rebuking himself for his absent mind, wondering if all of his warriors would drop dead of thirst before he learned to control his wandering.
The warrior avoided his eyes. “It—it is merely thirst, Captain. We are all thirsty, I no more than the others.”
“Do not lie to me.” Something in Melkian’s tone must have pierced the Silver’s resolve, for the pale eyes rose swiftly to meet his own. He was young, younger than Kyrian and Salienne, and by consequence, weak. The thirst was wearing upon him, glazing his eyes, waxing his complexion, reducing him to little more than a child in a warrior’s garb, waiting for Melkian to see his pain. Waiting for Melkian to relieve him. A stab of guilt sabred his heart. “Go to Avel,” he commanded. “He shall give you a second ration.”
The Silver’s eyes widened. “No, Captain, I could not—”
“You must. As the last defence of Rosghel, it is necessary for my warriors to maintain strength.”
“Captain—”
“It is an order, Silver.” Melkian removed his signet ring and withheld it to him, watched the silver diamond scatter starlight in his glassy eyes. “Avel shall see it done.”
The Silver hesitated, fingers twitching slightly, hungrily, over Melkian’s hand. When at last he accepted the ring it was with quiet reverence, his shoulders sagging with a relief that was tangible in the air between them. He circled the pyre of moonfire dust and paused upon the first step to honour Melkian with a grateful salute. “Thank you, Captain,” he whispered, before descending into the stairwell.
Melkian nodded, watched him disappear, wondered when the astute, discerning captain of the guard had lost all perception of the world’s pain beneath the fog of his own. He frowned and leaned on the parapet, listening to the footfalls of the Silver on the stair. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine Jas there, with him, setting flame to the beacon behind him while he laughed at one of her snide remarks. Laughed.
He snarled at himself. Gripped the parapet. Dismissed the memory as far from thought as the confines of his mind would allow.
Rosghel, it seemed, was not the only one that these dark days had changed.
The red feather twirled between deft, slender fingers. In and out, dipping, curling, weaving over sun-browned knuckles in a dance that Camuel’s grandson had evidently performed a thousand times. It was skillful, effortless, almost as distracting as the disembodied green eyes floating above the hands that worked the feather, over and over, curling and weaving and spinning.
The look on the face of the Robin suggested that he would have preferred a knife.
Kyrian’s jaw ached from clenching. He struggled to ignore the gleaming green orbs, the nimble fingers punctuated by occasional flashes of red that served more as a silent threat than a display. But he was failing. The stranger—no, Rydel of Robinsdwel—was watching him, unblinking, as if the blood staining Kyrian’s fingers were a performance for his pleasure, and not an insult drawn by the edge of his own knife. His cloaked silhouette was perched on a stunted willow’s arms, looking on as Kyrian tied knots in his hasty binding, cursing himself and the Robin and the world for dealing him so ill a blow. He was unbound, unfettered, and the Sword still hung at his side, but he was a prisoner and he knew it. There was no escape from the creature, not in his own domain. The hands twirling a feather now were deadlier with a knife.
“Will you not take my weapon?” he challenged, rising from his knees.
For the first time, the green eyes shifted. “I suspect you wise enough to concede in the face of defeat. You have seen what becomes of those foolish enough to question my abilities.”
Kyrian snarled. “You missed.”
“I assure you, Skyad, if I wished you dead, I would have aimed for your heart.”
“Then you do not wish me dead.”
“I wish to know your purpose. Many Skyads have entered these woods in the years of the Usurper, all seeking one creature, though never yet myself. I was not aware that my name was known among the filth of the Rosghel Skies.”
Kyrian ignored the insult and swallowed the parry rising to meet it. “It is not,” he replied tightly, after a beat. “To my knowledge there are none in Rosghel aware of your existence.”
“Nor should there be,” the Robin purred, “for who shall tell them? I must credit your people, however. They are quite persistent, despite their ignorance.”
Kyrian straightened his spine one slow, painful breath at a time. “We are not known to be easily defeated,” he replied. “Though I suspect you are mistaken. No Silvers have entered the Green Lands since the rise of the Usurper and the disappearance of Brondro Tarmilis.”
“Lies.” The Robin’s voice dripped smug condescension. “The simpler folk, perhaps, have remained within Rain Realm borders, but in these dark years a stream of mercenaries have infested these Lands in an unbroken flow, all promised payment from the king. All seeking to kill the same creature.”
The Robin spoke the name, but Kyrian did not need one.
“Brondro Tarmilis.”
His jaw snapped taut.
“In truth,” the Robin continued, “this business is not my concern. I know nothing of this creature, be he dead or alive, and thus the affairs of the Usurper’s legionnaires are of little importance to me. Unfortunately, your people possess a tendency to enter my domain in their search for Tarmilis, with the intent to enter the city of Robinsdwel and taint it with their filth. That is where my involvement becomes necessary.”
Kyrian’s nostrils flared. “Do you share this riveting tale with all of your captives, Robin?”
The green eyes gleamed. “None have yet lived to hear it.”
“Ah. Then I am the unfortunate chosen.”
There it was. A flicker of irritation, the wink of a twitch in one russet brow, a glimmer of indication that his rival was, in fact, a living creature and not a green-cloaked statue carved from the trees. He raised his chin, searching for a face at which to aim his glare, but the willow’s arms had entangled the Robin in shadow, leaving only the occasional flash of green eyes, rusty brows, and a twirling, scarlet feather.
“Do not think yourself extraordinary, Skyad,” the shadow hissed. “You are a fool if you believe I would not kill you simply because you know my name.”
Kyrian rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you might explain to me, then, why I am still alive.”
Another long pause. A scuffle of moccasins on bark. The slender shadow dropped deftly to the bank and Kyrian caught himself straightening, drawing himself to his full height as his folded arms tightened against his ches
t. He would not reach for the Sword. Not yet. Not until his adversary had seen that this son of Rosghel would not be threatened by any knife-wielding child of the birdfolk. He exhaled, willing his muscles to relax while shifting forward slightly with one foot, bracing himself for attack just as Melkian had so fervently taught him. Never allow your guard to fall. Assess each possibility, each potential strike to predict coming attacks. Leave no side exposed. Have your weapon within swift reach at all times. Reveal nothing. Be patient.
Kyrian decided to consider the last a suggestion.
“Your arrogance is a weakness,” chided the Robin, emotionless again, impregnable. It reminded Kyrian vaguely of Salienne. “It would be my great pleasure to kill you without delay, but you have mentioned my grandfather by name, and in so doing, to your good fortune, you have bought one moment to tell me who has sent you, what you know of Camuel, and how you have procured my name. Speak quickly.” Silver flashed in the dark and Kyrian realized he had replaced the scarlet feather with a dagger. “Let us make your last moments as painless as possible, yes?”
Kyrian half-snorted. “You are confident in your ability to kill me, considering that I am still armed. If you wished it to be painless you should have taken my weapon.”
They stood at five paces. Kyrian’s arms were crossed over his chest and, after a moment, the Robin mirrored him, one glittering blade protruding from beneath his crooked elbows. He was small, far slighter than Kyrian had first thought; the green cape and hood were an illusion of bulk draped over narrow shoulders and a slender, almost juvenile frame. “I have no desire to rob you of your weapon,” he replied evenly, the voice somehow too hard, too dark for the creature to which it belonged. “If it is another battle you desire I will oblige you, but know that this time I shall be less hesitant to aim for your chest.”
Kyrian squinted into the dark, angry and exhausted and sapped of all patience—not that there had been a great supply. “Who are you?” he demanded, hands falling to his sides.
