by Ellyn, Court
The matron eased out from between the cots and turned abruptly into the aisle, nearly planting her scowling face in Kethlyn’s chest.
“You would, would you?” he asked.
The matron cowered back a step, her scowl and color fading. “My lord! I … I … I, these men are insubordinate.”
“You must be the Madam Sergeant my sister told me about.” Kethlyn tugged the jug and stack of cups from her hands. “I’ll do that. Get out.”
The woman turned up her nose and retreated.
Kethlyn made sure each of his soldiers had enough to drink, even refilling the jug at the well and raising those who needed help sitting up. For an hour he held a man’s hand until his animal moans gave out, then Kethlyn closed the sightless eyes.
He found three of his sergeants upstairs in the cooler, more spacious rooms. Only one was awake. When he saw Kethlyn approaching, his pain-pale face broke into a grimace of a grin. “There he is! Thought she’d take your head for sure, m’ lord.”
“So did I.” Kethlyn flipped a chair around and eased into it.
“Honest, sir, it woulda been hard fighting for her if she had. If Her Grace executes her own son, what hope do the rest of us have?”
Kethlyn was mulling that over when he heard a small voice protesting. “But I need in there! Sirs? Can you help me?”
Lady Mithlan stood on the threshold, glaring at the Miraj who blocked the doorway with his arm. He waggled a finger at the folded sheets she carried. Huffing, she handed them over, and he searched each layer for a concealed shiv.
Kethlyn rose from the chair and watched until the Miraj, satisfied, handed the sheets back and admitted the girl into the room. What had Drys called her? “Apologies. My father is doing what he can to keep me alive.”
She brushed past without so much as a nod or a glance. Ah. So she blamed him for the loss of her family and lands, too. Shame uncoiled afresh. Why should scorn stab sharper coming from this lovely girl, this stranger, than from Eliad whom he loved like a brother?
The girl tugged the sweaty sheet loose on the sergeant’s cot and wrestled to pull it out from under him without upsetting his wounds. The sergeant groaned and chuckled as she rolled him one way, then the other, like a goose basted on the spit.
“I’m here to help, you know,” Kethlyn said. He expected her to wave him away or shout for an orderly, but she didn’t.
“Raise him up?”
Kethlyn pried the sergeant from his pillow, and Lady Mithlan hauled the soiled sheet free and flung out a clean one. “King Arryk is usually here to help with the lifting, but he’s late this morning. He will have heard about Carah, I suspect.” Her hands tucked and straightened the sheet, quick and deft.
“They really were close?” Carah had intimated as much, but the idea of the White Falcon mourning Kethlyn’s little sister was hard to swallow.
“I believe so. But it was the avedra that—” She glanced suddenly between Kethlyn and the sergeant, her face flaring red. “Pff, I am not a gossip.” She grabbed the sergeant’s pillow and fluffed it sharply. “Unfair, though. Your sister had all the suitors.”
The sergeant grinned as he settled into his pillow again. “I’ll call on you, fair lady. Just gimme the word.”
Flustered and stifling a smile, she passed the stack of sheets twice before she remembered where she’d set them, then she hurried off to change the bedding for the sleeping sergeants.
Kethlyn followed. “Lady Mithlan—?”
She rounded on him. “Don’t call me that. One day it may fit, but…” One of the sergeants stirred; she lowered her voice. “Aisley, just Aisley. Please.” She gestured at the sleeping sergeant. “Lift.”
The drugged man muttered incomprehensibly as Kethlyn rolled him onto his side.
Aisley tossed the soiled linen into a basket and started for the corridor.
“Wait.” Kethlyn stopped her on the threshold. “I am sorry. For your grandfather. That’s what I wanted to say. I met Rhogan only once, when I was a boy. When he spoke, you listened. He never said anything idly, did he?”
Aisley stared at a place between Kethlyn’s chest and the wall. A moment ago, he thought her eyes were brown, but with the lamplight shining through them, he saw they were clearer, grayer, the color of slate after the rain. Tears welled heavily.
“It’s my fault. I accept full respon—”
“Stop,” she snapped and wiped the heel of her hand across her cheek. “You going to say the same to each and every one of us? It’s Lothiar I want to hear that from, whoever he is, though I won’t hold my breath. Let’s get on with it.”
