The Heir of Ariad

by Niki Florica

  “I will take the watch, Robin,” he announced blandly, between swallows. His voice seemed to waft above the whisper of the grasses, louder than he had intended.

  For the first time since the ring, the green eyes rose, tinged with black, wreathed in sweaty curls. “I do not need your kindness,” he muttered, but his gaze seemed unable to focus.

  Kyrian had not the motivation to scowl at him. “Do not consider it a kindness. Consider it a Skyad’s fear of a knife in the dark.”

  The foggy eyes clouded beneath drawn brows.

  A knife of pity rent his heart, and Kyrian’s posture sagged. “I do not wish to torture you, Robin.”

  The spritelike features contracted in an expression of such terrible, terrible pain that Kyrian wished to the Skies he had not spoken. “Please,” the creature whispered, hoarse and distant, white as winter moons, “do not speak to me. Please. Just . . . leave me alone. “

  A hesitation. “As you wish. Upon one condition.”

  Another breath.

  “You will remain here, beneath my watch, for the rest of the night.”

  For a moment he was certain the Robin would refuse him, desperate to escape to the shadows of the forest and whatever dark refuge awaited him there. But it seemed that the fire had been drained from his guide like blood from a wound, and evidently Rydel of Robinsdwel had not the strength nor will to debate his freedom. He simply turned his back, lay down upon the dusty streambed, and drew his green cape over his shoulders, leaving his knives—unsheathed—at his side in the dust. If he saw the wrapped loaf before him in the dirt, he gave no indication.

  Kyrian blew out a soft breath, kicked a stone along the streambed, and settled after a moment upon a boulder in the dust. He wiped the dried blood on his hand on torn Skyad breeches, one foot jogging with the last traces of adrenaline in his veins. The Robin lay in his sight. Good. The creature was in no state to wander the pine forests in darkness, and Kyrian was in no mood to save his wretched skin again. But he would, he knew. If need demanded it, he would.

  Grass whistled in the faint night breeze, beneath the whisper of the dark pines, but no sound save the wind and the Robin’s breaths could be heard in the quiet night. Nothing. It occurred to him then that he had seen no living creature but the Noble Races and Greenfolk since the day he had fled the Skies. Surely they could not all be dead of thirst? Not yet . . . surely not yet.

  The Skies remained dark to the north, above Dunbrielle and the wastes, but at so great a distance Kyrian could not see the Greys inside. Night drew on. The Robin’s breaths grew steadier, if still rasping. Kyrian drew the knife from his belt to study it in the starlight, ran a thumb along the notched silver blade, and prayed with renewed vigour that Elillian of Dunbrielle would change her mind.

  Elillian waited until the third moon fell to step from the shelter of the willow, hoping the darkness beneath the Grey fleet would be enough to shield her from the eyes above. She was alone. It had been hours since her father had disappeared into the Nelduith in a gasp of foam and spray, their argument lingering cold in the air between them, but Elillian would not be swayed. Not this time.

  She clung to the cliff face as she walked, padding silently over stone and mud until she halted with the falls upon her left and the hulking silhouette of the willow upon her right. Dunbrielle was silent and clear. No fog had fallen, evidence that the Greys had not yet descended from the clouds. Elillian thanked the Skies with a ghost of a smile, and stepped beneath the falls.

  The cavern was dark, but Elillian knew the labyrinth like her own palm, and her thoughts were far away as she walked the shadows, one hand trailing the smooth walls. Kyrian and the Robin had been absent for hours, surely time enough to distance themselves from the Grey fleet, but she was uneasy. Jardenith would slow their progress, and they could not journey through the night without rest—at least, not the Robin, for Elillian had been in his presence the past three days and had not once seen him sleep. She halted suddenly, a thought sparking in her mind that was so very reckless she almost wished to hide it from herself, knowing what her father would say, what Kyrian would say.

