by Niki Florica
“The honour is mine,” Kyrian managed, tempering his surprise. “You are wise, good friend, to discern so much from so little.”
The stone-that-was-not-a-stone smiled and bowed, earth-brown eyes shining. “‘Tis a trifle, a mere trifle,” he responded, obviously pleased, “quite simple after a few centuries of experience. One learns to manage with what little is given, I’ve found, though I am pleased indeed to find I’ve discerned rightly.”
“You have,” Kyrian informed him. “Half-blood Skyad and Man. You have guessed my blood well enough, wise master, but I must confess I could not begin to guess yours.”
The creature’s eyes widened. “By Namgarr! You cannot mean to say you don’t know a stworf when you see one? The wisest of Ariad’s wise, keepers of the Ancient Law, transcenders of time itself? Why, we stworfs are among the oldest creatures you’ll find in this kingdom. Old, yes, quite old. Though I’ve truly forgotten how old I am myself.” The creature closed his eyes in deep thought. Muttered to himself for a spell, in a strange, inelegant tongue. “My guess,” he speculated, “would be about eight hundred and thirty-seven years, the closest I can reason. But it could be a good bit less, or more. My memory is not quite what it used to be, you see.”
Kyrian dipped his head. “Forgive my ignorance. The stworfs are worthy of great honour, I am sure.”
“Indeed they are, lad, indeed they are. But I suppose I shall forgive it this once. We are fewer now, and perhaps our presence in this world has passed from the memories of most. Who am I to say?”
“I would be a poor judge, I fear,” Kyrian replied, modestly. “But tell me, to whom do I owe this pleasure, Master Stworf?”
“You mean my name?” The creature blinked. “Yes, I suppose I must have one. Most do, after all—the decent ones—and unless I’m mistaken I was more than decent once, before I came to be stonelike all this time. How long, I wonder? ‘Tis difficult to say. My memory’s a fickle thing, not so sharp as it once was, alas.” He slipped into thought for a moment, as the Robin’s hands fell lamely to his sides and dusk deepened over the hilltop. Then, “Ah, well, but I suppose it matters not. A stworf’s name is hardly worth the recalling, after all, just a sound to be forgotten. It may come to me yet, but then it may not. I’ve known stworfs to forget their own titles for centuries before recalling them again. But what can be done for it? Nothing in Namgarr. So then, I come now to my first thought since waking! Enough of names and numbers! What business has so strange a company in such a waste as this?”
“It is no business of pleasure, Master Stworf. We seek a swift path from the barrens.”
In the long, dark shadows cast by the stones, he saw the Robin stiffen.
“A swift path?” Something bright and vaguely youthful lit the stworf’s sunken eyes, the fissured head tipping back to regard him. “Ah, but there is indeed a trail, the finest road you could find, my lads. The Oenghon Road. Dark perhaps, a little dreary for you aboveground folk, but the surest path, and the swiftest!”
“And the darkest by far.” This from the Robin, stepping forward to enter the exchange, the faintest of creases wrinkling his nose. “I have heard of this road, Master Stworf. It is not empty of enemies. In the last age it has grown dark and treacherous, as have the creatures along it, and we know not who has travelled upon it of late, nor who may lurk there now.”
The Robin’s face was taut, his hands pressed too hard to the hilts of his sheathed knives. The words were directed to the stworf, but intended for Kyrian, counsel against the decision this strange little creature had placed, inevitably, in his hands. The green eyes slid to him, and held his gaze. Warning him, pleading with him, glowing with risk. Darkest by far . . . dark and treacherous . . . who may lurk there now . . .
The Oenghon Road. The surest and swiftest path from the sands. Their only means of reaching the Seiri Wilds before the Silvership passed beyond their reach, taking with it the Heir’s hope of return to Rosghel, at least until the skyladder crossed over the Lands again.
The Robin must have read his thoughts, for his eyes fell darkly away at the same moment that Kyrian said, “Master Stworf, if you would lead us to its entrance, we shall chance your Oenghon Road.”