Kethlyn lifted and rolled soldiers until his back ached. How was a small-boned girl expected to do this job alone?
When the task was done, Kethlyn dragged the heavy basket of soiled sheets down the winding stair as if he were an ox and the basket his cart. The odor of stale piss and cold sweat rose from it like fog. A scullery maid took it from him and hauled it off to the laundry. By then, cooks had arrived with a soup pot, and the orderlies were lining up for a bowl.
“Will you, er, dine with us?” Aisley asked. “It’s not exactly ghastly, but it’s not fare from the high table either.”
Kethlyn watched an orderly take a bowl to Briéllyn. Queens didn’t have to wait in lines. The idea of dining with Valryk’s mother, of her glare piercing him like icepicks didn’t help his appetite any. “No, I’ll, er…” He gestured at the door and bowed his farewell. “M’ lady.”
Euphoria to step from the blood-soup heat into fresh air. The thinnest of breezes swirled through the bailey, raising the scent of horses and charred bone from the burning yards, but it was enough to lift the sweat from Kethlyn’s face.
Into a barrel beside the well, orderlies scrubbed body fluids from their hands. Their chatter ceased as Kethlyn approached. One backed away as though he were a leper; two left entirely; the others just stared, taking his measure.
Kethlyn sniffed the water in the barrel, then drew a fresh bucket for himself. An orderly smirked. What would an avedra hear behind that grin? Too good to wash with us, eh? Kethlyn made sure his shadow hovered nearby, but he still didn’t feel comfortable turning his back on the orderlies, not this close to the well.
“Water for me too, please.” A brusque wave from Aisley’s hand sent the orderlies to the soup line. To Kethlyn she extended a smile of apology for the impression that she was following him. Or was she gloating about the respect she wielded?
Kethlyn raised the bucket again and sluiced clean water over her small quick hands.
“I was watching you…,” she said, concentrating on unspeakable things caked under her nails. Then she realized she had paused on an awkward statement. “I mean, during the trial and all.”
Kethlyn didn’t want to think about the trial. Too humiliating. His mother still refused to see him, though he’d sent two notes requesting an audience with her.
“All that time … how did you stay so still? You barely blinked. You frowned a little, that’s all.” A hint of awe had crept into her voice. “Were you listening to the testimonies? It looked almost as if … you didn’t care.”
Had it? “I’ve never cared more about anything. That was my life in the balance.” How difficult it had been to remain aloof yet engaged, to tamp down indignity, protest, excuses. He hadn’t even permitted himself to shift feet when they started throbbing or raise a hand to scratch his nose.
“Yes, but … are you…?” Aisley shook her head and hurriedly dried her hands on a soiled apron. “Never mind.”
“Am I what?”
She watched the line for the soup pot shorten, then spat it out, “Are you afraid? Of the Mother-Father’s judgment.”
“Of course I am.” Did she think him insensitive about his mortality? “I’ve been afraid my whole life.” Why had he said that? If Aisley thought him somewhat higher than dirt, she might think less of him now. “Though, honestly, I think I’m more afraid of what people will say after I’m dead than I am of dying i
tself.”
Aisley cocked her head. “But people are already saying it. And once you’re dead you won’t be around to hear it, will you.”
Her bluntness startled laughter from him. “I guess not.” What power, then, did fear hold?
He watched her wander to the end of the soup line and considered following along, if only to share the less-than-ghastly fare, but a horn sounded. Shouts between the camps and the battlements confirmed that friends, not enemies, were arriving.
The portcullises rattled up. The War Commander hurried down the wall-side steps, barking orders over his shoulder at a jowly man in Tírandon’s livery. When he saw his son below, he beckoned.
“What’s going on?” Kethlyn asked.
“Elarion returning. Thorn should be with them.”
“Unless he’s gone after Carah.”
The despair in Da’s face left little room for hope. Kethlyn watched him swallow his sorrow through a defiant force of will. “Have you heard what people are calling you now? Lord Revenant?”
Kethlyn groaned. “Still, that’s better than ‘walking dead’.”
