by Ellyn, Court
“How can it? If Lothiar’s ogres attack Evaronna too, then…”
He stopped on the stair and lowered his voice, “Tullyk said nothing that absolves your brother. That Lothiar has sent his armies into Evaronna could mean that he’s finished using his human puppets and intends to keep Kethlyn pinned down. Yes, I grant you, it could mean that. But if Kethlyn gave over his own family to murder, what makes you think he isn’t helping Lothiar raze his own country?”
“To what purpose—?”
“And if Kethlyn has earned Lothiar’s wrath, there’s no indication that Kethlyn betrayed him. In all probability, it’s the other way around.”
“Then would not Kethlyn see his error and wish to join us?”
“It doesn’t matter if he sees his error, Carah. It’s too late, don’t you understand?”
She did, and she didn’t want to. “So you’re content to judge him based on speculation. We must learn Kethlyn’s side of the story.”
A narrow door led them out onto the battlements. Sentries wearing Tírandon’s chevron nodded as they passed. Dwarves pulling a two-wheeled cart delivered a new supply of arrows to one of the archery stations. Cerulean awning snapped in the wind, shading the drowsy archers. Carpenters put the finishing touches on a pair of ballistae that perched like gargoyles atop the crenels. Across the great gulf of sunlight and chimney smoke, soldiers on the outer wall ran in file, drilling.
Thorn cast Carah a sideward glance. She knew that look of uncertainty well. He was caving. She grinned. “Help me write a letter?”
He winced. “You won’t have to. I … I’ve sent Saffron.”
Carah flung her arms about his neck. He disentangled her roughly. “Don’t make a fuss. And don’t say anything. And prepare yourself. Her report may confirm our fears.”
She nodded, trying to tamp down her excitement. They strolled the inner wall while they waited for Saffron to return.
Activity increased on the outer wall. Laniel Falconeye led Elaran archers to the north gatehouse, and a wagon delivered round stone shot to the catapults. Maybe this wasn’t a drill. No horns though. What was the runner’s grave news? wondered Carah. Had Haezeldale’s cavalry been wiped out?
Her nape tingled with certainty: ogres were on their way.
“My Thorn?” Saffron’s golden glow coalesced at his shoulder. The fairy’s tiny chest heaved from her flight. “Evaronna is on fire. The lands west of Helwende, clear to the sea. Brimlad is besieged.”
“And Kethlyn?”
“He holds court, trying criminals of some sort. He didn’t look well. Ill, unkempt.”
“His army?”
“Encamped south of the city. Hundreds line Windhaven’s walls, as if they expect attack at any moment.”
From Lothiar or from us? Carah gnawed her bottom lip.
“He does nothing to defend the lands that are aflame?” Thorn asked.
Saffron’s sun-yellow hair swirled about her face as she shook her head. Her light dimmed with grief.
“Not good, love,” Thorn said to Carah. “Those ‘criminals’ might be people loyal to your mother.”
“And they might be pirates,” she argued. “Saffron, can you not ask Kethlyn directly?”
The fairy flittered about nervously. Her voice was a shrill, musical twitter. “I do not trust him. My kind have been disappearing along with avedrin, child.” Yes, Rhian’s guardian fay, Zephyr, had not returned from Bexby Field either. “I will risk it, but I must rest first.”
Carah clenched her fists; impatience wreathed her like barbs.
One of the White Falcon’s bodyguards approached them from across the skybridge. Lieutenant Rance’s ankle-length white cloak eddied dramatically behind him, and silver wings spread boldly from his helm. Beyond, amid the bridge, three more White Mantles clustered about the king. Arryk appeared to be watching the soldiers’ preparations with profound interest.
“Lady Carah?” Rance crooked a finger. An order. Follow. Do not delay. Arryk must’ve seen her colluding with her uncle.
After Carah had healed a wound that otherwise would’ve killed him, Arryk had been more than attentive, more than amiable. His attentions had ruffled Rhian into helpless jealousy. Queen Briéllyn and Mum both had alluded to a match between Carah and the White Falcon as appropriate and desirable. But what could he want with her now that everyone knew she and Rhian had been lovers?
Uninvited, Thorn headed off along the wall. Carah followed Rance to the middle of the skybridge.
