Surgereth and his entourage filed in behind her, and her guardsman shut the door. Many familiar faces were herein. She spotted Jix, the Duke’s gardener, lingering near a table covered in candles, meek and diminutive next to all the men around him. She caught a glimpse of Aera, the only other woman in the room, standing shyly in a far corner. Lastly she saw Ghurk, wearing an inscrutable expression, looking contemplative in one moment, dour in the next. She tried to win his attention with a smile, but he seemed not to notice.
Mere heartbeats after the guardsman shut the door, the Duke called for silence. His voice thundered against the high ceiling, stripping her from her thoughts.
“Citizens of Muthem, you all know why we’re here,” he bellowed, to which every man nodded in agreement. “This disaster looks to live longer than we presumed. We’re drowning by day and freezing by night. We face a dire decision.”
Yes, she mused. How best to get rid of Andelusia.
“But first,” he continued, “before we run for the lowlands, there’s something you all must hear. We’ve only just received a messenger from King Tycus. Tycus sends ill news. Our neighbors to the west have witnessed much from the vantage of Denawir that we cannot see from within Muthem. I bid you listen, ere we choose any course of action.”
The Duke ushered a nameless lad into the room’s center. The lad was not dressed in the blacks and reds of House Muthem, but rather in the azure livery of Denawir, home of the Thillrian king. His hair was damp with rain, his cheeks were ashen, and his narrow body shook, either from fear or the cold.
“Go on then, boy,” urged the Duke. “Tell them what you saw.”
The lad trembled. He looked out of his element, a sparrow among the crows, though he found his voice soon enough.
“Sers, ladies,” he said. “His Highness dispatched me two days ago. He sent three of us: me to Muthem, another to Dray, and a third to the southern outlands. Rumors of the storm had reached Denawir, and Tycus ordered us out within the hour. He wanted us to confirm what the lowland folk claimed.”
“Rumors?” Surgereth objected from a far corner of the room. “What rumors? These clouds look like gossip to you, boy? The corpses stacked by our gates not real enough?”
A glance from the Duke silenced Surgereth. “Carry on,” the Duke commanded the boy.
“Yes…yes milord,” the lad stammered. “Sers, his Highness asked me to report my findings to you, and so I shall. Days ago, the first we heard was from the meadow folk, who said a dark cloud had settled over the lands east of Denawir. They said it was a storm that didn’t move deeper inland like it should, but swirled in a great black ring around Muthem. None of us believed it. Even his Highness had doubts. But when we rode out and saw it for ourselves, we knew something was wrong. From the outlands, one can see it. The clouds sit above your city, a great goblet of shadow. It didn’t move in the hours before we gained your border, and it hasn’t moved since. ‘The axel around which the wheel spins,’ my fellow rider called it. It’s sorcery, we think, and Muthem alone suffers it. A day’s ride in any direction, and the rest of Thillria still has its summer.”
Men’s murmurs engulfed the room. From wall to wall, their fear spread in waves.
“Are we the only ones?”
“What have we done to deserve this?”
“How long will it last?”
“Is Muthem to die?”
Their voices hemmed her in, cornering her like a rabbit in a room full of hounds. She wanted to shout, I am the reason! This is all my doing! But she was not so foolish.
Stepping in front of Tycus’ messenger, Duke Ghurlain retook the room’s center. “So you see, we’re alone in this,” he boomed. “Bless Ser Surgereth and his men for braving the rain to help us, but there’s naught they can do. I’ve sent riders to bring word of the storm’s extent, but their findings will be the same. Tycus’s lad is right. The storm isn’t moving.”
“What’ll we do?” someone cried out.
“We must flee!” Another fearful shout arose. “Return and rebuild after the storm breaks!”
The Duke smacked his palms together, silencing the room. “There’s one thing we won’t do.” He glowered from face to face. “We won’t be cowards, and we won’t scatter to the winds. All of us have stakes in Muthem’s survival, and I for one would not have us bolt for the meadows.”
“But Sire,” a noble cried out, “we’re drowning!”
