He had also learned that he was to flee to a hard land, and that he could thrive there if he worked. He swore to himself to work hard.
Then he had met Rhianna, and Fallion wondered if his father had sent him to save her.
She could be important to my future somehow, he thought.
And from Borenson and his mother, Fallion learned that he had had powerful enemies even before he was born, and that he had come to this world with a purpose, one that he still did not understand.
Sir Borenson secretly hoped that Fallion would lay hold on the world, claim the throne of every evil lord and usurper, but his mother was afraid for him to even think that way.
And then Fallion had faced Asgaroth, who also hoped to lay hold on every throne, and he would do so using terror as his weapon.
It seemed a great deal to hold in one small mind. Fallion thought about these things and realized that yesterday he had been a child, hunting for shiny stones beside the streambeds and lifting up logs by the mill to look for mice.
Now, he had fallen into affairs far beyond his ability to understand.
Jaz crouched beside Fallion, his breath coming ragged, and whispered, “I wish that they would have let us fly.”
Fallion smiled. So now Jaz wanted to fly?
Fallion felt trapped here on the boat, too.
“Did you see the snails on the bottom of the boat?” Fallion asked, wanting to comfort Jaz. Jaz loved just about any animal, and Fallion knew that talking about such things would distract Jaz from his fears.
“Snails?” Jaz asked.
“Big ones,” Fallion whispered, “big pale ones.” Fallion had seen one under the hull, the yellowish brown of ground mustard. He’d tried to reach down to catch it, but the water was so cold that it bit, and so clear that the snail was farther away than it looked.
“I saw a fish, I think,” Jaz said, “a shadow in the water. Did you know these caves were here?”
“No,” Fallion whispered.
Hadissa turned, hissed through his teeth, a sign for them to be quiet.
Hadissa came with us, Fallion thought, and he took some comfort in that. Hadissa had been an assassin, the grand master of the Muyyatin, and thus it was rumored that between his training and endowments he was the most dangerous man in the world.
So it was that the boat jostled down its dark course, until at last there was a thin light ahead, and the boat neared a curtain of ivy. Jaz suddenly threw his arms around Fallion and squeezed, trembling with fear.
I’ll take care of you, Fallion promised silently, hugging his brother.
Because Iome had taken endowments of metabolism, she bore her two sons only four months apart. Though he was only four months older than Jaz, Fallion was the larger and the smarter. It was Fallion’s self-appointed duty to watch over Jaz.
Rhianna reached out and clutched Fallion’s leg, and he patted her hand.
The dry vines hissed over the canvas roof as they passed beneath the mouth of the cave and rode out under the stars.
Fallion peered up through the flaps of the tarp.
This was the most dangerous moment, for they came out in a narrow gorge with steep canyon walls, into cold night air that smelled thickly of hoary woods and bitter pine bark—the kind of woods that the strengi-saats seemed to like.
The stars burned brightly through a thin haze that lumbered over the water. A reedy breeze wound down the canyon, lightly stirring the air, which was so heavy with water that Fallion could nearly drink from the air alone.
Fallion’s heart hammered, and he peered about, watching for shadows flitting by.
Humfrey came and snuggled against Fallion’s chest, his paws wet from the deck, and Fallion reached down and scratched the ferrin’s chin.
They rode quietly for several moments, and he remembered a boating trip that he had taken with his mother on the River Wye when he was five.
The sky had been pristine blue and the day warm, with dragonflies darting above the water and perch leaping after them. Mallards had flown up from the cattail rushes, quacking loudly to draw attention away from their nests, and Fallion had watched a mother muskrat paddle past the boat with fresh grass in her mouth for her young, and had watched a water shrew bob up from the surface and crouch on a rock to eat a crayfish.
It was one of his best and brightest memories, and as he lay back down in the boat now, he tried to pretend that this trip was like that one.
There are turtles that live on this river, Fallion reassured himself, imagining how they would sit sunning on logs, like muddy rocks, until you got too close.
And in the springtime the frogs probably sing so loud that you couldn’t sleep if you wanted to. And I’ll bet that there are river otters here that slide down muddy trails into the water, just for fun.
Fallion was just beginning to think that they had come through safely when he heard a sound up in the trees like rolling thunder: the snarl of a strengi-saat.
8
THE SIEGE
Peace comes not from an absence of conflict, but from an absence of despair.
—Duke Paldane
In the watchtower at Castle Coorm, Chancellor Waggit—who only an hour before had only carried the title of Hearthmaster—paced beside the far-seers, expecting a siege. By all of the signs, it appeared that he had one.
He had often come to the watchtowers at night, looking to the far-seers for news. The far-seers had many endowments of sight, hearing, and smell. Little happened near the castle that escaped their detection.
On most nights they kept their silent watch, amusing themselves and the chancellor with the antics of the townsfolk. The cobbler’s wife had several lovers, and could often be seen tiptoeing to some tryst while her husband slept off his nightly drunk, blissfully unaware that there was only a slim chance that he had fathered even one of his nine children. Other nights, the far-seers would relay the words to screaming fights that took place outside the alehouses, or just watch the stags and bears sneak into apple orchards on the hillsides to eat the fallen fruit.