A faint creaking accompanied the crinkling of the stworf’s bright eyes in a crumbling equivalent of a smile. “Lead you to it?” he replied, pleasure dancing in his voice. “Nay, my lads, there is no need for that. I remember it now—all of it but my name. Aradin is with you today, it seems. You are standing at the Oenghon Gate.”
Two full days and the Grey Skyads of the Storm Realm had streaked their filth across the face of Dunbrielle’s serene, unblemished beauty. Elillian was weary of waiting. She had rehearsed her plan again and again, pacing in the dark of the cavern beneath the dull roar of the Guilyra falls and above the spattered stains of Kyrian’s blood. She knew it was reckless. She knew it was vague. She knew that if she succeeded, it would accomplish nothing more than to strike fear in the hearts of the crude Grey interlopers who haunted Dunbrielle by day and choked it in fog by night. She knew that her father would never approve. Her mother in the Azure Sea would likely drop senseless.
But she needed to do something.
She needed to teach them something.
Iron-hilted knife in hand, she slipped beneath the falls and over the stepping-stones, clinging to the cliff face and the cover of darkness. There was no fog this night, confirming the Grey guards absent. She breathed silent thanks to Aradin and crept along the cliff, thankful for the thick blanket of dark clouds that hung oppressive over Dunbrielle, smothering the dusk light. She passed beneath a little trickle waterfall, used by her people for cooking and washing. Beside it was a broad, smooth stretch of cliff face unobstructed by pavilion or tree, which stood directly outside of the grand pavilion in which the Grey commander had made his abode.
Elillian drew a breath and set her knife to the stone, working as swiftly as she dared while metal grated upon black rock and sent a shower of dust to her feet. She glanced over her shoulder—once, twice. No guard appeared, no Grey commander. She carved on. Skyad runes were difficult, beautiful in form but challenging in shape, particularly when scrawled with a dull, rusty dagger on stone. She hoped it was legible. The first word seemed clear enough. She was setting her knife to the cliff face for the second when from the pavilion behind her she heard someone say, “Wait.”
Elillian froze, sidestepped beneath the small waterfall and shimmered into water form.
The Grey commander appeared, half-dressed, a curved sword in hand. His lips were knotted in a pensive frown as his eyes flickered first one way, then the other, roving the night for the sound’s source. His guard appeared behind him, knife drawn, and for a moment there was no movement, no sound, save the whisper of the trickling waterfall and the beating of Elillian’s heart in her ears. One with the crystal cascade she waited, invisible, watched the Grey commander’s blue, blue eyes snag upon the smooth cliff wall that a shaft of starlight was slicing through the clouds to pierce. The smooth cliff wall so near to Elillian she could have reached out to touch the runes carved into its surface.
She watched interest cross his face, flickering into insult, then back to fascination. He snorted to his guard, listing his head to leer down upon the script. “It seems, Dorius, that our fugitive has been busy. Tell me, was the haven searched anew, as requested?”
“It was, Commander.”
“You shall do so again.” The Grey descended the pavilion stair and crossed the cobblestone path to halt before the message, a sword’s length from Elillian’s face. He leaned inward, gaze flitting over the word in silent, thoughtful scrutiny. “One would expect more masterful script from a Silver,” he mused.
Elillian pursed her lips. The guard asked, “You wish still to depart at dawn for the Seiri?”
The response was absent, lacklustre. “Our brazen fugitive mocks us with his insolence, but the orders from Rhos-Arpal must be executed. Have the haven searched again, Dorius. I shall depart for the
Seiri at dawn.” He smiled, slightly. “You shall remain here until the imposter is found.”
Commander and warrior turned away, ascended the pavilion stair, and vanished behind the sheer veil that had once concealed a Naiad’s home from view. Elillian allowed herself to breathe, Virduil’s waters running cool over her skin, seeping through her every limb to course in her Naiad veins. Satisfaction glowed in her heart as the clouds hung heavy over Dunbrielle, and the Grey encampment rested in preparation for their departure for the Seiri Wilds to the south. She had not been seen; she had not been apprehended. She also had not frightened them. But she had done something.
