GHOSTS
She stood in a clearing of Blackveil Forest near the remains of Telavalieth, a village once inhabited by Eletians when the land was still Argenthyne. The dark forest crowded in, crushed the ruins beneath root and branch, and mist oozed between tree trunks and formed a low ceiling over the clearing. Tendrils of vegetation hissed as they snaked through the forest, seeking, seeking . . . They had lost Hana to the forest this way, the second member of the expedition to perish, when roots reached out like tentacles and snatched her away.
Blackveil. Why was she in Blackveil again?
The Rider in ancient garb stood with her, cloaked in billowing mist. His gaze wandered around the clearing. “You choose such strange places to meet,” he said.
Had she chosen it, or had it chosen her?
Something screeched in the distance. The heavy air dampened her hair and uniform. The forest leaned in, menacing, aggressive, the hiss of seeking roots louder, insistent.
“Still not doing well, are you,” the Rider said, peering closely at her. “Well, this cannot wait. None of it can. I wanted to tell you about the marks on the armor and the seals. The marks are the aegis of Westrion, symbols of protection and shielding. And in the case of the seals, of exile and confinement. It is not known to me if the marks are living entities, or if they just seem alive. These things I do not know. They are strong, but not impervious to enemies. Just because you are armored with star steel marked under the aegis of Westrion, doesn’t mean you are impervious to harm. You must always be watchful, be on your guard. If the marks die, you will become vulnerable. And of course if the marks on the seals degrade, the danger is to us all.”
A long tendril of vegetation slithered across the clearing. She stepped back and more mist wafted into the space between them.
“You must ensure the seals are whole,” the Rider continued. “If they fail? The dark ones will be freed, and they can harm the living, and even the dead. This is why you are avatar, to stand in the way of such devastation.”
“Siris,” she murmured. His name came to her from some lost memory. “Siris Kiltyre.”
“That is Captain Kiltyre to you, Rider.” There was a hint of a smile on his face.
The mist rolled in thicker than ever and obscured him. The tendrils of vegetation reached for her, wrapped around her ankles, and yanked her off her feet. She fell hard onto her back. She screamed.
FALLING TO PIECES
At Karigan’s scream, Estral sat bolt upright from a dead sleep, her heart pounding. She tried to remember where she was, had flashes of a terrible nightmare where she and Karigan had been held captive by Second Empire. She closed her eyes and forced her breathing to calm. When she opened them, she found the woman, Nari, with her head stuck through the tent flaps. Estral blinked at the influx of sunlight.
“Ah, I thought perhaps that last scream might have awakened you,” Nari said.
Last scream? Then she remembered what had been done to Karigan. She rubbed eyes crusted with dried tears. Almost afraid to know the answer, she asked, “How is Karigan? Why did she scream?”
“Enver has been tending her. As for the scream? I do not know. Pain and fever alter the mind. But Enver asked me to look in on you. It is not only the Galadheon who was hurt.”
“Just bruises,” Estral replied. “Nothing like . . . Nothing like Karigan.”
In a graceful gesture, Nari put her hand to her heart. Her fingers were long and tapered. “It is not the wounds of the flesh, but the hurt within that injures you. Remember, torture comes in many forms. But here, Enver has instructed that you take a sip of his cordial, and that you eat a . . . a . . . I believe he called it a Dragon Dropping.”
Estral smiled despite herself. “Yes.”
“He gave me one to eat, and at first I was repulsed by the notion, but the scent intoxicated me, and the taste! I have not been so enlivened in centuries, but perhaps after so long eating cave fungus, it is not a surprise. I do not understand, however, how it is your people, and not Eletians, who have created these Dragon Droppings. That is, if they are truly made by people and not the dragons.”
“The cocoa for the chocolate,” Estral replied, wondering about Nari’s diet of cave fungus, “comes from the very south of the Under Kingdoms. It is grown and harvested there, and turned into chocolate elsewhere.”
