Nether Kingdom

by J. Edward Neill

  Ilmun grinned like a boy half his age. “Nay. I did’na. But you never asked!”

  “So this is it?” she asked.

  “Aye. Maybe I’ll see you lot around, maybe not. Either way, ‘tis good to be alive!”

  Ilmun opened his arms and hugged her so hard she thought her body might snap against his skinny but sturdy frame. The rest of the troupe said much milder goodbyes, and then the old man was off, clomping his way across the square to the nearest tavern house. She watched him go with no small sadness in her heart. He was a friend of only ten days, but she missed him already.

  Up through Muthemnal, she and the others climbed. Some thousand steps along the cobbled road, the rest of her travel-mates departed. The grizzled, wounded knight left with only a few words, though she thought she saw him sniffle. The pair of Muthem-born brothers, Alyn and Greyn, doled out hugs aplenty before hobbling off toward their sister’s store. She was left only with the poor young widow, whose husband had died by Wolde hands, and who had nothing but a handful of silver and a pretty but threadbare green dress.

  “Where will you go?” Andelusia eased the stallion to a stop in the center of Muthem’s widest thoroughfare.

  The poor widow, so elegant even in mourning, swallowed hard. Ande could tell she was trying not to weep.

  “My husband…he had family here. An uncle. I’ll find him.”

  “What if he is gone?”

  The widow sagged. “I don’t know. I’ll manage.”

  She saw too much of herself in the woman. Beneath the widow’s quiet exterior, she sensed pride, but also sadness tumbling like water from a mountainside.

  “Take my stallion.” She offered the reins. “Please.”

  Doubting, the widow took the reins. “But…I could never.”

  “I mean it. You must.” She stroked the horse’s mane. “He is young and strong. Sell him if you like. He will fetch good coin.”

  “But what about—”

  “I have coin enough.” She waved off the widow’s protest. “And no need of a warhorse any further than today. Take him. Please. You need him more than I.”

  Trembling, the widow slid out of the saddle. She came to Andelusia and hugged her, tears flowing freely as rain. “Thank you…oh, thank you! You’ve been so good to me! To all of us!”

  After a half-dozen sobs and hundred goodbyes, the widow released her. Smiling, the girl led her horse into the crowd, which swallowed her as surely as sunshine. Andelusia closed her eyes and wished her the best.

  Find someone, she whispered. And let them be good to you.

  After a deep breath and a glance up toward Maewir, she marched on. Her scavenged sandals clicked on the cobble, her grey Wolde cloak catching in the breeze. The higher she climbed, the thinner the crowds became. Colorful traders and weary street-wanderers were replaced by watchful knights and stoic guards. She felt tiny beneath their gazes, but walked tall all the way to Maewir’s outer gates.

  And then she arrived.

  The castle’s outer gate was closed, the courtyard beyond starkly empty. Four pikemen stood on the street before her, none so much as acknowledging her. She halted before them and gazed up at Maewir’s towers. They looked grey despite the glittering sun, and the sea crashing beyond them sounded like the Selhaunt hammering on Lyrlech’s shores. She remembered her last hours here. The storm, the clouds, the cold…all gone. But that tower there. It was mine.

  Looks the same.

  “Excuse me.” She approached one of the guards. “Do you know if the Duke is accepting visitors?”

  The tallest, grimmest of the guards removed his helm and rested his pike in the crook of his arm. She could not remember any Thillrian soldier seeming so frightful, nor so cold. She did not remember these men at all.

  “He is indeed,” the guard said gruffly.

  A slender smile formed on her lips. “Thank goodness. How soon may I see him?”

  The guards shared a laugh. Their pikes rattled in their hands, their greaves clattering as they guffawed.

  “You? You might not see him ever,” the tall guard laughed. “Who do you think you are, urchin, to cut before all those who’ve petitioned his lordship? Go back to the camps and wait your turn.”

  For a half-breath, she wished Archmyr were here. He would wipe their smirks away, she thought. But then she thought of Garrett, of his strength and quiet confidence. He was the one she truly wanted.

  “I must see him,” she asked sterner than before. “It is very important. He and I are old friends. I have questions to ask him.”

  The guards laughs lessened, though their gazes warmed none. “His lordship has no old friends, only new ones,” the tallest said. “Every day, a thousand requests. And every eve, more paws scrabbling to get into his coffers. You claim to know him, but so does every lass. They all want a piece now that Maewir is his.”

  Her gaze sank to the street. Her cloak hung limply on her narrow shoulders, itching from too many nights spent sleeping in the grass. Guile was no use now, she knew.