  But Kyrian did not understand his importance in this great war. He did not understand the risk that if Tasnil received even the slightest word of the Heir, all the Skies would be emptied upon him. The Greys did not know of him, perhaps—not yet—but they were still too close. More time could only be in his favour. Walking again, Elillian tied her hair in a hasty plait and allowed herself to consider the thought. He would not approve, of course, but he would not know—not until he returned a king. Her footfalls echoed, stones scattering beneath her bare feet as a loose plan began to crystallize in her racing mind. It was reckless, it was vague, but it was something.

  Elillian smiled.

  She needed to find another knife.

  Rydel fought to steady his breaths while the Heir’s eyes bore into his back, knowing the Skyad was listening, knowing his every breath sounded like death in his chest. He could hear it, he could feel it, but whatever had seized his aching lungs, Rydel could not escape.

  A shiver racked his shoulders and he grimaced, pulling his left sleeve down over the bloody gash the vine had torn in his arm. He could not find the will to bind it . . . perhaps it would no longer make a difference. He was a living corpse, after all. Death was closing in upon him with every rattling breath and trickle of blood and violent, seizing tremor. Simply a matter of time.

  His vision had returned enough to separate shadow into shapes, but everything was overcast with a black fog, as if a dark film had settled over his eyes. Vaguely he could see the glint of his knives in the starlight but knew that sheathing them would not be possible, not with his limited, shadowy vision, not while the Skyad looked on in judgmental silence. Always watching, always listening. Rydel longed to escape to the shadows, beneath the trees in the silence, beyond the Heir’s scrutiny, but he had not the strength nor will for another battle. He had scarcely the strength to hate.

  By the moons, it truly was the end.

  His chest ached, and he drew his cape closer about him, closing his eyes to the darkness in his vision, opening them to the black beneath his eyelids. The night was cold, or perhaps it was not, and his shuddering body was finally failing him completely. Rydel could no longer see the divide between delusion and reality. He listened for a time to the tapping of a boot against the stony streambed behind his back, one hand clenched about his grandfather’s cold, worn chain, the other toying with the red feather he had stolen from the Naiad in Dunbrielle.

  Then, mind drifting, heart slowing, he began the wait for death or his nightmares to claim him.

  He no longer cared which came first.

  Dawn arose pale and warm over a watchful forest, and Kyrian was certain the Robin had not slept at all between third moonfall and the golden sunrise. He heard the creature stirring and watched from the corner of his eye as the Robin groped on the ground for his knives, returned them shakily to his sheaths, and stood with the support of the streambank. True to his vow, Kyrian said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

  All the Skies save the north horizon were clear, glowing rosy as the sun climbed in the east. Kyrian clasped his hands behind his head while through the edge of his vision he studied his guide. The Robin walked unsteadily, squinting and blinking, his hair damp, breaths rasping like a shepaard’s, left sleeve pulled down to his wrist while the other remained cuffed at the elbow. Yellow tinge had overtaken his skin, sickly and damp and screaming of illness.

  Kyrian stood, strapped his bracers to his wrists, and wordlessly followed his guide.

  Across the streambed and into the pines upon the southern meadowy banks Kyrian walked silently, tracing the naked blade of Elillian’s knife in his belt with a thumb. He watched the Robin stumble through the trees, swiping sweat from his eyes at intervals, occasionally halting to stare into the forest as if surprised to find himself there, beneath the pines in the dawn. Kyrian held himself a respectful distance behind, but onl
y the blind could have missed the violent trembling of the creature’s white hands or the glistening sheen over the yellow-tinged face. He was no authority, but he was also not a fool. Any simpleton could see death walking in the Robin’s shadow, following him into the realm from which only the strongest returned.

  The Sword flickered at his side, glowing faintly, a relief after its silent days since the first night beneath Robinsdwel. He pushed dark hair from his eyes and frowned, stooping to avoid a branch, sidestepping a wizened trunk, doggedly following the feather despite every instinct that screamed of illness, of wrongness. And always, he could do nothing. Bound by his word.

  He jolted when the Robin doubled over, leaning heavily against a keeled trunk as he gasped for breath, wheezing as if death itself were in his lungs. Kyrian reached for his arm, more from habit than courtesy, startling when the Robin hissed, yellow face contorting, and hot blood seeped between Kyrian’s fingers. He tore the sleeve to the creature’s elbow. And winced.