“Ah. But perhaps you should have these now, or I will talk and ask endless questions and you will not receive succor.”
She passed in a flask, of which Estral sniffed the contents. The warmth of spring sunshine seemed to melt over her shoulders, and she smelled the sweetness of balsam needles on the forest floor. The taste on her tongue was cooling, like the breeze off a lake. It sent calming waves down to her toes and to the tips of her fingers.
She took the chocolate though she knew it would not affect her the way it had “enlivened” Nari, but it comforted her anyway. When she was done, she said, “I would like to see Karigan.”
Nari nodded. “When you are ready, but do not expect her to be wakeful, or to know you if she is.”
Estral frowned. That sounded ominous. When she was ready to face the day, she crawled out of her tent. The sun was high and warm—she had slept into the afternoon. After the horror of the previous night, she was not surprised.
Mister Whiskers lay on his back in the sun, in housecat form, with his paws in the air. Midnight lay decorously curled on a rock, her intense green eyes half-lidded, watching Estral as she walked across the campsite.
Nari beckoned her to Enver’s tent, and he met her at the opening. He looked her over as though to ensure she was all right.
“I know you wish to see the Galadheon,” he said, “but Nari has prepared you breakfast for after.”
“I don’t think I could eat,” she said. Her stomach was in turmoil.
“You are in need of sustenance to keep up your strength, for the Galadheon’s sake, if not your own.”
She knew he was right.
“Please be welcome,” he said, gesturing to his tent. “The Galadheon walks the dreams of one who is fevered, and may not be aware of your presence. The healing will take time. Nari and I will await you outside.”
She nodded, and taking a deep breath, ducked into the tent. It appeared to be larger on the inside than she remembered, the interior a soothing blue. The air was not stuffy, not too warm or too cool. An herby aroma suffused the tent from a steaming bowl of water with unknown leaves steeping in it.
Karigan lay on her stomach with a blanket drawn up to her hips, her back exposed to the air. It had been cleaned up, but for all that, it looked worse with the weals darkened into bruises, and the gaping wounds of scored flesh clearly visible. Estral closed her eyes to steady herself, breathed deeply. When she was ready, she knelt beside Karigan.
“Karigan?” she said softly.
Sweat beaded and dripped down Karigan’s face. She did not respond. Estral sat beside her. How had it all gone wrong? All the self-accusations rose up again. She was so tired, too tired for tears.
“Not without you,” Karigan murmured.
“What?”
But Karigan did not seem to hear her. She muttered and twitched, caught in some dream “. . . will not leave you. No . . . no . . . Cade . . .”
Oh, gods, Estral thought. If she hadn’t felt miserable enough for having been the cause of Karigan’s hurts, it now appeared Karigan was reliving her loss of Cade.
“Why . . . ?” Karigan whispered. “Why do you do this to me? Let me go back . . . let me go . . .”
Estral could only guess at who the “you” was. Karigan’s body tensed, trembled so violently, that Estral took a cloth from the bowl of herby water, wrung it out, and bathed Karigan’s face. After a moment, Karigan stopped trembling, though her muscles remained tense.
Estral called on her own childhood, remembering how her mother had sung to her when she was sick, a
nd so now she softly sang a lullaby—not one of the creepy ones that were actually about death or dark creatures coming for naughty children, but a gentle nonsensical tune about a mouse, a cow, and stardust. Karigan’s taut muscles relaxed, and as Estral continued to sing, her breathing eased.
From the lullaby, she went into a quiet ballad about the vineyards of Rhovanny and the love between two who harvested the grapes. She sang other songs of a soothing nature, all the ones she could think of until her voice grew hoarse. When she could sing no more, she sat exhausted with her head bowed, her friend still obviously fevered, but peaceful.
Enver entered the tent. “You sing the healing in your own way, little cousin. It was well done, but now you must see to your own strength. Nari awaits you by the fire. I will keep watch over the Galadheon.”
