by Brandon Barr
Standing before Aven’s mind was the question why?
Even as he loved Grey Bear, he rued what the man’s ideals had wrought that hour. The same ideals that had ultimately devoured he and Winter’s own mother and father. And now, just like Aven’s own attempt to save life, Winter’s actions had only made the outcome darker. Had, in fact, sealed their fate. If he had only complied with Rozmin, if Winter had simply let Grey Bear and his breed die as they chose, if his parents had only remained satisfied with the life they had, how things would have turned out he’d never know.
“Grey Bear!” called Rhaudius, pointing his sword at his target. “I’m going to decorate the fortress gate with your impaled head!”
The Baron went to kick his horse and lead his soldiers into battle when an arrow sank shaft-deep into his neck. Blood splashed from his throat and he lurched off his horse, mouth gaping for air as he tumbled to the ground.
Rose, spattered with the Baron’s blood, seemed disorientated for a moment. Her teeth suddenly bared like a wild dog, and the short lived silence broke as she shouted a command to the hired swords surrounding the farmers. With a scream she sent her horse leaping off the platform, the mounted soldiers charging to follow. Aven covered his sister with his body, like a father bird over a chick. A war cry rose from the farmers as the ground shook with the thunderous pounding of horse hooves.
Aven readied himself for the inevitable, when an ear splitting roar pierced the sky above.
He had barely taken a breath when something like lightening shot through his body, jolting him violently onto the ground. He heard the terrified whinny of horses. Heard the cries of their riders.
A shadow passed over him.
He lifted himself by his arms and turned his head to look at the sky, but it took too much of his strength, his muscles fighting against a strange fatigue overtaking his body.
Above him, filling the sky, was a cold grey mass unlike anything he’d ever seen or imagined. It hovered like a grotesque bird riding the wind, its bulk blocking the sun, the clouds.
He collapsed back onto the ground.
A starship…the Guardians.
He closed his eyes.
. . . Winter.
She was his last thought before he slipped into a cocoon of darkness.
HEARTH
I cannot imagine the Makers being pleased when they look upon the wars we have with one another. I can, however, imagine that their hearts ache for us to be reconciled.
I harbor no ill against you or your people, and indeed, if your kingdom is suffering, I believe it should break my heart, as it would if my own people were suffering.
You see, we are the same. I did not choose my mother or the Hold as my home. So why should I align myself so fervently by the kingdom I was birthed in?
Are we not the same, created by the Makers?
It is because of these personal reflections that I write you. Can our two kingdoms work as if we were brother and sister?
Our only enemy is the Beast, Isolaug. Let us fight him, hand in hand.
-Monaiella to King Tapherd of the Verdlands, Chronicles of the Age of Primacy, Vol. 5
CHAPTER 25
MELUSCIA
“I’ve had enough,” said Meluscia. “I’m perfectly fine.”
The physicker protested, and continued to wave a twig of pungent incense before her nose. Heulan stood beside the bed she sat upon. Mica, who’d caught her fall, had left only moments ago with Tanaclast, back to the stables.
Meluscia pushed away the physicker’s hand and stood. “I said enough!”
Heulan gently touched her shoulder.
Meluscia stared out at the doorway. “Please, Heulan, say nothing of this to Father. I only came here because you were so insistent.”
The last thing she wanted was to confirm her father’s conviction that she was weak. Not now. It didn’t matter if her hopes for the throne were over. If he was soon to pass from this life to the life after life, she wanted him to do so remembering her strength and boldness, and perhaps, doubting his choice for the throne.
Heulan nodded. “I won’t say a word of it.”
She made for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Heulan.
“Somewhere,” she said. She knew his question was one of concern for her, not worry over where she went. “I just need to think. Thank you, Heulan, for your help today.”
The darkness outside the well-lit physicker’s room wrapped around her like a welcoming friend. Not far down the passage, she slunk against a cleft in the wall where the shadows were deepest between the mounted torch light.
She stared out at the wall opposite her, the occasional figure passing by.
In the dark silence, she gathered her thoughts. She pictured herself like an autumn leaf clinging to a branch. What would happen when her father passed? She might be torn free from all that she’d known. What would she do with her life? Where would she go?
The questions cascaded down from her mind into her soul.
A hot flame glowed to life inside her. Every rope tying her down had been severed. Soon she would be without a father and sent from the home she’d known her entire life to live wherever Valcere deemed fit for her. Would he take away her apprenticeship at the Scriptorium? It would be his prerogative, seeing as an apprenticeship was normally reserved for the son or daughter of a Luminar, or given to a Regent’s child in cases where a Luminess sat upon the throne.
So many unknowns lay before her.
As much as she loved the commoners in her kingdom, she never envisioned becoming one. Her life’s mission had always been on a grand scale, like those found in tomes of history in the Scriptorium.
The fire inside burned hotter, less controlled.
No. Her heart felt called to her people. She would not abandon them. What if she were to act against Valcere? What if she were to go to the site of the skirmishes between the Verdlands and the Hold? Go to the burnt farms of King Feaor’s people?