  Whatever venom had laced the killer vines was swift and merciless, blackening the gash that a tendril had torn in the Robin’s shaking forearm. Blood had crusted the wound, dried black and festering, sealing the gash to the stained sleeve that had not remained white for long, and already was soaked with a night’s worth of unstaunched blood. The jagged edges were faintly yellow, a venomous hue that could only be attributed to infection, moist already with turbid fluid. “Skies,” he heard himself breathe, only dimly aware that he was breaking his vow. “Robin, why did you not bind it?”

  The creature pulled away, hissing with the pain. “Do not touch me,” he spat, teeth locked. “What business is it of yours?”

  “In case you have forgotten, Robin, you are my guide, and you are useless to me like this—standing upon death’s threshold and stumbling through the wood like a drunken fool.”

  “Death’s threshold,” Rydel of Robinsdwel growled, chest heaving. “I have been upon death’s threshold since the day you arrived.”

  Kyrian tossed his arm at him. “Sooner, no doubt.”

  The Robin’s scowl blackened.

  There was no time for this. No need for this. Kyrian reached again for his arm. “I am sorry. Your wretched business is your own, but now I need a guide. I can bind it.”

  “No!” The creature jerked away so violently he almost collapsed sidelong. “I do not need your help, Skyad! Not as my healer. Not as my king.”

  “For all the Skies, Robin, I am trying to save your life!”

  “What life?” the creature shouted, black eyes bulging wide. “What kind of life is this?”

  The shouts melted into echoes, then into silence. Kyrian stared at him, breathless and angry but at last seeing the truth. At last, understanding. The Robin’s features twisted and he bowed his head, burying his face in his one uninjured arm, sweat dripping from his hair. “This is not life,” he whispered. “You do not understand what I have seen, Skyad, what I have done, what vows I have made in the shadows, alone. You do not understand.” He exhaled shakily. “No one understands.”

  Kyrian drew back, tried to speak but found no words to fill the silence between the shuddering breaths. Moments passed. Guilt clawed at his chest, until he could not bear to stand wordless before this creature with bowed head and heaving shoulders and dark-rotted eyes.

  “Robin,” he said finally, lamely. “The truth. If you never again speak to me, just . . . Just tell me I am not the only one of us with a burdened conscience.”

  The Robin raised his head and rested it against the pine trunk, eyes closed. “It makes no difference now,” he said, soft and hoarse again, in the echoes of his madness. “It is too late. The disease has spread, too long and too far . . . You cannot save me, Skyad, nor can he. Not anymore. It is too late.” He swallowed hard. “I am beyond forgiveness now.”

  “Robin . . .”

  “Too late, Skyad,” he rasped. “Too dark, too cold . . . too late.”

  Kyrian watched him, helpless, watched him pull himself to his feet, grimace with the effort, stumble on into the shadowy pines as proudly and pitifully as only the dying could. A black drop of blood marked the place where he had crouched, and for many heartbeats Kyrian stood, simply staring at it, knowing now that it was this broken wretch that Elillian, even Aradin, had seen when he could not. They had been wise. So utterly, profoundly wise.

  He followed the feather for a long, long time—numbly, his thoughts far away and his heart sinking with guilt for every deed that had served even remotely to feed the torment of his guide. He walked, and walked, and fought not to see each stumble or to hear each strangled gasp, until he was so engrossed in not noticing that he did not, at first, hear the silence. The absence.

  When he did hear the stillness, and the feather failed to reappear, and all the pines stood hushed while Kyrian stood, alone . . . he knew what it meant. He felt it.

  “Robin!” he cried, squinting into the gloom. His throat was suddenly dry and his voice betrayed him with a wavering rasp. “Rydel of Robinsdwel!”

  Silence. Only silence.

  The black jaws of panic sank their fangs into Kyrian’s heart.