“She is going to be all right, isn’t she?”
“She is strong.”
His answer was not, she thought, as reassuring as it could have been. She left the tent feeling lightheaded. She sat hard before the fire and stared into the flames. Apparently Enver was not concerned about smoke the way Karigan would have been. She was barely aware of Nari placing a warm bowl of porridge in her hand.
“You must eat,” Nari said, “so your weakness does not distract Enver from the healing of the Galadheon. You will feel better for some nourishment.”
Estral obeyed, eating mechanically. Nuts and dried fruit had been added to the porridge, which proved heartening, and before she knew it, she’d eaten it all. She’d had no food since the previous morning.
Nari held a muffin out to her. “I found this among the food stores. There was but the one. Perhaps you would eat it?”
It was the last cranberry nut muffin from the wife of the innkeeper in the village of Red Rock. It was hard, but she resolved that problem by dunking it in her tea. When she finished eating, she did feel better. Mister Whiskers sauntered over and flopped across her feet. She stroked his cheek, and his purr relaxed her.
Nari watched her from across the fire, and it occurred to Estral to introduce herself properly and ask questions.
“I am Estral Andovian,” she said. “I don’t think I introduced myself last night. It was a difficult night.”
“Yes,” Nari said with a nod.
“Thank you for your help, though I was surprised Enver found another Eletian in this territory. How did you come to be here?”
“It is a long story, but just as Enver found the gryphons soaring above as he scouted the land, he found me as I hunted.”
“Hunted?”
“Yes. I hunt the aureas slee.”
Nari then told her the incredible tale of how she’d been taken from Argenthyne so long ago and held captive by the aureas slee. She only knew the passage of time and the changes in the world from other adult captives the elemental had imprisoned with her.
“The most recent,” Nari said, “was the king of your people.”
“Who?”
Enver emerged from his tent. “King Zachary. It appears he was taken by the aureas slee shortly after we left Sacor City.”
“What? How in the hells? Where is he?”
“I do not know,” Nari said. “The slee battled the gryphons and carried him off.”
Estral half-stood, sat back down, assailed by dozens of thoughts all at once, and none of them good. What would they do? Return to Sacor City? Would that do King Zachary any good? Was he alive? Then she thanked the gods they’d a queen, but how would Estora handle the responsibility of the realm? And she in the precarious position of carrying twins . . . They needed King Zachary in this time of unrest, with Second Empire exerting itself.
“Little cousin?” Enver said.
She shook herself. “Yes?”
“It is ill news. I believe it should be withheld from the Galadheon for the time being. I mean, until after she regains her full senses. The blow could be a detriment to her healing.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” It occurred to her to wonder if he knew of the feelings between Karigan and Zachary, or if he believed that just the fact it was her king who had been taken by the aureas slee would cause Karigan a setback.
“It was clear,” Nari said, as if reading her mind, “that he possessed strong affection for the Galadheon. It was in his demeanor, if not his words.”
“Yes,” Enver agreed, his expression inscrutable.
Estral looked from Nari to Enver. Eletians were perceptive . . . “So, what now? Where do we go from here?” She still had not found her father, and the one who had stolen her voice was in the middle of Second Empire’s encampment. And speaking of her voice, it remained hoarse. Was Idris’ gift waning?
“I believe it will be for the Galadheon to ascertain,” Enver replied, “once she is well enough to receive the news.”
“Are we just going to hide until then?”
“We are well hidden. Nari helped put in place an illusion in addition to my wards. It will give us the time we need to regroup and make decisions. And, of course, the Galadheon should not be moved until she is well enough to do so on her own.”
Everything, it seemed, had fallen to pieces. She stood and headed back to her tent and crawled beneath her blankets. Sometimes sleeping and forgetting was the best way to cope.