If she went, she would use the only weapons she had. Her words. Perhaps that’s what she should have done all along? She still had power. Her father wasn’t dead yet.
She drew her hand through her hair, disquieted by her own bold ruminations. An alluring scent met her nose.
Mica’s scent.
It startled her at first, until she realized where it came from. The sleeve of her dress, from when he had held her in his arms after catching her fall.
His words of praise came again into her mind. He admired her, saw her heart for the people.
An immediate longing nearly overtook her. To go to the spies’ passage. But the thought was short lived, for she knew she needed so much more.
True comfort. Something substantial.
A warm body to cry against and arms to enfold her.
Someone who knew her struggle.
Merely observing the love and affirmation of others made her wilt inside. She needed to be loved. She needed to hear words spoken to her.
Figures passed before her, faces dimly lit. She imagined each had a home to return to, with friends and family waiting. A young woman carrying clothes. A boy adding pitch to the torches, travelers from within their realm seeking audience with the Luminar.
How surprised they would be to see Valcere…
Her fingers slipped into a pocket in the folds of her dress, touching the crumpled letter from Adulyyn. The feel of it helped focus her mind on the most pressing matter. She had to find a way to retain her power. A journey to the Verdlands was an act of desperation. A choice saved to the very last. A possibility took shape in her mind.
After another moment, the possibility had grown into a plan. She left the shadowy cleft and stepped out into the hallway.
Valcere shared her father’s grudges, and from her limited experience, his stubbornness too, but she had nothing to lose.
Perhaps the man could be reasoned with.
CHAPTER 26
MELUSCIA
Valcere seemed very comfortable
on her father’s onyx throne, as if he had been sitting there for years. Meluscia waited at the back of the room, gazing out at the courtiers seated on the cushions who were waiting to be heard. Many of them had come to Trigon before and were likely disappointed to find him absent. Some would have to acquaint Valcere with a long history of prior judgments that Trigon would have already known well.
Her eyes fell to the floor a moment. She might have known their history as well. She imagined herself in Valcere’s position. He had never sat in as she had to listen to courtiers with her father. She was certain some would have been pleased more to find her seated as judge instead of him.
Truly, she did have something to offer Valcere…her knowledge of the histories, her experience with courtiers, but would he embrace her help?
The courtier that stood before the throne bowed and turned to leave. Meluscia stepped into the throne room and made her way toward Valcere. If she was not going to be made Luminess, there was still a chance that she could help her people find peace. But that would depend on the man before her.
She reached the four steps at the base of the throne and met the eyes of the man who would rule instead of her. She was surprised to find a slight scowl on his face, as if her position as daughter to the Luminary did not give her priority in the hall.
“Judge Valcere, I need to speak with you,” she said, as humbly as she could. Seated beside him, where Meluscia normally sat during her father’s judgments, were three other men, long trusted soldiers of her father. Rivdon, Osiiun and Almon. Of the three, Rivdon was the only one she knew and respected. If it were Rivdon on the throne, the Hold would be in safe hands. She hoped his presence was an advantage, no matter how small. A smile touched his lips as she glanced up at him, but his eyes held concern.
“You came to speak, so speak,” said Valcere.
Meluscia turned, and signaled for the singers. The moment she did, Valcere stood, and raised his hand.
“Is this a matter pertaining to the enemies of the Hold?”
“No, but it is private.”
Valcere looked out at the rows of cushioned courtiers from where he stood. “There will be no songs in my court except to protect secrets of the Hold from the ears of our enemies. If sparing one’s dignity or staving embarrassment was once an acceptable reason to call the singers, it is no longer. One man’s business may help answer another’s who is waiting to be heard. And when I sit on this throne, my judgments are for all to hear.”
Valcere sat back upon the throne, crossed his legs, and waited for her to speak.
Meluscia’s face and limbs burned from the insult. He had made a statement; the old bloodline of Luminaries was no longer in control of the Hold. She had come to ask for a position in his council, hoping to provide a perspective not already attuned to warfare. Valcere’s disdainful treatment of her had chased that delusion away in an instant, like a childish dream.
The arrogant posture with which he now glared down at her was all the answer she needed. If only she could leave without giving him the opportunity to disrespect her again.
She flailed for something appropriate to say. She had other requests of him, she grasped for them now, like parchment blowing about in the wind.
“I come to ask you favors for after my father passes. I have been Katlel’s acolyte in the Scriptorium for almost a decade now, I seek your approval to retain that duty. And one other request. May Savarah and I remain in the quarters of the Luminary? We have lived there all our lives and we will soon be without family.”
Valcere leaned back against the throne, resting his chin for a moment on two thick fingers.
“No,” he finally said. “You are not children that you need coddling. You will be moved to a room in the Nobles’ Corridor or to another more suitable place outside the Hold. And as to your remaining at the Scriptorium, there again the answer is no. I should like my sons to have an opportunity to take up an apprenticeship there, just as tradition dictates.”
Tradition? What did Valcere know of tradition? She could have brought up a handful of exceptions to that tradition, but she sensed doing so would be throwing more meat to a tiger.
