“She will not speak until she forgets them,” his mother had told him.
And indeed, Asteria had not spoken for many years. When she did speak, her sentences were fully formed, and still, despite the precaution, it seemed to Rhywder Asteria had remained filled with Elyon’s secrets. Even in the end, when she struggled so against the twisted intrigues of politics that eventually got her killed, it had always seemed that Asteria could, if she wished, part the veil with her delicate, long fingers and casually speak with Elyon.
He watched the sky wash with purple into an image of the sea and upon it a pale shadow of the last ship he had sailed—the stained, weathered strakes; the oiled, darkened sail. He could hear the waters; he could see the oars dip like great wings to fling the sea in a spray. They had hunted slavers, Pelegasians who had become wanton butchers to obtain flesh for the markets of Etlantis and Weire, which were flourishing these days. Rhywder had captained the blackship, moving like a shadow of death at night, striking from nowhere to take out the slaver galleys.
Rhywder jerked up. Things had momentarily grayed out. He had nearly fallen from the horse.
There was a far rumbling of thunder. A storm front was coming in from the south. When he turned, it struck him. They were not ordinary clouds. He had never seen a storm like this. He continued to stare, wondering if this was another delusion, but it seemed he could see eyes in the dark clouds, a thousand eyes swirling.
Rhywder didn’t feel himself fall from the horse until the ground struck him. He had landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He moaned and slowly turned onto his back, lifting himself onto his elbows.
Satrina had quickly dropped off the saddle to crouch beside him. She wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of her skirt.
He caught a glint of her thigh and wondered of himself. The middle of nowhere, death crawling after them, but still he noticed how she had legs like a dancer. It was impossible she was thirty and two.
“Poor Shadow Walker,” she said. “This is the poison in you.” “Bitches.” “What bitches?” “The ones that bit me.”
“You mean the animals that attacked you were female?” “Aye, the kind I always knew were out there somewhere.” “You are speaking strangely.”
“No more than usual. Help me up, I have to get back in the saddle.” “You should rest, Shadow Walker.” “Name is Rhywder.”
“What?”
“My name. Rhywder. You can stop calling me Shadow Walker. I am Rhywder, the Little Fox of Lochlain.”
She nodded. “Whatever your name, you cannot keep going. You are pale. Why not sit here and take a short rest?”
He used her shoulder to pull himself up, kneeling. And then—he just stared at her, suddenly caught in her eyes. Maybe it was an effect of the poison, but her wide, quick violet eyes framed in the tangles of her red-brown hair—they just drew him in. She seemed so out of place here. Like a bright child in the darkest nightmare.
She reached forward and touched his brow. “Ah, this is good, Rhywder.”
“What is good?”
“Your forehead—your fever has broken into a cold sweat.” “You think?” She nodded.
“Then why do I feel so strange?”
“A cold sweat will do that to you. Flushes you all over, like little fingers running over your skin. Do you feel that?”
“More or less. Possibly why I keep staring at you.”
“The good thing is, the sweat means the poison has passed through your blood. You should start to get better now. And you were strong, so I believe you will recover quickly. As long as you do not drink your own urine,” she added with a smile, a bit of humor.
“I have always made that a strict rule, never to … to drink my own—” He tightened his jaw, staring. “Love of God you are …” “I am what?” “Just simply beautiful.”
She blinked, startled. “Why, thank you. And, since you mention it—so are you.”
He narrowed a brow. “So I am what?” “You are beautiful, as well.”
“No, no. You see me walk into a tavern, beautiful is not what should come to mind.”
She reached carefully to smooth back the tangles of his red hair, though he pulled away as she did. “And you have such kind eyes.”
“Pardon, but in this same tavern, kind is not what you should think in seeing my eyes.”
“I suppose I have never visited this tavern.”
He moaned and pulled himself to his feet. She stood, her hand taking his arm to steady him.
“Where is the horse?” he stammered.
Satrina turned, searching. “There he is.” She motioned, waving her hand. “Here, horse!”
“What are you doing?”
“Talking to him. Like you did. Come. Over here. Come, horse.” “It does not work that way.” “Well … yes, it does.”
Rhywder turned, stunned to see the animal obediently walking toward them. It lowered its head beside Satrina and shook out the bridle. “Ready, then?” She handed him the reins. “Hold these.”
“Why?”
Satrina hoisted herself into the saddle. She gripped the horn and leaned over, taking the reins. She then stretched out a hand. “What are you doing?” Rhywder asked. “I will get us to Hericlon. I know the way. Take hold.” He just stared at her, confused.
“What? You have never let a woman guide your horse? That is pretty silly, you know. Take hold.”
He frowned, but let her help pull him into the saddle behind her. She took each of his hands and wrapped his arms tight about her waist.
“Wait,” he said, “I can at least take the reins.”
She firmly placed his hands back on her stomach. “Not wise. You are falling off the horse. I am rested. Be brave, Rhywder, Little Fox of Lochlain.” “Excuse me? Be brave?”
“No need to be afraid of a little help. Hold tight,” Satrina shouted, kicking the horse’s side. They were soon at a gallop. “Hericlon is not far.”