“Perhaps,” said the Duke. “But the storm is only four days old, and though it may have the look of the world’s end, it is surely not. There’s no sorcery here, no second coming of the warlock. You’d have us run from our own shadow, but to where, I ask? Where to put fifty-thousand Thillrians? How to feed them? Better to stay and weather the storm than run. Better a few of us die in Muthemnal than all of us out there in the fields, rotting for crows’ sport. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Whatever was said beyond that, she heard little. Moments after the Duke asked his questions, the room erupted in a whirlwind of debate, with all semblance of patience and pragmatism lost. Standing still as a willow tree on a windless eve, she shut all their voices out, closing her mind to the world. Someone bumped into her, but she ignored it. Someone else called her name, perhaps Ghurk or Jix, but she did not look to see who it was. Her eyes were shut, her heartbeat slow as a warship’s drum.
I have a choice to make.
And now is the time to make it.
The voices around her surged, slowed, and surged again. She closed them out and narrowed her thoughts until only one remained.
I must leave Muthemnal. I must exile myself. The Nightness will have me. I cannot condemn all these people to die.
Decided, she snapped her eyelids open. The world reappeared with startling clarity, the room twice as bright as she remembered it. Before she could take full stock of her surroundings, a spasm of lightning tore ragged lines into the sky beyond the Duke’s windows. Everyone froze as some hundred cobalt lashes wounded the heavens, threatening to tear the world asunder. All arguments ceased to exist, and all mouths hung open in utter awe. Three cracks of thunder followed, booming like the hulls of a thousand ships cracking. When the thunder struck, every light in the room went out, extinguished in a single breath. There arose no wind, no reason for the lights to fail, but they died nonetheless, slain by a power only one in the room understood.
The Nightness.
It was only an hour after midday, but the sky beyond the Duke’s windows became dark as midnight. With every lantern and candle snuffed, the Duke’s assembly let out a collective horrified gasp. The servants were first to recover. Though no less fearful than their masters, they scurried to rekindle as many lanterns as they could. After they lit some twenty lights, the Duke’s tower fell into a strange sort of twilight, an atmosphere in which no man dared raise his voice.
“Ghurlain, ser,” whispered a lord, “what shall we do?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “Not yet. Go to your homes, gather your households, but don’t dare flee the city. I’ll send word before nightfall of my decision.”
“But it’s nightfall now,” said another man.
“No,” said the Duke. “It’s only just after midday.”
The assembly fled the room. She stood in the middle of it all, her gaze empty, her body numb as death. It was in these moments, as lords and retainers streamed past her, she and Ghurlain met gazes. His stare told her he did not want her to leave, that he has something to say to me.
So certain of it, she stayed right where she was. The room emptied, its occupants panicked. She watched the last of them hurry out, all but a few guardsman, Surgereth, the Duke, and Ghurk.
It was Ghurk, not his father, who came to her. She did not feel him touch her hand, but she heard his voice, familiar yet distant, breaking through the shadows in her mind.
“Ande,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Sorry? Why ever should you be sorry?”
He glanced to his father and then back to her
. The shadows in his eyes frightened her.
“Ghurk, what is the matter?”
“I never meant for this.” His gaze fell to the floor. “I never meant to hurt you. If it were up to me, I would’ve chosen some other way. I argued for you; I swear it on my mother’s grave, but…but then he…”
“What is it?”
He tried to answer, but his words came out as half-spoken stutters. Stricken with unknowable grief, he slinked past her and went straight for the door. The guardsmen let him out. The silence thereafter claimed everything.
They know what I am. Maybe Marid told them. Or maybe someone saw the Pages. If they come for me, will I let them take me?
She felt suddenly, unwontedly alone. Ghurlain, Surgereth, and seven mail-clad guards loomed like lions, casting shadows that seemed to reach for her across the carpet. She remembered the look in Ghurlain’s eyes, and she knew this had been a planned arrangement.
“You wanted me to stay,” she said to the Duke. “From the look of your son, I wonder why.”
