“Then this savior has been here all along?”
“Elyon’s works are a mystery to men, but all He does is for us to return our souls to the light. Wait, I remember something, from my teachings. I remember something of the Arsayalalyur! Why did it not come to me sooner?”
“What?”
“The Arsayalalyur is known as the mark of the father, and the father is Uriel. It has been so long since I studied those words, forgive I did not remember sooner, but that it is, Captain—that is the key!”
“Explain.”
“It is a sword. The Arsayalalyur is the sword of Uriel. In our words, made plain, it would be called the Angelslayer.”
Darke paused. “You referred to it as the mark of the father?”
“Yes, and the father is Uriel—the archangel. And his children are the voyagers, the ones you mentioned first, sent in the day of Yered. Uriel’s children are the Daath!”
“He spoke of that—the angel. He spoke of the mark of the father …”
“The one who carries the mark of the father is the Daathan king, for the sword of Uriel can never leave his side.”
“Then you are telling me these Daath carry the one weapon that might make a difference, and yet they watch from the spires of their city as the children of men are slaughtered? And this is Elyon’s wrath!”
“Captain, I beg you—”
“Enough of this book. I know all I need to know.”
She reverently, rather sadly, closed the book. Darke turned, furious, but at the cavern’s exit, he paused.
“Wait … have you any magick that could show me this supposed savior, this mighty Daathan king?”
“Yes … I may be able to do that.”
She searched quickly through jars and potions until she found an enormous glass bulb, almost too big for her to lift. She set it in the floor, then lifted the top of the glass and laid it aside. The room filled with the stink of heavy musk. It was so strong it made Hyacinth sneeze.
“Forgive the smell,” she said. “This is very old. It is called a flounder mushroom. See the way it grows on its side, as if it were hiding on the seafloor?”
“What good is it?”
“It is rare. I do not know how Taran managed to find it, but he explained he admired the round glass it grew in. Come. You will need to be close; the image will likely be tiny.”
He walked over and knelt beside her.
“I sense you are angry with me, Captain.”
“Not with you, Little Flower, never with you.”
“Do not be angry with Elyon. We cannot hope to understand His ways, but—”
“No more talk of Elyon! Now what does this damned mushroom do?”
She lifted a flint and struck it with a quick flick of her wrist. The mushroom ignited instantly, a thick, greenish smoke billowing upward. The fungus quickly withered to black ash. She blew away the smoke and uttered quick words of binding over the ash. At first nothing happened.
Darke stared, impatient. “A burnt mushroom—that is the king?”
Hyacinth sighed. “Show us the scion of the Daath,” she commanded. The ash instantly blossomed into a tiny vision of the tops of trees, oak mostly—a thick, massive stand of oak that looked as old as the Earth. Hyacinth stared at it a moment, puzzled.
“Nothing but trees,” said Darke.
“Will you have patience, Captain?” she snapped, almost losing her own. She searched the trees carefully, finally lying on her side until she could peer beneath them. “Here,” she said. “Here he is.”
Agitated, Darke lay down beside her, so close he could smell her hair—its scent, of course, that of hyacinths.
“The figure there,” she said. “Do you see him? I believe he is playing a lyre. He plays quite well, actually.”
“A lyre player? A minstrel is the king of Daathan slayers so deadly they are called killer angels?”
“Yes, Captain, I sense truth; there is no mistake. You are looking at the scion of the Daath.”
Darke stood brushing himself off. “Apparently you are right. I have made a deadly covenant, since it turns out my single possible strategy against this angel is a boy no older than you. I have as my secret weapon a deadly slayer who is going to strike from nowhere without sound or warning with his lyre! I need a walk. I need to smell the sea, get out of this damned musty dungeon.”
He left without saying more, but Hyacinth had not even heard his last words. She was stricken, staring at the tiny figure. She was able to focus, move in closer, until she could see his face. He was, indeed, Daath. His skin bore a light blue tint, his hair, where it fell over his shoulders from under the hooded cloak, was braided, night-black. His face was the most beautiful she had ever seen. The song he played enchanted her with the power of a siren.
“Greetings, my little Angelslayer,” she said. She reached into a pouch of her belt and from between her fingers she crushed a tincture of rosemary, grinding it to a powder that fell over the tiny oak trees. Hyacinth smiled as the lyre player looked up, puzzled at the light rain of red blossoms.
Chapter Four
Daathan
Lucania: a village near Terith-Aire, the capital city of the Daath
The skies were an unwashed blue as Adrea set her father’s finest horse, the dappled gray stallion, at a gallop. She hugged the withers as the horse cleared the border fence just beyond the cottage and let the stallion run. It tossed its head back and muscled into a hard gallop. Adrea leaned into its wind. She loved to let him run, and though few would know it, she was one of the best riders in her village.
Later, far from her father’s cottage, she saw a figure wave from a hillock. He started his mount at a trot, then broke into a gallop to catch up. She silently cursed. Her brother, Aeson, had found her. Probably he had been lying in wait for her. He knew she had been coming this way for days now, riding this same ridge, and he was far too curious to ignore what she might be up to. Aeson hugged the neck of his horse, riding bareback, and Adrea had to slow to let him catch her. He rode alongside her a moment, quiet, tumble-brown hair bouncing. Aeson was ten and three years. “I thought you had cattle to feed, Aeson.” “They can forage for tubers.” “What about Lamachus?”