  “Will you tell him I was here?”

  The guard snorted, “Tell him who was here, exactly?”

  “Andelusia. Of Graehelm. Tell him I remember our walks in the courtyard. Tell him I wish I could have gotten there before the Wolde murdered his father.”

  The guards looked at one another. Something about her words rattled them, for none smiled or laughed. Another of them tucked his helmet under his arm and stared her down.

  “You’re Andelusia?” He cocked his head.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I heard Master Ghurk speak of you. He was telling his cousins from Dray about you. But then, you look different than the woman he described. You can’t be her.”

  “What do you mean?” She furrowed her brow.

  “Black hair, I heard the Duke say. Like a raven’s. Grey eyes like winter clouds. You aren’t this woman. You’re lying. You aim to take advantage in her absence.”

  She backed away as though he had slapped her. To prove she was herself, she untangled her hair from its braid and held a fistful of it up before her eyes.

  “Look here.” She flushed, but then blanched. “I…wait…how?”

  What fell between her fingers looked unfamiliar. Curled locks tumbled like red flames, halting at her belly in a tangled scarlet rope. Her hair, black as midnight only ten days ago, was now fiery crimson, the same deep color as hot, hot iron. She could not fathom how she had failed to notice. The moment when inky black had burned away and become scarlet once again was lost to her.

  Rumbling, the guards resumed their posts. She untethered her braid and let the fiery waves wash over her shoulders. Did I ever have so much hair?

  “What about my eyes?” she called after the guards.

  “What about them?” the tallest scoffed.

  “What color are they?”

  Whether annoyed or amused, she could no longer tell the guards’ mood. They traded looks as though horns had sprouted from her head, and wings from her back.

  “The game is over, m’lass,” a third guard said. “Go home.”

  “Tell me what color my eyes are.”

  Another glance at his fellows, and the tall guard huffed. “Green. Like grass. Like the very leaves of summer. Now then, lassie, we see you’re pretty enough. We don’t doubt his Lordship would covet your little legs wrapped around him. But the fact remains; you’ve no invitation here. Every lord within seven days’ ride is in the castle. Duke Ghurk has no time for you, nor anyone else.”

  She stood fast. Of all the times for the last of her darkness to abandon her, she bemoaned it had to be now.

  “I am Andelusia,” she told them. “Though I understand why you doubt me. If you are good men, honest men, I beg you; deliver a message to the Duke. Tell him Ande was here. Tell him I want to apologize for leaving, but that I also need his help to find the man who saved both our lives. Will you do this for me? It does not seem like much to ask.”

  The guards looked at one another. Despite the
mselves, they mustered no more laughter. “Oh, I reckon you’re right,” the tallest one grunted. “I suppose one of us could drop the word in his ear. Though we hardly promise he’ll do anything for it.”

  She managed a small smile. “I know. He is busy and I am of little consequence. But if he wants to find me, I will be at the first tavern in the city proper.”

  “Pike’s Barrelhouse?” The youngest guard looked surprised.

  “Yes.” She turned to leave. “That one.”

  Within the hour, she was back with Ilmun, whom she had never thought to see again. The old man was many mugs deep when she found him at his table at Pike’s Barrelhouse, regaling the tavern house with tales of Sallow, the Wolde, and of how the wolves of Roma had tucked tail and run. She entered the place lightly, gliding to a corner like a slip of summer wind. She dared not correct Ilmun or shed any shadows on his accounts of the war. She merely smiled and kept to her corner until he finished and the room roared with Thillrian approval.

  “So…” He looked unsurprised when she sat down across from him. “Seems you’re back.”

  She sighed and propped her elbows on the table. “Yes. Seems I am.”

  “Did all go as hoped?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I think so. I hope.”

  Ilmun spied her red hair for the first time unleashed. Her locks, even tangled, plunged over her right shoulder and settled in a scarlet mess atop the table. Ilmun went breathless for a moment, blushing over his beer.

  “Ande, my girl, I do hope you find this fellow of yours.” He sipped, then chugged. “He’ll be a lucky one if you do. Were I twenty years shallower and my wife not such a swordswoman, I think I’d confess I were in love with you.”

  It was her turn to blush. She tucked her hair back into the hood of her cloak, meaning mostly to hide it from herself.

  “Think you might buy me one of those?” She nodded at his drink. “I am parched. I have a long wait ahead of me.”