THE SPIRIT AND SOUL OF THE REALM
In the courtyard between the curtain wall and the keep, a platform was erected with a stout post at its center. To this, Second Empire had tied King Zachary. Fiori shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He stood assembled with the other slaves to view their king, he assumed, being humiliated. A larger group of Second Empire’s citizenry thronged before the platform like vultures ready to spring on carrion.
Captain Terrik stood on the platform identifying the king, though by now, all knew who he was. Word had spread more rapidly than a Coutre clipper that the slave known as Dav Hill was actually Zachary Davriel Hillander, king of Sacoridia. Oh, how Grandmother had exulted at the discovery.
Zachary did not look very kingly at the moment, but beaten and starved, the ropes all that held him up. His clothing, of some earlier era, was turning to rags, and was stained with blood and grime. His hair hung lank and shaggy, his beard untrimmed. His work digging out Grandmother’s special passage, the beatings he’d received, and, Fiori thought, whatever had happened to him before he ever came into Grandmother’s clutches, had taken their toll on him.
“I know you are keen to see this man executed,” Terrik was saying, “torn to pieces. I am, too, but Grandmother has grander designs for him, so he will not die this day.” His pronouncement was met with grumbling. “Be assured,” the captain continued, “of what a great blow his capture will be to his people, one which Grandmother means to exploit for the glory of God and the empire.”
He was answered with shouts of “God and empire!” and applause.
“Grandmother knows your hatred for this man and all he stands for, and so she is offering you this opportunity to express yourselves. Remember, throw nothing too hard—Grandmother wants him alive.” Terrik then jumped off the platform.
The people of Second Empire had come prepared: from toddlers to the elderly, they carried refuse, rotten eggs, entrails, slops, mud. All of these were hurled at the king. He averted his face, but it was the only sign he was conscious of the proceedings. The people jeered, cursed him, and laughed when a particularly well-aimed missile slapped against his body.
Fiori grimaced. Most of the slaves looked away. A few maybe wished they could join in. An older man, the one the king had befriended, grew red in the face and practically quivered with rage. Binning, Fiori recalled, was his name.
Inevitably, someone threw a rock despite the orders not to, and it hit the king’s chest with an audible thunk.
Oh, no, Fiori thought.
There was a pause, and then like a wave, more rocks were flung at the king.
“Hold!” Terrik cried, but a madness gripped the assembled, and people cast about themselves for rocks and stones. Someone lobbed a large block from the crumbling wall, which, thankfully, fell well short of the king.
Fiori looked desperately about for some miracle, for a flying cat to arrive and rescue the king as Karigan was rumored to have been rescued, but he saw only the bloodlust of the crowd. A stone clipped the king’s shoulder.
“No, no, no,” Fiori murmured.
But then, to his wonder, Binning broke from the group of slaves and ran—he ran for the platform and jumped up before the guards could stop him, and wrapped his arms around the king to shield him. He was hit in the back with projectiles.
Then, Lorilie Dorran, who had stood fuming beside him, ran. She had been the leader of the Anti-Monarchy Society, otherwise known as the King-Haters, but now she leaped onto the platform to help Binning protect King Zachary. Perhaps she had learned there were worse leaders than he. A moment later, several of her followers among the slaves ran after her to also use their bodies as shields. One by one, the slaves braved the anger of the crowd and their projectiles, creating a veritable wall around the king. When Fiori recovered from his incredulity, he, too, sprinted forward. He was not the last, but he was ashamed not to have been among the first.
A rock grazed his cheek, but he held steady before the platform in the face of the mob, his height making him an excellent target. A mud ball slapped against his chest.
By now, Terrik and his guards were pushing their own people away, forcing them to disperse. If the slaves were expecting to be thanked for preserving Grandmother’s special prisoner, they were to be disappointed, for when the crowd was sent away, the guards turned their attention to tearing the slaves away from the king. They were none too gentle, and Binning in particular had to be pried off him.
“You, too, Arvyn,” Terrik said. “I expected better of you.”
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