She rested her head against his chest. The rain battered the inn, the thunder splitting the skies over Kilnhome. Content to be with her love, she felt herself drifting close to sleep, tumbling toward the edge of a dream she so badly wanted to know.
She could not have said why she opened her eyes one final time. Perhaps she wanted to see Rellen’s face once more before sleep, or perhaps to remember the way the room looked on the night she fell back in love. It mattered little, for when her lashes flickered open and she gazed into the night, she saw the shutters on the nearest window glide open. The lightning flared on the far side of the glass, illuminating the world beyond, and though she was still awake, what she saw made her wish she were asleep. The pair of white eyes, small as candles yet bright as stars, peered from the darkness and into her soul. The thunder rumbled again, only it was not thunder at all. It was the voices, tunneling through the void and into her head.
The things they said to her made her forget Rellen, Garrett, and Saul. Their words strangled her, muted her, and drowned her heart with unbearable dread. Furyon, she knew. It follows me. I am a daughter of Archithrope. I am cursed, and wherever I go the shadows will follow.
Journal, Part III
Late summer. City of Denawir. Castle Aeth. Last entry
Today, for the first time since spring, I walked the white streets of Denawir. I strode beneath vine-covered bridges, wended my way through mazes of urns, baskets, and pots filled with flowers, and ate two apples whose skins shined like the moon. As Thillrian cities go, perhaps Denawir is the most comely. Its sky, bleak and grey as charcoal only two seasons ago, was so utterly blue today it hurt my eyes to look upon. Its harbor, so cold and mysterious during winter, looks surprisingly warm. The waters are green instead of black, and the surface teeming with ships bound for every port in the world save Furyon’s.
This city is so unlike my Shivershore tower, where even in the warmest months the wind would whistle through my windows, biting at me if I dared walk past. In Denawir, city of gardens, white statues, and little coquina houses built close as kinfolk, a man could forget himself and lose sight of all his plans. I sensed it today as I walked. An ordinary man could live a life of harmony here. Wealthy or poor, he could live a rich life among family and friends, and he could die a happy man. But not I. As I made my way up the hillside and toward Aeth, I reminded myself of what I am meant for. There will be no laughter for me. I will share no suppers with friends, long walks at dusk with a woman on my arm, or trips across the harbor in a white-sailed ketch. I have not come all this way to surrender to the pursuit of pleasure. My path is chosen. I must walk it to the end.
Nightfall is upon me. Less than an hour ago, I crossed the threshold of my bedchamber. Orumna’s tower is the highest of six in Aeth, lording over the cliffs and the sandy shores below. The pale stone faces of Thillria’s ancestors are graven into its stairwells, and the windows like eyes watching over the sea. I have not often dwelled in such luxury. I washed my hands in a golden basin, toweled my face with white linens, and rested my tired backside on a satin couch whose threads are as scarlet as blood. I sated my hunger with a bowl of grapes, plums, and nuts, and satisfied my thirst with a glass of Shiver Red, two bottles of which Reya left upon my doorstep. It was a kingly reception, as should be expected.
The King’s guests are here in Aeth. They have been for two days, though I have to give them audience. They are quite a mix, these four, with backgrounds so dissimilar their joining seems a rare cup of chance. I have names for most of them. First we have the Lad, a boy in a man’s body, flush with the desire for a simpler life but lacking the courage to embrace it. His heroic days are over. His quill is all I need. Next we have the Erudite, eldest and most educated of the lot. I rather like the man for his quiet, studious ways, though I wonder how deep he will thrust his fingers into the pot before someone clips them off.
There are two others, both more vital than the Lad and the Erudite. The Blood, I call the first of the pair. Perhaps none save Grimwain himself has slain so many in his life. The Blood’s companions do not know him for who he is. His is an old soul, his heart as hard as Archithropian steel, and his sword fashioned from a fragment of the moon. The Blood concerns me chiefly. It is unlucky he should be here, for I had not expected his return. To destroy such perfection shall bring me no pleasure, though Grim will feel otherwise, I believe.
Lastly we have the girl. I have no name for her beyond the one she was given at birth. She is a gentle sight indeed. Fairest creature, when last I saw her she was but a lump in her mother’s belly. How fast she has grown. How perfect she is. A witch, some must think her, but that seems a cruel name for so divine a thing. I can tell at a glance she is only just now becoming aware of what she is. It will not be long now before she fully understands. The children of the old world are quick to learn.
With every passing eve, my thoughts fall more and more upon this girl beneath my roof. I worry it may be too late for her power to take root or that her time in Furyon might have spoiled her. As I sip from my wine and scrawl on this page, I wonder; how much shall I teach her? Once her duty is done, must I do the merciful thing and kill her? Such a life, half in the shadows, half tethered to the normal world, would be far from painless. I might spare her much suffering if I destroy her. I feel sick with the thought, and so I will write of other things.