His father mimicked his pained expression, then turned to greet the Elarion jogging soundlessly over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse. There were sixteen of them, all dressed in shadow-colored suede and moving with otherworldly grace. Bows of pale thelnyth wood peeked over their shoulders.
As soon as the leader emerged from the deep shade under the gatehouse, Kethlyn choked. “Da, it’s…!” But, no, it wasn’t. Green stripes marked this Elari’s cheek, brow, and chin; Lothiar had no such adornment. And this Elari was in no way gaunt or ashen. Sweat slicked a face full and youthful. Was this how Lothiar had looked before he ruined himself with war?
“Falconeye, good to see you,” Da said.
“And you, Sheannach.”
“May I present my son? Kethlyn, this is Laniel Falconeye, oath-brother to your uncle.”
Kethlyn failed to smooth away his alarmed expression quickly enough.
“Your eyes do not deceive you,” Laniel said. “Would that my brother had come to his senses as well. It is good to have you with us, son of the Swiftblade.”
The Elari leveled no blame? And how much blame had Laniel suffered merely for being Lothiar’s brother?
“This time I’ve brought my entire troop,” he told the War Commander, “and a fresh company of Regulars. Nyria, my second-in-command. She’ll be available when I am not.”
A fierce, scarred woman with hair the blue-black of midnight saluted sharply. “Sheannach.”
“Were things as bad as you feared?” Da asked.
Laniel lowered his head. “Worse. No need to trouble you with details. But you may put aside your fear that my people will throw in their lot with Lothiar. He has damned himself, and I am no longer sorry to say it.”
The restrained savagery in Falconeye’s voice sent a shudder through Kethlyn. He noted the dark stains smeared inside the suede, the twin daggers on his belt, the quiver stuffed full of gray-fletched arrows, and rejoiced that this warrior had not sided with Lothiar.
Laniel rattled off orders to his troop in a strange, fluid language. The Elarion dispersed, ascending the stairs to the battlements. Then he and the War Commander started up the street for the keep. Da beckoned for Kethlyn to keep up. His two Miraji guards fell in behind them.
“Is not Thorn with you?” asked Da.
Laniel replied with a sharp glance. “He has not found you? He rode ahead of us. I thought…” Helpless to explain the avedra’s movements, he sighed mournfully. “Caution, Sheannach. I’ve never seen him like this, not even when…” A half-glance darted toward Kethlyn.
Why the reference to himself? Kethlyn didn’t understand, but Da fidgeted a bit.
“Given the mood he’s in,” Laniel added, “you won’t find him unless he wants you to. But he has good news. I’ll help you look.”
Kethlyn tugged open the keep’s doors, and before his eyes adjusted to the dark of the corridor he blundered into a vast metal object. He cracked his shin and fell forward, catching himself upon the obstruction. A growl rumbled low and metallic, and two purple orbs glowed menacingly. Kethlyn cried out and stumbled back into his father.
“Daryon, for the Mother’s sake, get that thing out of the way.”
“Basi, sit,” said a man approaching.
The iron beast creaked back on its haunches. It didn’t remove its gaze from Kethlyn, however. Two thin strips of metal lowered over the purple orbs, enhancing the impression that the beast was snarling at him. Sharp teeth were tipped in what looked like rust, or blood.
“Looking for Thorn,” Da said. “Seen him?”
The man sniffed imperiously. “He kicked me out. Damnable savage. I was filling whirligigs. Doing his job in his absence, but does he thank me? He startled me so badly that I nearly spilled that black shit all over myself. He can fill the rest if he likes. I’m finished with it.” A finger gestured toward the ceiling. “If you can’t find him, follow the unnaturally bright lamps.” Daryon shoved his way past Laniel and out into the sunshine. “Come, Basi. To the forge. I need to beat something before I incinerate a certain avedra.”
Kethlyn stared in wonder as the iron dragon heaved itself to all fours and clanked after its master.
Daryon was right. The higher they climbed, the brighter the flames burning in the sconces and chandeliers. The air was tight, like a cord around a throat. Outside the library, a maid wielding a sudsy bucket stood frozen in the corridor, face tilted toward the brilliantly illumined ceiling. She must’ve imagined poltergeists. At a flick of the War Commander’s hand, the girl dropped her bucket, hiked her skirts, and fled down a service stair.