Rhywder found he had to grip her waist tight as she leaned into the gallop. Apparently, she really had ridden horses before.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Krysis
At first Eryian thought he was waking from a dream, but then he quickly realized the images of the pirates were memories. What surprised him was remembering that it was not the captain—a capable swordsman—nor his protector, the big axeman who had stopped his attack. What had brought Eryian down was the girl. He had not even seen her, crouched beneath the thigh of her captain. The sting of the girl’s dart was quick, but her choice of poison was strange. As he woke, it still left a slight opiate effect, calming and pleasant. It seemed a very odd choice for raiders. He remembered briefly catching her eyes, how they had glimmered with excitement.
He looked about slowly, surprised to find he was in his own room, the familiar worn wood of the walls, the tapestry that Krysis, his wife, had hung on the far wall. She had brought it from the island of Etlantis, her one treasure—picturing a white horse moving alone through dark green forest. She had always said it made her think of him. As the fog of sleep began to wear off, Eryian tried to get up, but as he did, he felt fingers touch his cheek and turned to see Krysis’s light golden hair and crystal blue eyes. She was Lochlain, not one of the magick users, but certainly one of the pretty ones, one of those who had followed the queen to Argolis on the morning of the slaughter. If anything had burdened him over the years, it was the slaughter of the Lochlains. Had they not been sworn to follow the rule of a bullheaded foolish king from the tribe of Hebe, they would all have lived.
“Be still, Eryian. It is over now.”
When he tried to get up nonetheless, she placed her palm firmly against his chest and pushed him back down. “There is nothing you can do,” she said. Her eyes were firm.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“They brought you home. They seemed certain you would die, but you have only been asleep. You looked peaceful.”
“They were pirates—Tarshians. There was only one
Tarshian blackship left hunting the open sea and that was Darke. They called him the Shadow Hawk.”
“Yes, Tillantus told me they were raiders; he did not guess their names, however.”
“What possible reason could that have had in the castle of Terith-Aire?” He glanced to her when she didn’t answer straightaway. “Have they been killed—the raiders?”
Krysis paused. “No,” she said. She pulled a strand of golden hair from her high cheekbone, looking down.
“Then what? What did they want? What did they do?”
“They … they took the king, Eryian; they took Lochlain.”
“What?”
“Lochlain, Asteria’s son. They have kidnapped him. The pirates had a ship waiting below the cliffs. Tillantus sent one of our warships in pursuit, but it was night and this pirate you mentioned, he sailed straight into deep water. He did not even keep to the shoreline, though a storm was threatening, and I am told his blackship was far too quick. None could keep up with him, and the night swallowed all sight of him. They are still hunting, but Tillantus tells me there is little hope.”
“Tillantus is here?”
“No, he rode out to see if you lived. He has returned to the castle. He said to leave you word if you awakened that the legions would continue to assemble. Nothing would change in their orders, but you may as well rest until dawn.”
Eryian eased back against the oaken headboard. “They took the boy? Are you certain?”
“That is what he said, yes. I should thank these pirates if I saw them, Eryian.” He glanced to her. “Thank them? For what, in Elyon’s name?” “The poison they used, it merely put you to sleep.”
Eryian nodded. “Apparently they had a witch—a pretty little witch at that. She would be the one you would need to thank.”
“And the king, Lochlain, they did not kill him. They merely stole him.” “We have moved from assassins to thieves.” “Tarshians, you say. Are they not Etlantian killers?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps someone hired them.”
He smiled at her. “You always have been clever, Krysis. Yes, someone hired them. But whoever it was, he does not have a party planned for the king, I can assure you of that. Did Tillantus say if they left the sword?”
“Argolis’s sword?”
Eryian nodded.
“No. He mentioned nothing of it.” “I have to get back to the palace, Krysis. Help me up.” “I will not,” she snapped. “You are not going anywhere until you have your strength back.”
“That should not be a problem. She merely drugged me. I have barely been scratched. How long has it been?”
“It is late night. Someone has been waiting outside the door ever since they brought you. Is it all right to let him in?”
Eryian nodded. “I seem to be fine.”
She opened the door and not surprisingly Little Eryian was waiting, as though he had been listening through the door, which no doubt he had, though the wood was thick. His white eyes turned to his father, and he walked soberly to Eryian’s bedside, studying him.
“I told Mother you were not harmed. But how did they manage to put you to sleep, Father?”
“It was a woman did that, Little Eryian.”
The boy stared back amazed. “A woman? How? Can you explain it to me?” “Women are always difficult to explain, little one.” Little Eryian glanced at his mother, but she only smiled. “She used a small crossbow,” Eryian told the boy. “Custom-made, mounted on her wrist. Her dart was tipped with balm, a poison, but one that merely put me to sleep.”
“Why did she not kill you?”
“A good question.”
“Was she fast with the dart?”
“Very.”
“Do you think she was faster than I would have been, say, with a dagger?” “No. She was fast, but I think what helped her the most was that she was small. I did not see her until it was too late.” “They were pirates.” “Yes. How did you know?”