She was mistaken. Arryk wasn’t watching the soldiers prepare. He glared toward them but saw nothing. His dark mood churned around him, a palpable barrier. Carah stopped some feet from him and waited in silence. It wasn’t her place to speak first, and she doubted the White Falcon would tolerate a breach of etiquette at the moment. Though the idea of him loosing his rage on her was too foreign to imagine.
Captain Moray cast Carah a sideward glance. His resentment of her was unmasked. She didn’t need to hear his thoughts to know that he didn’t approve of the regard his king afforded this Aralorri girl, this avedra, this whore.
Arryk waved a hand, dismissing the Mantles. Their captain led them out of earshot. The three dogs stayed, lounging in the shade cast below the crenels. Woodbine made half an effort to rise and sniff at Carah’s skirt, then laid down heavily again.
Leaning against the sunbaked wall, Arryk stared out over the thatched roofs, tidy streets, and gardened lawns of North Town. “I don’t give a damn what the others think,” he said, “but it’s important you understand. That fool in there didn’t know what he was saying.”
“Sire, my father does mean to apologize for Tullyk. He spoke with an extreme lack of care.”
“Your father is a dangerous man. You said that to me once.” Yes, while they danced the Imperial, bridging a gap between peoples. “I wonder, do you understand how true your statement was?”
“I’ve begun to understand.” That Da cared nothing for Tullyk’s men … no, it wasn’t that he didn’t care, it was that he could chill his heart against caring in order to maintain focus on his objective … that’s what Carah had to wrap her head around.
“He took my brother hostage, did you know?” Arryk said. “Used him to help Aralorr win the war.”
Suddenly she regretted having neglected her history lessons. Etivva would be smug to hear her admit it. But reading about her own father’s exploits in terms of historical significance was just too … awkward. It always seemed she was reading about a stranger. The da she knew and loved called her ‘dearheart.’
“Nathryk was exactly as your people describe him,” Arryk went on, not looking at her. “A monster. If he’d inherited the alabaster throne, the Northwest would’ve known nothing but war. He wanted Aralorr—everyone, really—under his boot. He relished violence. Blood and fear.”
“So you killed him?”
His glance fell on her sharply. “Do you imagine me scheming in dark corners?”
Before, she would’ve said no, maybe even scoffed at the idea. But now? She responded with a shrug.
Arryk frowned, disappointed in her. “Nathryk had just thrown Aunt Ki’eva out a window. He came to do the same to me. Damn near succeeded. He was a warrior, I was a scholar. I shouldn’t have been able to overpower him, but somehow I did. I can’t remember how it happened. He had a dagger, then I had it, then he was bleeding. I’d stabbed him in the throat. I was fifteen.”
Carah swallowed hard and found her voice. “But the man blamed for the assassination, I’d heard—”
“Master Graidyn was my tutor. He was good man.” Arryk glanced across the bridge where the Mantles stood at attention, and at the lieutenant in particular. What part had Rance played? “Graidyn let his own name be smeared for all time so that I would be ‘king unblemished.’ Those were his words. I would not be known as a brother-killer, as a usurper. How could my people trust me then?”
“Then why tell us now?”
He gave her a belligerent grin and flicked a gla
nce toward the keep. “It will give them something else to gossip about.”
It took Carah a moment to grasp the full force of his meaning. He had mentioned the manner of his brother’s death for her benefit? He couldn’t have planned Tullyk’s blunder, yet even in the middle of his anger Arryk had calculated. But why? Was she not a pariah to him now? The answer lay in the intense lingering of his eyes. His reputation was nearly invulnerable; hers was as shaky as a three-legged lamb. He would lead the wolves away, if he could.
A horn resounded from the eastern gate, an urgent call to arms.
Atop the north gatehouse, Uncle Thorn beckoned Carah with an emphatic sweep of his arm.
The White Mantles closed in. “Sire,” said Captain Moray, “may we escort you into the keep?” He meant it as a rhetorical question. Already the Mantles tried to herd their king toward the tower.
“No,” Arryk said and about-faced for the opposite end of the skybridge. “It’s Uncle Johf out there, and Drona. I will see for myself. Rance, fetch my banner. Ensure my people can see it.”
Carah ran ahead and met her uncle on the gatehouse. “… that catapult,” he was telling the engineers and pointing at the machine. “Today it’s mine.” The engineers moved their crates of shot to the next catapult along the wall and began filling its cup instead.