She waited for what seemed an eternity before slipping warily from beneath the cascade and shimmering again into fleshly form the moment her skin met air. Knife in hand she traversed the bank, in the shadow of the cliffs, striding over the pockmarked shore and leaving no trail of her own over the scattered Skyad boot prints. Over the stepping stones, beneath the Guilyra falls, into the Cavern of Peace, she paused only once, upon the cave’s broad threshold. Only once, and only for a moment, to lean beyond the shelter of the falls and reward her daring with a single, stolen glance at her handiwork.
The message, half-finished, screamed gloriously from the cliff face.
VENGEANCE.
The stworf crossed to the largest of the stones and pressed his cracked hands to the monolith, his head grazing the black stone as he rasped an unintelligible phrase in a crumbling, ancient tongue. Rydel heard the words resonate in his bones, felt them resound between his ribs like the whispers of the black stones themselves, speaking through the stworf of the ages they had seen. He felt cold, heavy. There was a hard, shrivelled knot of dread in his chest where his heart should have beat its steady drum.
Dusk had died into twilight, stars had appeared, and he had not moved since arriving upon the hilltop. The stworf had stared intently at the black stones for an eternity, lost in thought, attempting and failing to remember whatever ‘stworfish trickery’ enabled the opening of the gate. For near an hour, the only development was the unhelpful recalling of his name. Bouldegar.
Now, it seemed, the final lost fragments of the stworf’s memory had returned.
Mussitation complete, the stworf stepped back. There was a rumbling beneath their feet, a groaning of earth and stone. The Skyad, who had waited with his back to one monolith, started forward at the first sign of activity, one hand flying, in its customary way, to the ornate hilt at his side. Rydel held his eyes directly ahead and fought to steady his pulse enough to breathe.
Before his eyes, a golden thread appeared on the stone nearest Bouldegar. It glowed to life, a fiery vein that began at the stone’s base, ran upward along the black surface, then curved down to meet the sandy ground once more, forming a flickering doorway. Taller than the Skyad with height to spare it glowed golden in the twilight, setting fire to the Heir’s coal-dark eyes, flickering like firelight through the cracks of a closed door.
Mumbling indecipherably to himself, Bouldegar stepped forward to lay his hands upon the stone, a grunt escaping his tangled beard as he leaned into the fire-lined door with all of his might. The Skyad stepped forward to aid him, and after a breath’s hesitation Rydel followed, attempting to ignore the chill of the stone and the weight of the darkness beyond. For a moment the stone held firm, unmoving, until at last it began to give way, pebbles and dust raining down upon them, loosed from the black rock and sealed gateway. With a mighty shove the rock swung forward into the darkness of the cavern beyond, grinding upon the stone within and shaking the earth with the shuddering rasp.
Where solid stone had swivelled away, there now arose a great black doorway, an entrance into sheer nothingness that threatened to crumble the last of Rydel’s resolve and squeeze his heart to silence. He drew a breath. It snagged in his throat. Darkness seeped from the opening in black, sinister tendrils, groping for him, clawing for him, with talons of shadow and shade. He could almost taste it, almost hear its silent roar. His heart clenched to a knot, beating and drumming and beating . . .
Bouldegar rounded the stone, eyes lighting at the sight. “Well, then, I knew there was some stworfish trickery about it. Secret doors and gate-words are all very stworf-like, you know, hardly uncommon. I would’ve remembered it at some point, probably. But then—” he waved a hand—“perhaps not.”
The Heir, remarkably patient, smiled good-naturedly. “I have no doubt you would have, Master Bouldegar. We are forever grateful, though we must now be moving on.”
Rydel willed himself forward, to the threshold, the wall of darkness. His every muscle, every instinct screamed against it, but he no longer trusted himself to speak. It was, after all, his own sour counsel that had led them astray, that had driven them south and rendered them desperate for speed and cover. He had suggested it, suggested veering from their course to pursue the Silvercloud, to hunt it, seize it, use it. Why? What had he hoped to prove? He scowled at himself. Everything.