Ghurlain was not his usual, imperturbable self. Flushed and agitated, he paced the room’s far side, looking sick with his unspoken thoughts. Just say it, she wanted to tell him. Name me for what I am.
“The storm, the damnable storm,” he rumbled to no one in particular. “The thunder, the lights, the lightning. A Duke, I am, and now a mess.”
Nearer the door, Surgereth let out a laugh. “Be done with it, brother-in-law. Do what you said you would.”
“Surgereth.” Ghurlain shook his head. “Please go. I’ll do this without you, without you lording over my shoulder.”
“But brother,” Surgereth complained, “I—”
“Go,” Ghurlain interrupted. “Flee from Muthemnal. Go and tend to my sister, and tell her what we’ve learned today.”
After a moment’s consideration, Surgereth flung the door open. He shot Andelusia a foul glance as he walked into the hallway beyond, shaking his head with scorn as he vanished.
“Good,” said Ghurlain when the guardsmen shut the door behind Surgereth. “He’s gone, he’s gone. I can concentrate.”
“Ser Duke,” she said. “You sound unwell. Is this my doing?”
Hard as the stones of Maewir itself, Ghurlain glared. He went to a far chair and table, sitting down in the shadows. When she moved to approach him, he held up an open palm, halting her in her tracks.
“Mistress Andelusia,” he began, “you disappoint me.”
“Milord?” Here it comes. Why seven guards? Does he mean to kill me?
“Mistress…” The Duke rubbed his temples. “I’ve much to say to you. We’ll begin with Ghurk. The poor, foolish boy. I can almost abide your rejection of him. You let him down easily enough. You were almost merciful, almost kind. And as you’re not a noble, it was to be expected. ”
“Sire—”
“But…” he cut her off, “for you to play at romance with him while taking another into your bed is the greatest insult I’ve ever suffered. What you’ve done is beyond tasteless, beyond reckless, and most certainly beyond forgiveness.”
This is about…Marid? “Sire…” she began, but again he smothered her.
“To think…a member of my own household.” He looked sick to his stomach. “The lowest of my guardsman, that bumbling sword-swinger. That you bedded him over my son…an affront to Muthem…lower than any whore from Shiver would’ve stooped. I’ve little knowledge of the laws and traditions of Grae, but I wager they’d be as disgusted as I am.
He stood and stomped within three paces of her, his white teeth gleaming, his fist curled like a hammer. The emotions flashing across his countenance were too numerous for her to count: anger and frustration, sadness and horror, and much of it not for me.
“Tell me, Mistress; will you even deny it?” He pointed his finger at her like a spear. “It rang true when I heard it. It would explain many things. Will you admit it? Do you have some explanation for how my guardsman slinks to your room and exits many hours later, his legs gone slack and his eyes dreaming?”
“I do not deny it,” she answered.
Ghurlain grinned with grim satisfaction, though the look quickly fled. “I thought not.” He shook his head. “Ghurk wouldn’t believe it, but it was obvious to me. You played him like a harp, no? Plucking his strings just enough to maintain yourself in his graces? Would that you were wiser. You might’ve lived in Muthem from now till forever. But your game is up. Our debt to you for saving our lives is paid, and your citizenship in our household revoked. Should you think it unjust, peruse yourself in the next mirror you pass. You’re fair enough on the outside, but treacherous beneath the skin. Look at your eyes. What woman has such darkness therein?”
It was all so cruel, and yet entirely deserved. In another circumstance she might have pleaded with him or pointed out a thousand reasons why it had happened the way it did, but she dared not.
“While I’d prefer to see you further punished,” said the Duke, “you’re Grae, and beyond my judgment. My dungeons are drowned, my guards one short, and my city overwhelmed with the matter of the storm. I would remit you to the King, but Tycus’ love for you is known. You leave me little choice, Mistress. I’ve but two commands to you: be forever gone from Muthem by nightfall, and never, ever speak to my son again.”
“And what of Marid?” she asked, impossibly calm. “Is he to be punished?”