“He can forage for tubers, as well. I intend to spend a little time with my sister before she is sold.”
“Aeson, I am not being—”
“Sold—like hung venison. I listened to them last night. You know the kind of things they said about you?”
“No, and I do not want to, but I get this feeling I am going to hear it anyway.”
“Lamachus, he liked to bang his fist against the table when he said such things as ‘good woman, Marcian!’ and ‘blood Galaglean’ so I figured it would not be too much longer before they would be in to pick you for bugs and have a notch cut in your ear, mark you for milking.” Aeson studied her for reaction.
“Things like this are done—tradition,” she said.
“Maybe for others, but you are not ordinary. You are different from others, something in you, and they ought to know.”
“That is silly, Aeson. I am no different from anyone else in Lucania.”
“Maybe you do not know it, but I guess you never looked in your own eyes. I see it; I see who you are. They should not give you to just anyone.”
“Have you not listened to Lamachus? Marcian is a captain; one of Quietus’s veterans.” She spoke in imitation of Lamachus’s deep, gravely voice, “A hero of Tarchon Pass.”
“Who could be your grandfather.”
“But Aeson, he is rich. He is a horse breeder.”
“Maybe being rich has a lot more to do with this than tradition.”
Adrea didn’t argue. The night before, the horse breeder had ridden up to the cottage with four men, all wearing the rust-red cloaks of Galaglean warriors. The men turned out to be the horseman’s sons, his four eldest, and they never spoke, never even took off their helmets. They waited silently the whole time near the stockade.
“At least
he is not a Daath,” Aeson said.
“What should that matter?”
“You know why they brought us here, the Daath—what the wars were about. You know why they keep us. We are their breeding stock. They like the red hair and fair skin. I am surprised one has not taken you already.”
“Those are just stories.”
“What about Binnith? They rode in and took her—a cohort of them. Daathan riders, everyone saw. Are you going to argue that?”
“Binnith had been seeing one of them in secret, something you did not know. The Daath do not steal village girls. I believe Binnith merely wanted it to appear that way. Do you know whom her father planned to give her to? That toad, that meat merchant, Ragthart.”
Still, Adrea knew that no one in Lucania trusted the Daath. Yet, instead of being wary of them, she was curiously drawn to them. They were striking. The few times she had seen them, she had been fascinated. They were tall, always handsome, and their hair—the way it was long and night-black, she could not help being curious. Those who passed through Lucania were mostly warriors, headed for the passages of Hericlon, a mountain stronghold to the north. They were all young men, but in their armor and shimmering cloaks they looked formidable, and by reputation, they were. Not even the Etlantians challenged the Daath. They were feared and respected.
Riding through the streets of her village in formation, their faces were stern, their demeanor austere. But once, Adrea had hidden behind sea meadow grass to spy on a group of them as they stopped to water their horses. They shed their stoicism and became boys, joking, laughing, even wrestling in the grass. There was no doubt that they were capable and adept as warriors, which left her a bit uncomfortable, but to be honest, the Daath attracted her far more than any of the boys of her village. It left a taint of guilt in her, as if she were betraying some unwritten code, but it was something she could not dismiss.
“I could smuggle you out of Lucania before the marriage,” Aeson said.
“Smuggle me out?”
“I have a plan and I have saved up some bread cakes and cheese.” “And where will we go?”
“In Ishmia, there is no shortage of trader galleys leaving for the western seas, and all of them have need of able-bodied workers.” “I am a girl, Aeson.” “We could disguise that.” “You think so?”
He glanced at her, his look betraying that it might be difficult. “Yes. We are clever enough.”
“So you believe we would be better off as seamen?”
“Maybe on some island or even onboard a ship, you might meet someone, someone worthy of you, instead of an aged captain of the gathering wars, older than Lamachus.”
“On the other hand, my gender might be discovered, and I could end up in a brothel in some unsavory trading port. Things can be a lot worse than marrying a horse breeder.”
“It is just that—you are gifted, Adrea, and Lamachus should know. He has no idea who you really are.”
She didn’t argue with that. Lamachus was truly thickheaded. They rode a time in silence, the tall grass brushing the horses’ bellies. To Aeson’s credit, Adrea had been trying to forget about last night, though it lingered like a bad dream. Marcian Antiope, the son of Ventnor of Galaglea, had a solemn, narrow face and a large nose. And he stuttered, which was something she would never have guessed of a veteran captain of Quietus, the Galaglean king.
Aeson suddenly pulled up on the reins. He searched the ground nervously. “Adrea, look here! What is this?”
Adrea glanced down. The tall grass had been scattered with red blossoms that were still tumbling in the light breeze. Oddly, they smelled like rosemary, though that could hardly be possible, not in this part of the woods. She glanced up. They were at the edge of the forest called the East of the Land. She came here often. The ancient trees never failed to stir something deep inside her, as if they were able to awaken a part of her that too often slept. It was said that long ago, beyond these trees to the west, the fiery sword of Uriel, the archangel of the seventh star, waited, always turning, always guarding the eastern edge of the place where Elyon first touched His finger to the Earth.