Meluscia bowed her head slightly. “Very well. Thank you.”
She turned to leave, her mind already plotting a trip to the Verdlands, determined now to undermine the animosity between the Hold and King Feaor. Valcere could enjoy his throne of onyx. All the while, she would go out and cause an uproar.
“You haven’t been dismissed,” shouted Valcere.
The room grew absolutely still, except for Meluscia, who slowly turned to face the fool on her father’s throne. She was well aware of the jaded expression fixed on her face. Her eyes met Valcere’s.
She waited for another insult, her own ready to fly from her tongue.
“This young woman may be the daughter of the Luminar, but she is much more than that. She also carries the title of traitor!”
Her bravado melted in an instant as fear swept over her. Her letter to King Feaor—had he somehow found it out?
Valcere continued, “Meluscia tried to alter her father’s choice for the throne. She did so by attempting to influence the vote of the Regents’ council. I’ll not name the Regent who tried to aid her in this, but the two met in secret, against every protocol.”
“Bite your tongue, Valcere!” shouted a woman from the back of the hall. “How dare you call her a traitor!”
Meluscia spun, her eyes finding the face behind the familiar voice. Beloved Mairena, the kitchen matron.
The old woman continued her dangerous outburst. “You, Valcere, are the one who uses the soldiers under you to eavesdrop all about the Hold. If Meluscia’s a traitor, then you are that, plus a scoundrel on top! Protocol—bah!”
A few quick cheers sounded around the room. Valcere’s head swung back and forth, seeking out the culprits, but all had been swift and sly.
Meluscia, fearing Valcere’s wrath lay on Mairena, spoke quickly. “I broke protocol, yes, but I didn’t do so simply to gain the throne. I’ve said this to my father, and I’ll say it here to your face. The people of the Verdlands are not our enemies. Neither is King Feaor. Our enemy is the abominations coming out of the wastelands from Praelothia. Isolaug, the damned Beast, he is our one and only enemy.”
“Fool girl,” snapped Valcere. “What are a few Nightmare raiding parties compared to the entire army of the Verdlands? The Nightmares are only an annoyance. Mere outcasts and scavengers from Praelothia. What have they done in the past hundred years? Prick us and run. We do not have men enough to spare for such random acts. If we move our forces from the Verdlands’ borders, we give them opportunity to overwhelm us, cut off our supply chains. They might starve us until we begged terms of surrender. Or perhaps you would approve of this?”
Rivdon stepped forward. “Enough with the insults. Meluscia is neither a traitor nor a fool. Let her be, Valcere.”
The words of Meluscia’s long time friend helped keep her tongue back. She thanked him with a quick glance.
Valcere’s annoyance at Rivdon’s words hung plainly on his face, but he didn’t turn, his eyes remaining on Meluscia.
“What would her father think if he knew about her secret rendezvous?” said Valcere.
To whom he directed the question, Meluscia was not certain, but she felt its sting.
“Go on your way, girl,” he said. “I’ll overlook this one treacherous act. And the unruly old crone at the back of the hall, next time she speaks as such, she’ll spend a year in the dungeon. Next time…” he shook his head, a menacing light shone in his eyes. “. . . next time it will not go well.”
She held his eyes for a moment longer, then turned without another word. She walked stiffly toward the large doors at the opposite end of the hall. With effort, she held back her emotions. Everything she had dreaded was taking place.
A voice rumbled loudly behind her: “And if you come to the hall again,” called Valcere, “you’ll wait your turn with the others. Line cutting
is a vice of children, not adults.”
There were a few stilted laughs, and she willed herself not to turn back and lash out, instead to keep her feet moving forward. She’d lost her place at the Hold, her apprenticeship under Katlel, and so much of her dignity under Valcere’s bristling words—she’d had enough. She wanted to turn into a bird and escape. To soar through the twisting tunnels and burst free of this cold-hearted mountain.
Unwanted tears blurred her sight.
Truly now, she was a woman without constraints. What that would mean, her heart was just beginning to whisper to her.
_____
SAVARAH
As Savarah watched Meluscia leave, she considered the wide range of emotions her sister held bound up inside. Savarah could pull her sister’s frustrations apart in the same way she could tear parts of a brain out of a dead girl’s head and organize them by color or shape, but the thought of imagining herself feeling what Meluscia felt was like untangling a spider’s web.
Meluscia had striven to become Luminess ever since the sunweed blight reared its unpleasant symptoms in her mother and father. She sincerely cared about the kingdom and its people. Their troubles weighed on her face and tore at her heart. It was that sensitivity that Savarah lacked which she saw gushing out of her sister, raging like a torrent, nearly uncontrolled—forcing her to create a phantom to make love to her, when she knew she could never have affection as Luminess. Love was intriguing and strange, completely weakening the one that embraced it, just as her master taught. And Savarah could see how those heartfelt emotions could be truly dangerous. How easily they could turn into something dark. Even murderous. Especially if that kind of soft, fleshy heart could ever seep its way into her own chest.
But Savarah did share one thing in common with Meluscia. Passion. That, unlike mere love alone, gave one power.