But tonight, there was danger afoot. A wind picked up just after midnight, less than an hour after Prince Fallion had ordered the slaughter of Asgaroth’s troops, and it blew this way and that, signaling a storm. The air was thick and fetid, as if it had blown out the Westlands from the swamps at Fenraven.
It sat heavy in the lungs, and made breathing tiresome. Worse, the air carried clouds of gnats that seemed to want to lodge in Waggit’s throat when he breathed, and mosquitoes that acted as if his was the only blood to be found for twenty leagues.
Heavy clouds began to lumber over the horizon, blotting out the stars, and grumbling could be heard, the voice of distant lightning.
Sometimes a bolt would sizzle through the clouds, creating a burst in the heavens. By that light, the far-seers reported strengi-saats at the edge of the woods in the southern hills, dark shadows flitting between trees. Earlier in the day, Waggit had thought that there were perhaps a dozen of the beasts, but with each hour the count grew. Strengi-saats were filling the countryside, and Waggit realized that he and Sir Borenson had only stumbled upon their advance guard. There were not just a dozen of them. The far-seers reported several dozen, perhaps even hundreds.
And over the hill to the north, even Waggit’s poor eyes could see that campfires glowed, limning the hills and trees with light. An army was gathering. From time to time, the far-seers reported that troops rode in haste over a distant hill to the north, lances like a forest against the sky, or they would spot small groups of warriors scrounging around cottages, poking through barns.
Warning of the siege had come too late, and most of the livestock was still out there, waiting to fill the bellies of enemy troops.
No sooner had Asgaroth made his retreat than Waggit sent out three graak riders to nearby castles, calling for troops. He hoped that reinforcements would arrive soon.
But the heavens filled with black clouds, and the air grew heavy with the smell of rain. His mes
sengers would not be able to fly in this storm, not with lightning bolts sizzling past their heads.
An hour before dawn, Waggit stood marveling at his own meteoric rise to power. Nine years ago he had been working as a miner and his only title, if he’d had one, might have been “village idiot.” But when the reavers attacked Carris, by virtue of his strength and stupidity Waggit found himself in the front lines, swinging his pickax for all that he was worth. The minstrels claim that he killed nine reavers that day. He doubted it. He could only remember killing a couple. But for Waggit’s valor the Earth King gave him the title of Baron, along with nine forcibles. Five of them he had used to take endowments of Wit, so that now he recalled all that he saw and heard. The other forcibles he had used to give himself strength and stamina, so that he might study long into the nights.
Thus he had raised himself to the status of Hearthmaster, a teacher in the House of Understanding.
And only moments before she left, the queen had named him Chancellor and bestowed upon him the task of caring for Castle Coorm and the lands roundabout.
It would have been a pleasant task in fairer times. Coorm was called the Queen’s Castle, for over the centuries many a queen had made it their summer resort when the air got too muggy at the Courts of Tide. It was a pretty castle, one might even say dainty, with its tall spires and pleasant views.
But now it seemed a death trap.
Waggit was determined to defend it to the best of his ability, and he had good captains under him who knew how to wage a war. But he couldn’t help but worry. His own wife and daughter, both of whom were named Farion, were trapped within the walls.
So it was that just before dawn a large force of soldiers came sweeping toward the castle on foot, racing down over the hill from the north. The men sprinted through the damp fields with unnatural quiet, it seemed, or perhaps it was the contrary winds that blew away the sound of their approach. There were thousands of men—archers with longbows, force soldiers with spears and axes.
Asgaroth rode before them, upon his red blood mare.
One of the castle guards winded a horn, his plaintive notes warning almost no one, for the walls were already well manned.
The signal was mostly for the benefit of the queen, to let her know that the battle had begun, if any of her folk were still within hearing range of the horns.
But the signal served another purpose, one closer to Waggit’s heart: from the graakerie, eight graaks suddenly took flight at the sound. Upon the back of each sat a young boy or girl, cowled and anonymous.
One rider was Waggit’s own daughter, seven-year-old Farion.
The graaks split off in groups. Four of them went northeast toward the Courts of Tide. Three winged northwest toward Heredon.
And one flew straight up toward the far-seer’s tower, thundering above it, the wash from its vast leather wings stirring the air.
From atop it, Waggit heard a small voice call, “Good-bye, Daddy.”
Waggit’s heart skipped a beat. Farion sounded so tiny and frightened to be riding such a great beast.
The graak let out a plaintive croak, then suddenly turned and followed the three that headed for Heredon.
Waggit smiled sadly, relieved to see that his daughter had made it through the takeoff, worried about how far she had to go.
It will be storming soon, he thought. The rain and thunder will drive the graaks to ground. But hopefully it will be many hours from now, and the great reptiles will be far away.
Waggit stood, leaning upon a staff, watching the children fly off into the night.
Let Asgaroth puzzle that one out, he thought. If it is the princes he wants, he’ll have to send men to follow the decoys.
But suddenly there arose grunting sounds from the north, the sound that graaks make when they take flight, and Waggit watched in horror as dozens of the creatures rose up from the woods.