Ghurlain swept back to his table, where he plunged into his chair and stared into the blackness beyond his windows. “You speak his name as though it should have some meaning to me. But no, fear not for your beloved. He’s not been harmed, only banished. A harsher master might’ve put him to justice, but his blame is hardly equal to yours. Once you set your snares for the poor boy, how could he resist? How could any of us? Perhaps it was better that you had no affection for my son, else he might’ve convinced me to let him wed you. And then, not long from now, we’d have woken to find you crawling bed-to-bed with every man in Muthem.”
Enough is enough.
The insult struck a chord within her, and the whites of her eyes darkened involuntarily. Her hidden hurt briefly became hate, and she stared daggers at the Duke.
“You are cruel to judge me so.” She willed the shadows in the room to thicken. The windows shook and the lantern lights floundered, and the Duke’s guards whispered of their terror.
“Cruel, am I?” The Duke seemed oblivious.
“Yes,” she snapped. “You name me these awful things, but what do you know? I was to be Muthem’s guest, not its prisoner, not some pretty thing to lock away in your tower. What I did with Marid was mine to do, never yours to judge. Who are you, dear Duke, to command me to love your son and no other?”
“You dare?” The Duke stood.
“I will go as you demand.” Her body thrummed with anger. “I will not defend myself, even though I should. I expect you will tear down my honor and spread rumors of me from here to the King’s doorstep. I do not care. You do not know my heart. When I leave today, I leave of my own accord. If I wanted to stay, I could.”
If any other had said it, the Duke might have died of laughter, but not today, not with me. He collapsed into his chair once again, frozen speechless. An unearthly chill rippled through the air, dimming every lantern. Shivering, Ghurlain clutched his sleeves, his lips gone blue in the cold.
She shut her eyes and let go of the shadows. The lanterns rattled back to life, while the guardsmen behind her gasped for breath. The Duke seemed not to understand. He tinkered with his lamp and looked to the windows. His anger was gone, his eyes flush with fear.
He thinks the weather is to blame. But his guardsmen know.
“Mistress,” he said humbly. “Forgive me, I beg you. I think it best you go. You will see it differently, but you should thank me. I do you a favor to send you from here. The storm won’t let go of us today, nor might it ever.”
In silence, she left him. She marched to the door and slid into the hall outside, ignoring the guardsmen who g
aped as she went by.
For the better, she thought as she swept toward the stairs.
Were I prouder, I would leave Maewir in ashes.
Dead Men’s March
At dawn he slept.
As fat, filthy Unctulu dozed in the dirt and the iron knight Thresher stood sentinel between two skyscraping oaks, Archmyr closed his eyes. The sky turned lilac and the morning light shimmered on the leaves, but he saw nothing. He felt his face illumined by the sun and the dewy grass prickling his cheek. He forgot who he was and what his awakeners demanded.
Just a nightmare. A moment’s peace. I’ll sleep and be dead again.
He hoped for peace. He earned none. In his first slumber since rebirth, he dreamed himself sinking back into the underworld, the realm of starless skies, smoking plains, and black towers reaching high enough to scrape the bottom of the moon. He dreamed of them. They yawned as they emerged from the towers, their skins like smoke, their eyes blazing white. When they moved, their bodies billowed with black fire, the flames hot and cold and alive. They laughed at him, a too-knowing laugh, stretching his mind out like parchment for their amusement. They said things to him, speaking words that did not exist, reminding him of exactly who he was.
When he awoke many hours later, he felt exhausted. He rubbed his eyes raw, but the images remained. The Ur were branded in his soul such that he would never forget them, nor did he doubt what would happen should he die again.
I‘ll do this thing. He sat upright. Whatever my awakeners ask, I‘ll finish. It’s the only way. Else I’ll never sleep again.
The first afternoon of his second life greeted him as though unaware of his pain. The sun blazed high above Grandwood, bathing every leaf in silver and gold. The birds raised a raucous chorus, while the wind snaked its way like a thousand cool streamlets between the trees. Almost, he could have taken comfort in the serenity of it all, but the black gate imprisoning his heart worked hard to prevent his it.
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