Poor Orumna. So often, your bloated body must have ached as much as mine does tonight. My gut is full of fruit and spirits. My legs are wobbly and my feet swollen. My head hurts, my fingers are sore, and my eyes bleary from so much writing. I push and pull my newest quill upon the page, but I am distracted. I wonder, King Orum; did you ever sit at this table, penning your royal papers, and see what I see? Or was your body in too much pain and your head too thick with wine?
It is dark outside. My window is open. If I gaze due north through the fat King’s window, I can see it; the moon’s little brother, a shadow trailing within a shadow. How clever of the Kilnsfolk to put it there, the Ur Eye, the unreachable prison. If Orumna gazed from this very window, he might have seen it the same as I do. But did he know it for what it is? Did he shiver when he glimpsed it? Did he know it would someday fall into fragments and leave the world with but one man alive? No, I think not.
I should not write such things. Grimwain would not be amused. I should instead savor Orum’s room, for soon I will travel to a baleful place, a fortress wrought of shining marble and underworld stone. Even as I write, Grim is out in the heart of Thillria, finding a suitable foundation for it. I shall name it Midnon. None will think to find me there. It will be deaf to the drums of the sea, a mirror to the eyes of those who might seek it out. There will be few comforts in Midnon, not for me, not for my guests, and certainly not for my poor girls, both of whom shall join me.
Now it comes to it. The hour is here. The sun has set and the night holds sway. I think of what I must do as a masterpiece in the making. I shall become a playwright, a painter, and a sculptor. If I should err, many might suffer, but for now my plan is as I wish it. I am calm and collected. I have practiced my part far longer than any actor on any stage. It will be entertaining, I tell myself, to walk in yet another man’s skin. Will anyone know? If they do, they will die.
My ink is almost gone. The King must not have been much for writing, else his well might be fuller. Perhaps someday I will thaw Orum’s pieces and put one drop of him into each of a thousand inkwells. But then, why would I care to write when no one but me will remain to read it?
Puppets
Rellen crossed Aeth’s green courtyard, walked a torchlit hall, and entered the grand, six-sided chamber of King Orumna. At last, he yawned as he and his companions crossed the threshold. He made us wait long enough. This had better be worthwhile.
If Rellen’s mood was ill, it was not as foul as it had been. For the first time in a month, he felt well-rested, having savored three nights of sleep in a guest cottage of the Thillrian king. His clothes were clean, his hair freshly-crop
ped, and his black boots polished as though made of tumbled onyx. It was an hour after dawn, and the sweet smells of the King’s breakfast called to him. They said he liked to eat, he thought as he stepped between a quartet of helmeted guards and laid eyes on the huge table in the heart of Orumna’s room. Seems they told the truth.
The King’s table was huger than any in Gryphon, and the foodstuffs piled atop it looked fit to serve two dozen. Far more than just the five of us. He saw decanters brimming with milk, bowls of warm biscuits, plates piled high with red, black, and blue berries, and all manner of breakfast meats, many of which still sizzled. Three pretty servant maids pulled four chairs out, one each for him, Andelusia, Garrett, and Saul, and yet the chair at table’s head remained empty. The meal’s host had not yet arrived.
He sat in the chair closest to the King’s, dropping the sack full of Jacob’s treaties at his feet. He wanted to stuff himself to bursting with Orumna’s fine fare, but remembered this hall was not his. And so I wait. But for how long? Jacob and mother should have known better than to send Graehelm’s most impatient man.
In the moments after he and the others sank into their seats, the servant girls scurried away and the gray-armored guards fell back into the shadows. The early sunlight sprayed through the hall’s high windows, illuminating the tabletop with cool silver light. It was a pleasant enough place for any man to sit and wait, but Rellen did not much care. His thoughts were on the treaties, which I hope to be done with today, and on the moods of his companions, which are almost as dark as mine.
He had noticed the tension as far back as the Dales. It had worsened in Kilnhome, and the long, rain-soaked road to Thillria had only made it fester. We are a pitiful lot. He smirked. Look at us. I should have brought ten knights instead of three friends, and I never should have let Ande come. She loves me less than ever. He felt his fingers curl into a loose fist. Ever since that night she spent doting on Garrett.
“Is this Thillrian courtesy?” he complained aloud. “Or do four guests from Graehelm mean so little? Where is this king? Let us be on with it.”
No one answered. Saul and Garrett were locked in a quiet conversation about some book of Saul’s. Andelusia sat on her hands, looking lovelier than ever in her simple white dress, though her gaze was lost in some unknowable realm.
“Anyone else glad to be rid of Jix?” he cracked the quiet again. “Of all the people to fetch us, why him?”
He glimpsed Andelusia shrink deeper into her chair. She must dislike Jix especially, he thought. She always goes dead quiet whenever I mention him.
“He was not so dreadful,” she said with her gaze still wandering. “We should be gladder that the rain stopped. It followed us all the way from Triaxe. I thought it might never end.”
“The rain?” He clucked his tongue. “Oh yes, it must have been the rain’s fault. What else could have made the way south seem so stale?”