The Skyad came to stand beside him, facing the black, stworf-delved abyss. He was exhausted, Rydel knew without looking, envisioning the shadows that swathed his dark eyes, and the way his right hand rested so frequently upon the hilt of the Sword of Kings, drawing strength from its faint glow. Another twinge of guilt drove itself into Rydel’s sternum, and he cursed himself once more for being foolish, reckless, weak. For being desperate enough to veer for the Seiri Wilds out of his terrible, hideous fear of stumbling upon this road the deeper they journeyed into the sands.
The doorway mocked him with black, suffocating laughter.
The Oenghon had found him, despite his efforts. How repugnantly ironic.
“You are certain?” he whispered to the Skyad, the words scalding his throat.
Kyrian of the Rain Realm cast him a conflicted glance. “Have we any choice?”
He wrenched his eyes away and gripped his sweat-slick knives.
“You have our thanks, Master Bouldegar,” the Skyad said sincerely, turning to nod in farewell as Rydel prepared to step into the abyss beneath the light of the rising first moon.
“My lad,” said the stworf, “you have mine as well. There’s no telling how long I would have sat on that hill, stonelike if you catch my meaning, if you hadn’t come along. But there’s something else as well.” A strange light entered his eyes, and for a fleeting moment Rydel caught a glimpse of some deep wisdom, a well of age-old knowledge hidden in his ancient face. The Skyad’s expression grew intent, and Rydel knew he had seen it as well. “It is no concern of mine, you see, but don’t think we stworfs haven’t noticed the shadow that has been on this land for a long time. Not long for us, mind you, but long enough for you aboveground folk.” He clenched a stony hand. “But something is changing, you see. I can feel it. There’s some good coming of all this, and I’ve a mind to think you have something to do with it.” He gazed at the Silver with sharp interest, reading his heart and mind with his deep, grey eyes.
The Skyad said nothing, but the exhaustion in his face lifted for a moment, long enough for a quick, small smile, a dip of his head, and a glowing light of gratitude to shine from his expression.
“Farewell, Master Skyad-Man,” said Bouldegar with a bow, “and farewell to Master Robin as well.”
Rydel offered no acknowledgment, refusing to meet the ancient eyes for fear of the terror they would draw from his soul. He felt the Heir glance at him, ignored it, glared ahead. He hated this road. He hated these sands, this fear, this darkness, the roar of his own blood in his ears.
He did not wait for a word of command. Without acknowledging the stworf, Rydel tightened his jaw, murdered his terror, and stepped defiantly into the jaws of darkness.
Twenty-Four
The moment Kyrian’s foot crossed the threshold the silence was shredded by the groan of stone upon stone, and he was almost blown to his knees by the swinging round of the great black door. He leaped clear just in time to see the rock gate creak its way to the doorframe and seal itself again, with a final,
resonating thunder of impact.
Then silence.
Every drop of light from the outside world killed, the tunnel was thrust into complete, utter darkness, heavy and thick as a blanket of fog. Kyrian stood rigid, listening for a moment as something rasped in the dark to his right, fast, ragged, and deafening in the stillness. The Robin, he realized. Breathing. He willed himself to swallow, pushed himself forward with the cold stone wall.
“Do you think the stworf intended this?” the creature asked, tautly.
Kyrian regarded the seamless wall that had once been a door, and listened vainly for Bouldegar. “No,” he answered, after a moment. “No, he would not trap us. It must be the way of the road.”
A dark malediction in bird-speech was his only response.
The tunnel sloped downward, into the cold earth. With no means of opening the door once sealed, and no reason to abandon the road he had chosen, Kyrian grimly began the descent, the Robin’s ragged breaths keeping rhythm beside him. Every sound was muffled, muted by the heavy, oppressive darkness; the Robin’s footfalls, as ever, were silent, and in time the sharp rasp of his breathing became a distant ambience. The tunnel was sufficiently wide for them to walk abreast, Kyrian trailing a hand along the left wall as he strode, counting his strides, deeper and deeper into the cold, dank earth. Enveloped by the welcoming arms of darkness, with no direction but one, his mind detached from his body and drifted beyond the Oenghon to wander above the sands, above the Jardenith Forest from which they had come and the Seiri Wilds to which they were aimed. If he chose to ignore the tangible presence striding beside him, he could have persuaded himself that he was alone.