A sandy-haired squire, eleven or twelve, ran onto the wall with a basket in his arms.
Thorn hissed through his teeth and snatched the basket away. “Goddess’ mercy, Bryden. Break these and some of us are in dire trouble. Shoo.” The squire raced off, his list of missions too long to give him time to apologize.
Carah peered into the basket. A dozen ceramic globes rolled around like fruit. Wax sealed their corks, airtight.
“Filled these this morning,” Thorn said.
“What are they?”
“You’ll see.” A firm grip of his hand led Carah aside. “Listen close. Word is, Lothiar’s ogres poured out of Bramoran and routed our people from the trenches.” Through the crenels, Carah observed dust rising from the highway. Concealed inside the roiling yellow cloud, the Fierans raced back to the safety of Tírandon’s walls. “Your da can’t climb all these stairs. He’s delivering orders through Eliad.” Nearby, Eliad consulted with Commander Sha’hadýn and Laniel Falconeye. The Elarion saluted gravely, then moved off to carry out their orders. “Do as he tells you.”
“Me? But I’ll be needed in the infirmary.”
“No, you’re needed here. With Rhian gone …” Fear crouched in Thorn’s eyes. “…there’s only you.” He confessed the rest through Silent Speech: Hear me—don’t tell a soul. I think … I think the rágazeth wounded me somehow. Why do you think it was necessary you be the one to heal your father? He glanced down at his gloved hands. It’s coming back, slowly. But it may never be like it was. I don’t know.
“Oh, Uncle Thorn, no! I can’t—!”
He gripped her shoulders. “Yes, you can. I have taught you everything you need. Call on your control. Remember the wheel of flame you made and how long you kept it spinning between your hands. Yes, you can do this. Imagination, will, execution.”
The rumble of a thousand hooves rode the wind. Beneath that, a deeper trembling. The ogres gave chase, mile after mile.
Thorn offered an encouraging smile. “I’ll be right here.”
Carah sidled up to the crenels, wringing her hands. On the wide plain below, ranks of golden Miraji wheeled into formation. Alongside them marched the Regulars from Avidan Wood with their red facial stripes and dual swords, and behind them came the humans: Leanians in dark blue and orange, Aralorris under a black and red banner. The dwarven companies, under Foreman Dagni, filed onto the green grassy dike that separated the moats.
“You know what you’re doing?” Eliad spoke at Carah’s shoulder, startling her.
She raised her chin. “Of course I do. What do you need? And don’t say lightning, I’ve never conjured that. Or ice walls. Or firestorms.”
Eliad nodded, grinning in a condescending manner. Infuriating.
Carah raised a palm, and a tongue of lavender flame ignited over it.
Eliad’s eyebrow jumped. “Scary.”
Carah grit her teeth, wanting to show him how scary her little flame could be if she touched it to his smirking face. Instead, she flung the flame through the crenels. She fed it with a lift of her arms, and when it struck the ground it unrolled like a rug, stretching a ribbon-thin finger of flame across land already scorched and pitted by battle.
She raised a smug grin. Eliad sniffed, unimpressed. “Maybe you can make it go away until our cavalry have ridden past?” The Miraji advance had stopped; undoubtedly their commander believed the fiery barrier conveyed Eliad’s wishes.
Carah’s face heated. She exhaled a puff of air as if she were the winter wind itself, and the fire dissipated under a swath of glittering rime. The frost melted instantly in the noontime heat.
Eliad clapped her on the back. “Right. I’ll let you know.” Dismissal, plain and simple.
He nodded to a herald who waved a white silk banner gilded with the rays of the sun. A horn trilled a high-pitched note, and the Miraji spurred their mounts to a gallop. They charged east toward the rising dust and vanished from human eyes. Veil Sight revealed a great dome of sizzling light speeding away along the highway.
The Leanian brigades and companies of infantry maintained position at the foot of the castle walls.
A long silence passed. Wind pummeling stone and the distant rumbling of hooves the only sounds. The sun slipped down the sky, maddeningly slow.