His sarcasm was sharp. He was sorry the moment he said it. Too often of late, he found himself throwing barbs Andelusia’s way, many of them feathered and tipped with a feeling that tasted like jealousy.
“What does that mean?” she asked, her gaze no longer lost in the rafters.
I should not answer that, he knew. But I will. “I only mean maybe it was something besides the rain. Maybe it was you. Maybe you should have listened to me and stayed home.”
She shot him a wounded look, the despair in her eyes as cold as if he had slapped her. “Where does this come from?” She blanched. “Is it my doing you are forever full of gloom? Sometimes, my love, you hurt me when you talk like this. I wonder if you want a woman for a wife, or a mouse.”
“A mouse might be quieter,” he hated himself for saying it. “And easier to feed.”
Saul made a great noise as he pulled his chair closer to the table, scraping the legs against the bare stone floor. “What is this about? Is this who we are now, name-callers? Goodness, you two. We’re in a king’s hall.”
This is about Ande, he wanted to say. Her heart tumbles for Garrett anymore. I saw it in the Dales. Does no one else see it?
Saul’s question hung in the air. Andelusia turned her cheek and Garrett gazed stoically over the rim of his cup. I had best move on from this, Rellen decided. Everyone here is against me.
“We will be quick in our dealings here,” he told them all. “I promise you that. I will give Jacob’s missives to the Thillrians, get inked what we need, and we will make for home.”
“How can we be ambassadors if we are gone?” questioned Saul.
“The Thillrians will understand.” He sipped from his cup of water, wishing it were wine. “The treaties benefit them, not us. They will be happy to sign and send us on our way.”
King Orumna entered the room.
Rellen forgot all his arguments when the Thillrian sovereign arrived. He watched as Orumna, garbed in an outlandish tangle of purple robes, shambled toward the table with two servant maids in tow. Orumna was as huge as Jix had promised. His gut was a cauldron, his wrists round and swollen, and his three chins quivering like bowls of jelly. His silver crown sat crooked on his head, his violet robes dragged at his ankles, and his beard looked wiry and unkempt. To think I worried for what we looked like, Rellen mused.
“Good day! Good morning!” Orumna clapped his hands together as he plodded across the hall. “Have I interrupted something? A political discussion? Or maybe an argument about which of Reya’s dishes tastes best?”
Rellen stood, straightened his tunic collar, and bowed, motioning for the others to follow his lead. “None of these, Highness,” he said. “Just bemoaning our bad luck. We came through Triaxe, you see, and the rain drowned us. Only this last week have we chanced to see the sun. Our moods are still catching up to something better than grey skies.”
Orumna plopped into his chair like a boulder into a barrel of mud. He looked more like an ogre than a monarch, licking his lips at the feast laid before him. His fatness was almost too much for his robes, his great round shoulders stretching the violet cloth near to breaking. Churlish, he snatched a pair of biscuits and stuffed his cheeks full. “Oh my!” he said to the eldest maid, whose eyes looked red and raw. “These are right buttery! Scatter a few on my guests’ plates. They look as though they could use some nourishment.”
Andelusia, Garrett, and Saul retook their seats in silence. Rellen remained standing. “Highness, as good as breakfast promises to be,” he began, “we have important things to decide today. King Jacob wishes our return before autumn is too far along. He hopes this alliance will be sealed ere winter blocks the passage though Triaxe.”
“In a hurry, eh?” Orum doted over a slab of ham. “And only just arrived. But these papers needing signing, these scrolls that must be stamped, they are not lightly done. You and I, we must learn each other. I must know your King Jacob through you, as he is not here. And that is best done over meals, wine, and long walks through Denawir’s gardens.”
“I see.” Rellen sat. “After breakfast, then.”
Orumna flipped his saucer upside-down over his mouth, spilling his milk down his gullet as though his insides were a well with no bottom. When finished, he stuffed a sausage into his cheek and swiped his lips clean with his sleeve. “And I would meet these companions of yours.” He talked with his cheeks full and stretching. “Jix told me much already, but to meet such fine folk in the flesh is a rare treat. Why, this here must be Lord Croft, defeater of Furyon. They say no greater warrior walks the earth. How impressive!”
Orumna grinned at Garrett like a newly-claimed trophy. Go ahead. Keep building him up like that, Rellen thought with a grimace. A man can take only so much praise before he bursts from all his pride.
Garrett nodded at the King, saying nothing, and Orumna turned his gaze onto Andelusia. She curled her lips into something resembling a smile, and even Rellen softened for a breath or two.
“And this lovely lass,” Orumna boomed. “Andelusia of Cairn, they call you, breaker of a million men’s hearts. Were an
y of Thillria’s maidens half as fetching, I might be married.”
“Thank you, Highness,” she said. “How did you know I was from Cairn?”
Orumna inclined his chalice in her direction. “A poor king, I’d be, if I failed to know my own guests. I asked Jix on the day you arrived, though truth be told I had already heard plenty about you. I’d hoped you’d come, if only to make Thillria prettier.”
Dark Moon Daughter Page 11