  Right hand seeking the hilt of the Sword he sprinted into the pines, in the direction from whence the scarlet feather had last pierced his memory, dodging the boughs, leaping the roots, fear lending speed to his flight. “Robin!” The forest swallowed the sound. “Rydel!” He halted upon the edge of a shallow hollow, blood pounding in his ears with a nameless, formless fear, a foreboding of the death that had walked at his side since the night beneath Robinsdwel that the Robin’s fate had first collided with his own. A flicker of colour sparked in his vision and he whirled in time to watch a single, scarlet feather drift along the ground, stirred by some whisper of forest wind, or perhaps, the very messenger of death itself. Then a low moan rose in the air to his right, and Kyrian felt his blood run cold within his veins as he sprinted toward the sound of the end.

  He found him there, at the base of a keeling pine, a crumpled mass of green and bloody, crusting black, vomit pooled at his side, sweat gleaming on yellow skin. Rydel of Robinsdwel’s sleeve had been torn away, the gash jagged and exposed in the faint rays of sun through the pines. His head rested on the forest floor and his eyes were tightly sealed, perspiration matting fiery curls to his forehead as his lips parted and a low, aching moan rose from his shuddering chest.

  Kyrian dropped to his knees at the creature’s side, one hand hovering over the Robin’s bloodied form, hesitating, midair. He called the name, softly at first, then louder, until he was shouting to the prostrate figure with the panic of one waiting helpless in death’s presence.

  No response, until he gripped the pale hand and whispered without hope, “Please, Robin.”

  The sunken lashes fluttered, and Rydel of Robinsdwel opened his eyes.

  The gleaming irises were entirely black, save for the tiniest flecks of green, and they stared up into Kyrian’s face for a moment without recognition. A beat of his heart, and suddenly the white hand was gripping his own, and the eerie eyes were wide and earnest, and his thin, broken voice was rasping, “I am sorry, I am sorry. Forgive me, Skyad . . . Please, forgive me.”

  Kyrian swallowed hard. “Robin . . .”

  “The west . . . ,” he continued, burnt eyes wide. “To the west . . . over the sands, the lake, through the trees . . . You will find it. Alone, you can find it.”

  “What are you—”

  “I cannot guide you . . . n-not anymore. I am sorry. Please, forgive me, I am sorry.”

  He was nearly hysterical now, his hand trembling in Kyrian’s, tears staining his cheeks. Kyrian shook his head. “No. No, Robin . . . you cannot leave me now. Not now.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You owe me nothing. Your debt is paid, Robin, but I need you. Listen to me—I need you. I cannot find the ladder alone!”

  But it was too late. The black-green eyes closed, and Kyrian felt him drifting, drifting away, the white
hand loosening in his, slipping from his grasp. Panic surged in his blood and blurred his eyes with tears and he shouted the name, not ‘Robin’ but his true name, the name he should have spoken long ago, the name that seemed unattached to this dying creature before his eyes. Rydel of Robinsdwel’s chest rose and fell with every laboured, rattling breath, slower by the moment. Kyrian’s hoarse shouts died into echoes. Gasping for breath, he fought to regain control, to think.

  It was not too late. It could not be too late. He could do something. Surely something.

  And then he knew.

  He knew.

  Among the Naiad provisions tied to his belt was a swanskin flask filled with Dunbrielle’s waters. Why Gilvonel had included it in the rations of one who could not thirst Kyrian did not know, but he thanked the Skies for it now as he pulled it from his belt and tore the seal. In one hand he held it upright, with the other he reached for his neck, where hung the leather pouch that had passed to him from his father and then to Elillian before returning to him again. His hands were shaking. He forced his fingers into motion, tearing the pouch, grasping the leaf, pushing Angdeline’s last into the Naiad flask before his resolve could die with the Robin.

  The leaf stained Dunbrielle’s waters golden the moment they met, spilling soft light over the flask’s mouth, onto Kyrian’s hand and the Robin’s ashen face. He swallowed hard, stared for a heartbeat at the sparkling leaf—the last of its kind—then drew a breath and bowed to his guide.