“That is the forbidden forest,” Aeson muttered, suddenly realizing where they had ridden. “How did we get so close to the forest?”
“We rode up to it.”
“We should not go any closer,” he warned.
“Why?”
The East of the Land was mostly oak. There must have been thousands of oak in there, ancient guardians, heavy and solemn. And along the borders were other noble trees, like the tall aspen that reached for the sky, and quicksilver with its white bark. They were as old as the Earth, as old as life was old. Within them, shadows curled, and strangely, today the shadows were littered with red blossoms, stirring in the light wind. There was something about them, something unnatural; Adrea could sense it. She sensed many things, though she kept such thoughts her own. She knew one thing for certain: the blossoms were not of this forest, and though there was no explanation, she felt there was also no threat; rather, they seemed mischievous, leaving them all the more intriguing.
“We should leave, Adrea. Ride back before something happens.”
“What could happen here? These are the ancient trees of legend. The oaks are protectors. We could be no safer.”
“You think so? Well, do you see the shadows in there? Those shadows harbor Uttuku.”
“Nonsense.”
“Uttuku, hunting for flesh to inhabit. I have heard it said by more than a few.”
“I come here often, and I assure you, little brother, not once have I been possessed of Uttuku. I look in those trees, and suddenly there seems so much more to life. Think of it, Aeson; this forest has witnessed it all, the ancient garden when it was still sacred. It has seen the coming of the angels and the first man to ever breathe life. Do you not feel the light still burning in these ancient trees?”
“No, and I am telling you we need to leave. Now.”
“Sometimes—I do not know how to put it exactly—but sometimes I come here, and I feel as if life were so much more than marriages to horsemen or even Lamachus and his cattle. I feel something turning, as if the entire world is being drawn into its reason for being and that soon, not far from now, in a single star-fire moment, the limitless light will make itself known.”
“Listen to me, Adrea. There is no sense in thinking like that, speaking deep things like that. You spend too much time listening to those wandering seers, the Followers of Enoch, and you know what Father thinks of them. Besides, what kind of name is the East of the Land? It makes no sense. The only thing special about these trees is that they are easy to get lost in.”
“How would you know?”
“I have been lost in them; that is how I know.”
“You have ridden in there? Alone?”
“Alone but for the heifer I had to chase down. She got in there, and it took nearly the whole day getting her out.”
“You did not feel anything magical? It is said that within the East of the Land there still exists the sacred ladder, the passageway to the castle of Arianrod in the sky.”
“No ladders. No castles. But there were plenty of snarled, thick roots that can catch horse hooves, plenty of sharp rocks, and lots of shadows that get so thick you can even lose the sunlight. If I felt anything unnatural, it was the Uttuku watching; those shadows offer them a good place to hide. You should trust me. I know these things. And what is more, we should leave here before the sun gets any lower in the sky. We will barely make it back before sundown as it is.”
She nodded, still staring at the trees. “We can leave,” she said. She started to turn the reins when something caught her eye. She quickly searched the shadows, knowing what to look for, and there he was. A tingle flew down her back. He was carefully hidden, but it was clear he was letting himself be seen. Aeson had no clue, but this was the reason she had ridden up here every day for more than a week—to find the rider who kept always to the shadow, but watched her from the tree
s. She had never seen him clearly, but she sensed his eyes, something about him, something strange and fascinating.
“What is it?” asked Aeson.
The figure was so still the shadows almost swallowed him, but this time, unlike the others, she saw the flank of his horse, a glistening, silvered white. That was no shadow.
“What?” Aeson said again, this time pressing forward, searching. He must have seen the rider, as well, for he jerked back so suddenly his horse reared. Aeson was a good rider, but he was so startled he dropped the reins. He did manage an ungraceful dismount, only to stumble and fall on his back.
The look on Aeson’s face made Adrea chuckle. “Are you all right?”
He scrambled to his feet. “Of course, I am all right.”
Adrea leaned forward to catch the reins of Aeson’s horse before it bolted, but he quickly snatched them back and nimbly leapt onto the horse’s back. He composed himself, smoothing his hair into place.
“Stupid horse,” he muttered.
“It was your horse’s fault?”
“Must have gotten his foot stuck.”
“In the grass?”
“Maybe it was a rat hole or something.” “So, you did not see anything in the trees?”
“Of course not.” He hesitantly searched the forest’s edge. “No,” he affirmed with relief. “There is nothing in those trees at all.”
Adrea looked back. The rider was gone, as though he had been no more than a trick of light.
“We must start back,” Aeson insisted.
“Yes … of course.”
“Even if we ride hard, we might not make it before sundown, and as you know that would leave Lamachus very anxious.” “Well, we would not want that, would we?” “No, we would not.”
A moment longer she searched the trees, but Aeson pulled up in front of her, blocking her view, watching her suspiciously. “Is there something here I should know about, Adrea?”
Adrea calmly smiled back. “No, Aeson; nothing here to worry about.”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 5