They had no riders upon their backs, no saddles even, and when they saw the riders, they let out frightful cries and climbed like hawks.
With rising horror, Waggit watched the cloud of winged beasts, and realization came to him.
There were stories, ancient stories, of such graaks—trained not as mounts, but as winged assassins.
None had been used in nearly two hundred years.
The lords of the Earth had a tacit agreement: children, even messengers, were never to be targeted in war, and since assassin graaks would of necessity kill children, their use among civilized folk had long since been abandoned.
Apparently, Asgaroth was not civilized folk.
“Farion!” Waggit shouted in warning. “Come back!” But she was too far away to hear.
Amid cries of dismay, the young riders hugged the necks of their mounts as the killer graaks swept toward them. Some children turned their mounts, tried to veer away from the killers, but such a race was bound to end badly, for there were two or three killer graaks to each mount, and they would not be hindered by riders.
Waggit winded his own horn, calling retreat, and watched in terror to see if the children would give heed.
Six of the children heard.
Two others, two that had been heading toward Heredon, seemed to freeze with fear. Waggit watched in dismay as killer graaks swept up and deftly plucked the children from their mounts, then dove and brought the children to earth kicking and screaming, to make of them a meal.
Not my Farion, Waggit told himself. Not my daughter.
He had lost track of where Farion might be. He knew that she was upon a graak, and he also knew that she was the least adept of the riders. Had she been able to turn in time?
The others raced back toward the castle, their mounts veering and swerving as killer graaks gave chase. As the graaks neared the castle walls, archers let fly a hail of arrows, trying to deter the attackers, but it was little use. The assassin graaks kept coming.
One child took an arrow in the shoulder. He cried out and fell from his graak, hundreds of feet, to land with a crunch just outside the castle wall.
Another dove toward the graakerie and hit the landing pad, and as he tried to leap to safety, a killer graak dove like a giant gull and took him in its teeth.
The rest of the children veered between towers, screaming for help as enemy fliers gave chase. Waggit watched them fly by, the wingtips of their graaks nearly clipping the towers, the stark fear showing in every line of their faces.
Two passed him, a third.
Then the last of the children came, racing toward his tower, and Waggit heard Farion’s voice, so full of terror that it broke his heart, crying, “Daddy!”
A killer graak was racing up behind her.
Arrows whipped up toward the killer, and Waggit wondered if he could leap onto its back, use his own weight to bear it to earth.
But it stooped above him, screaming down in a dive, and the worst that he could do was to throw his warhorn.
The warhorn bounced off its chest. The graak didn’t even seem to notice.
Farion dove straight toward the gate, hugging the leathery neck of her graak, screaming in terror.
Arrows blurred up, hitting the killer graak as it raced down to snatch her. Waggit heard the snick of arrows, saw them bounce off its breast, and then one struck home, blurring into the monster’s breast, and the killer graak made a croaking sound, veered left, and began to fall rapidly.
Waggit saw Farion’s own graak hit the ground fast, and Farion was thrown onto the cobblestone streets on impact.
She rolled down near the wall of an inn, and a force soldier hastened to her side, grabbed her.
For a brief moment, the girl was silent, and Waggit held his breath, afraid that she’d taken injury in the fall. But within moments she began to scream in terror and fight the guard, breaking free, and then she scrambled into the door of the inn.
In the end, only five children made it back safely.
When it was done, the assassin graaks flapped heavily out toward the woods, and Chancellor Waggit gazed do
wn into the fields to the north.
Asgaroth sat straight in his saddle, gave a nod of satisfaction.
Now the siege begins in earnest, Waggit thought. For certainly Asgaroth believed that if any of the princes were alive, they had just been driven to ground at the castle.
But Asgaroth waved his men forward. Dozens of them swept over the fields, into the woods east of the castle, and Waggit was left to marvel.
Asgaroth had suspected that it was a ruse. Perhaps he had even known that it was a ruse.
Yet he had let his graaks murder innocent children anyway.
What kind of man would do that? Waggit wondered.
Waggit had studied much in the House of Understanding. He had read histories of ancient lords, befouled and evil, and in time had begun to understand a little of how they thought, how they gained power.
But no one could ever really understand them. No sane man would want to.
Now that he had finished terrorizing the castle, Asgaroth left a contingent of warriors to beat back any attempt that Waggit’s troops might make to sally forth while he went to search for the princes in earnest.
9
TRUST
The art of raising a child comes in knowing when to hold his hand, and when to let it go. Once he learns to trust you, he is ready to learn to trust himself.
—Jaz Laren Sylvarresta
At the snarl of the strengi-saat, Rhianna rose up on her elbow, edged to the open flap, and peered out over Hadissa’s shoulder: the stars shone down through a thin haze that clung to the river. Starlight gleamed on the water, upon the slick round stones along the bank, and upon the glossy leaves of grass and vines along the shore.
Rhianna wished fiercely that there was more of a fog. Myrrima had promised them one, but Rhianna could see plainly through the thin haze.
Enormous pine trees crowded the banks along the steep sides of a hill; beneath them, all was shadows.
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