“I imagined them. I saw a captain with dark eyes. And there is another I imagine as well, but he is … far. Him I do not understand. He is very hard to see, this one. I think the reason I cannot envision him is that he is too powerful. He burns with many fires and each fire has a hundred eyes. Did you sense him, Father? Was he with them?”
“No, but you describe an angel. Odd. It could not be the death lord. It would make no sense. He would have killed the boy. This is another.”
“If you wish, Father, I believe I could lead you to this one. I could track him. We would need fast ships. He lies west and north, bearing far out to deep water. But if I tried, I believe I could find him.”
Little Eryian stared a moment with his focused, white eyes as if the being he described were on the other side of the room. As a hunter, Little Eryian, even so young, was unmatched. He had gained his instincts from birth, the ability to see through anyone’s thoughts and even envision events far from him. The few times they had hunted game, Little Eryian had tracked by instinct, never looking to the ground, never bothering with signs, just slowly closing on the game they pursued. Eryian had no doubt that if he applied himself, the boy could, indeed, track an angel. Of course, Eryian would never allow it, but it gave him the clue he needed. Bearing out to sea, north and west, it could only be a fallen, and not one in league with Etlantis. That left one obvious choice—Satariel, the prefect of the choir of Melachim. He had panicked and had hired the most capable and able thief on the planet.
There was no need to try to follow—it would drain resources, but beyond that, Eryian felt Loch was in prophecy’s grip. The king was deadly and he learned quickly. Azazel could kill Loch without a thought, but this one, a prefect was weakened and panicked; perhaps there was reason to it. He was certainly capable of killing the king, but the timing of things left Eryian wondering. He again thought of the games heaven played. It must be amusing, watching from above. With Azazel bearing from the south, Eryian had no choice but to leave Lochlain in Elyon’s hands.
“No, Little Eryian. It is not yet time to hunt the Watchers, but in your day, when you are older, things may be different.”
Little Eryian nodded.
He looked to Krysis. “I am strong enough to ride. I must learn more. The kingdom and all allies north of Hericlon are threatened. I cannot rest; there is just no time.”
She sighed, but consented. “When will I see you again?”
He stared at her, troubled. Krysis lowered her gaze. She knew the answer might well be never.
“Whatever happens,” Eryian said, “we must fight with Faith’s Light, my love. Bid me Godspeed. If I am able, I shall return.”
She steeled her eyes and nodded, but a tear escaped.
He first rode to the castle, where he was met by the guard of the Seventh Cohort, the Shadow Walkers. He made his way inside quickly.
Eryian stepped into the king’s chambers and paused, searching for clues. Guards had fanned to the lintels at his flanks and Tillantus, the high captain and commander of the first legion of the Daath, stepped in beside him. Tillantus had been in the rear guard when the assassins had come for Argolis, and presently, Eryian was grateful to have the big warrior still alive. After Eryian, Tillantus was now second in command of the armies of Daath, for that matter, the entire kingdom. He was a Shadow Walker of the old school, a weathered veteran who had been as loyal as blood to Argolis and would be the same to Eryian.
“Headboard,” Tillantus said. “Single bolt through the hand, but little blood. They must have been experts; they intended to get him out of here without harming him. From the way the feathers are shredded off, I suspect it was the boy pulled his own hand free.”
Eryian nodded. He noticed a crack in the marble floor near the bed, veined in black, the edges seared. Loch had fired the blade of Uriel. He stepped forward to study it. He also noticed the silver bolt lodged deep in the headboard, stained with Loch’s blood. He suspected the witch’s poison had put Loch to sleep as it had him, but if Loch had managed to bri
ng the sword to life, why had he not killed them? Loch had guessed something. For whatever reason, the boy had let himself be taken. Eryian would say nothing of it. There were those who might think the king chose to be abducted rather than face the storms of the southland—but Eryian knew otherwise. It was the knowing in Loch that had spoken. There was purpose in what had happened here.
“I cannot understand why they would take the king,” Tillantus grumbled. “Should we be expecting a ransom offer, for the love of Elyon?”
Eryian shook his head. “They did not come for money or jewels.”
“What then, my lord?”
“I suspect someone wanted to know if Loch’s blood could light the sunblade—or perhaps ensure it could not.”
Tillantus knelt near the singed crack and touched his finger to the blackened rock. “Do you think, then, Argolis’s sword caused this?”
“I do.”
“God’s blood. I saw that the sword was missing, but I thought it was you that had it.”
“No. It is all connected, Tillantus. Since the death of Argolis, all that we watch unfold is covenant. It is as though we are merely spectators allowed to watch prophecies unveil themselves.”
“Aye.”
“This pirate had a well-fitted ship, did he?”
“Seen nothing like it. I watched from the top of the Dove and the ship vanished into the night like shadow in wind. I could send more ships in search by dawn; we have six anchored in Ishmia.”
“No, leave them anchored. I know what the boy meant now.”
“My lord?”
“Nothing, he mentioned watching the sea. I suppose he sensed what we now know.”
“He was odd—knew hidden things. You could see it in him,” Tillantus added.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 28