“Here they come,” said Falconeye, strolling along the line of archers. His ears were far sharper than Carah’s; she discerned nothing different. No, that wasn’t true. The rumbling rose up through her feet now. The wind carried the notes of horns, the timbre of shouts, the bugling of horses. The Miraji veil swept down from the hills and onto the plain, eating the ground like a heat wave, flipping the horizon upside down. As the mirage neared Tírandon’s walls, it evaporated. The Miraji, now visible to every eye, surrounded the battered Fieran host. Together they routed toward the castle.
Angry as hornets, the ogre horde pursued. Long, thick legs carried them at a steady lope. The weight of armor and weapons tired them little.
“They’re stupid to keep coming,” Thorn muttered at Carah’s side. “Their commander has more brass than sense.”
“Will they besiege us again?” asked Carah. How horrible that had been, imprisoned inside these walls, even for a handful of days.
“The Miraji won’t let them. Neither will you.”
“Eliad doesn’t want my help.”
“Eliad doesn’t know what he wants.”
The Fierans swept past the north gate, which was reachable only by ferry. Their wounds, their exhaustion were plain as they curved around the wall, making for the safety of the west gate. The Miraji drew up before the waiting infantry. They barely had time to reform their ranks before the ogres fell upon them, smashing through their lines. The crunch of steel made Carah wince.
Thorn shoved his staff into her hand. “Cut them off.”
“How do I use this thing?” The carved dragon’s claw clutched a crystal sphere the size of a peach. Sunlight glinted through it, casting rainbows on the wall.
“Channel your energy through the orb.” He seemed to think she ought to grasp the concept as though it were as easy as breathing.
The catapults thumped into action, flinging stones upon the ogres.
Laniel shouted an order; arrows sailed across the sky.
The Regulars wheeled to attack the ogre flank.
“Channel? But I don’t—”
“Through touch, just like healing.”
But the staff wasn’t made of flesh and vein, only wood, ancient iron-hard wood. Ah! Yes, she was a healer of trees. Given practice she could focus her energies through this dead rod, but this wasn’t a time for mistakes. Lives depended on her, so many lives.
Where did the
Miraji ranks end and the ogre lines begin? The two armies were too entangled. Where to put her fire?
Thorn joggled her shoulder. “Don’t worry about sparing them, slam it right through them. You’re their nightmare, make them fear. There! Put it there.” He jabbed a finger near the place where golden armor mingled with the seething dark mass of ogres.
Carah pointed the staff through the crenels. “Eshel,” she breathed. Fire leapt from the ground and sped like a phoenix’s flight, immolating anything in its path. The forward rush of ogres halted. The Miraji finished off the few ogres on their side of the firewall.
“Now move the fire back a bit,” Thorn instructed.
Yes, of course. Pare them off, a little at a time. Bite-sized slices. Carah let the first firewall die and sent a second one racing through the ogre lines. The Miraji, the Regs, the Leanian cavalry cut them down.
“Good, don’t stop,” said Uncle Thorn, and Carah felt him recede from her side. The catapult he’d requisitioned lurched as its arm released. The ceramic globes took flight, arching out over the moats. They descended among a shifting morass of ogres and vanished.
Carah had expected explosions, but nothing appeared to happen.
“C’mon, damn it,” Thorn muttered.
Carah moved the firewall back a third time, exposing the next several lines of ogres. The Elarion and Leanians advanced. What do you say now, Eliad? She was concentrating too hard to find him and ask.
Thorn gave an exultant cry and slapped at the crenels in celebration. No fire, no explosions. What had delighted him so? Carah risked a peek. The ground where the ceramic globes had landed now roiled under black mist. The sunlight sank into the dark tendrils, devoured. Inside, ogres reeled, shrieking, braying in agony. One great brute in spiked armor flopped around on his back as if a seizure had felled him. Carah swore that his arms shrank, that his legs snapped, contorting into new shapes. But she was so high up in the tower, surely her eyes deceived her.
Even as she watched, the ogre’s armor grew too large. His head receded into the leather breastplate; his arms and legs too. Then something emerged. Something not a toad, not a lizard, something altogether unrecognizable and unnamed. It hunched on the trampled grass, no bigger than a lapdog, hairless and neckless. A second thing, this one with a tail, made a clumsy leap and collided with the first. They tore into each other, grappling and shredding. Dozens more crept about, some didn’t move at all, slain perhaps by the shock of their transformation.