Kelyn knocked on a door, turned the knob. He seemed surprised when the door opened.
Inside, a bizarre blue light glowed. Shadows lurched across the walls. Kethlyn couldn’t make out the light’s source. Disorienting. In the strange twilight-dark, metal glinted. Several small constructions were strewn across a table, more on the floor. Ceramic globes filled crates. Animal grunts, frightened, tormented, came from a cage in the corner. Kethlyn squinted to make out a deformed ape-like toad cowering inside the bars. Bulging eyes reflected the wavering blue light, like a cat’s, upon flat iridescent planes.
“I can see you, Dathiel,” said Laniel. “Might as well dispense with the veil.” He waved a hand, bidding Kethlyn and his father to back away.
Remembering the chest-crushing wave that had struck him senseless, Kethlyn ducked into the vestibule and peered around the doorframe. His da loomed on the threshold, arms crossed, as if daring Thorn to throw his most violent tantrum and be damned.
A voice like traps snapping shut heaved out of nowhere, “Get out.”
“Nethai?” said Laniel cautiously. “We have no time to lose. Tell the Sheannach what you learned.”
Only feet in front of Laniel, the air rippled, and the ripples slithered away like snakes made of glass, revealing Uncle Thorn kneeling before the hearth. Between blackened fingers curled like claws, a ball of blue flame churned and licked. His face seemed to have twisted into a permanent snarl. His eyes reflected the flame as though they too were roiling blue fire. One wrong move and that fire might consume them all.
“Let it go, nethai.” How softly Laniel spoke, coaxing. “You cannot save her this way.”
Flame flared on the wicks of lamps, daylight bright. “Save her? There is no saving her!” The lamps went out. A glass globe cracked.
“We will try. As you said, we will try.”
Silence as Thorn anchored himself with the promise. The churning blue flame dimmed and disappeared, plunging the room into darkness. A whisper of a step, and Laniel opened the shutters, letting in a flood of daylight.
Thorn’s hands had lowered to his lap, empty and raw. “I lost her,” he muttered.
Da crossed the threshold and crouched in front of him.
“A few hours. I turned my back for a few hours. She was right at my fingertips.”
>
“Uncle Thorn, I’m the one who sent her away.” Kethlyn maintained a goodly distance. His uncle made him uncomfortable on the best of days.
“Enough of this,” Da said. “I don’t blame you, either of you. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“I know where she is.”
Da gripped his brother’s shoulders. “Mother’s mercy, where?”
In tones stripped of emotion, Thorn described a land formation called Direhead Ridge, situated on the eastern edge of the Gloamheath. “The ogres have dug a honeycomb of tunnels in its bowels. The avedrin are being held deep inside. Trouble is, now that Fire Spear has returned from Evaronna and Black Marsh has retreated from Avidan Wood, the Ridge is guarded more heavily than ever. I wouldn’t get within two hundred yards of it before the naenion tore me limb from limb.”
“Fire Spear…,” said Kethlyn, “those were the ogres that chased us south?”
“Aye.” Laniel had picked up a whirligig to examine it. He set it down again. “We crossed their tracks. Dathiel’s right. After your people stalled them at Upton Mill, Fire Spear withdrew to the Gloamheath.”
Kethlyn shrugged. “Then the solution is simple. We draw them out.”
Da stood in a hurry. “Stop right there. We cannot waste resources rescuing a handful of avedrin.”
“Da, it’s Carah!”
“Rescuing her will not win us this war.”
How could he remain the objective commander where his own daughter was concerned? “But, Da—”
“She may already be dead!” Kelyn blurted.
“But she may not,” Kethlyn insisted, his ears unable to cope with what they were hearing.
Uncle Thorn groaned and staggered to his feet. He leaned heavily against the mantelpiece, as though he were about to be sick.
Kethlyn turned to Laniel. “You’re going to try, despite the odds?”
The Elari nodded, looked to Thorn. “I doubt there’s a way to keep him from it.”
Kethlyn glared accusation at his father. “You’d let them go to their slaughter?”
“If I had my way,” Kelyn snapped, “no one would be going anywhere.”