  Ilmun ordered her a beer in short order. The barmaid plunked down two mugs, both foaming at the top and dripping down the sides. She repaid Ilmun’s favor, trading one of the silvers in her satchel for a huge bowl of piping hot stew for her and him to share. She nibbled at first, but then spooned great heaps of stew down her gullet. The beer was as rich as she hoped, the stew as satisfying as any meal in her life.

  The day deepened. The sun warmed the old tavern, shining merrily into every window, lighting her and Ilmun’s table like a slab of solid bronze. Good food and conversation were just what she needed, and her friend was happy to share both. Folk milled in and out of the tavern, but she noticed none of it. She felt content just to exist, just to sit and talk and breathe. For the first time in months, she felt no melancholy, no fear, and no shadows swarming inside me.

  Though they will return. In time.

  “I think I will stay here,” she told Ilmun after several hours and several beers.

  “At the Barrelhouse?” Ilmun swiped the foam from his chin. “But why?”

  “I await the Duke’s summons. I have enough silver for a few weeks’ room and board. I can use the time to search the city. Garrett and Saul know Muthem is where I would go. If they are alive, they will come here. I know it.”

  Ever supportive, Ilmun clinked his empty mug against her brimming one. “As am I, Lady Ande. They have to come to Muthem. They just have to.”

  Midday came and went. The early crowd in the Barrelhouse thinned. At length, she and several patrons pestered Ilmun to go home to his wife, explaining that his survival in Sallow might mean nothing once she got her hands on him. He clambered to his feet and announced his goodbyes to every patron, every chair and every table, after which cheers for his safe homecoming boomed throughout the tavern house.

  She was the last one he came to.

  “I’ll come back here now and then,” he promised. “Just to see how m’lady fares. I hope to one day find you missing. It’ll mean you found your friends, your lover, and a better life.”

  “Thank you.” She hugged him.

  Ilmun made for the door, staggering. She and the rest laughed when they saw him plow into the street, his last mug still swaying in his hand. He gave her a final grin before the door shut, and then she was alone again.

  And so it came to be for that day and many more, she lived at Pike’s Barrelhouse.

  The innkeep fed her and let her stay in his topmost room for one silver every two nights, a price she was happy to pay. Hers was the last available room, the smallest of twenty. She did not mind. The modest comforts of the stone-walled, squeaky-floored tavern house felt like luxuries beyond compare. She had a bed, a lantern, and a window into which the morning sun shined. Better still, she had a bath, a tub whose waters she sank into like a lover’s arms each night. After just one day at the Barrelhouse, her hair was shining and alive again, and after a week all traces of her travels were scrubbed from her skin. She felt pretty again. Where she walked, gazes followed. When she smiled, hearts fluttered.

  But this is only a dream.

  When I wake, will anyone be alive?

  Though she wore a fair enough face for the world, her sadness deepened every day. It was not the Nightness returning nor the whispers of the Ur driving her down. It was Garrett’s absence, and Saul’s, and Marid’s.

  She decided not to accept it without a fight. While waiting for word from Duke Ghurk, she took it upon herself to approach every soul of Muthemnal and ask if they knew of her friends. She used some of her silver to buy a white dress, clean and fresh as sunshine, and in it she went to every door, every manor, and every shack. Her knuckles bled from so much knocking. The sun braised her skin to lustrous gold, and her sandals clapped upon so many stones they began to fall apart. She repeated her plea to many thousands, and always her question was the same:

  “Hello. I wonder if you have seen my friends. They are three, all missing. The first, tall and knit of steel, a man of Mormist through and through. The second, with a beard like a Sallow shrub and a quarterstaff for a cane. The last, a Thillrian lad, a hero of Sallow with jet hair, bright eyes, and a knack for being charming. Garrett, Saul, and Marid, they are. Have you seen them?”

  Day after day, eve after eve, she accosted every guard, merchant, and dark-corner dweller of Muthemnal. She acted fearless, undaunted whether simply told no or ordered rudely to shove off. Many folk came to know her and her plight. “That fire-haired girl,” some called her. “Always nosing, never lucky.” She did not mind. The more who knew her, the more likely they would remember who she searched for.

  After seven days of searching, then seventeen, she came to nothing.

  Her heartsickness set in. With no word from Duke Ghurk, no sign of Garrett, and her silver dwindling, she found fighting her sadness more and more difficult. Her nights were lonely, her tears welling far more than she wanted, but she never once let anyone see her cry. After her silver’s end, she convinced the innkeep to let her work to earn her stay. She worked the tavern hard and her patrons harder, serving platters of food and drink at all hours even while asking if anyone had seen her friends. Innkeep, barmaid, and patron alike came to love her, though their answers were always the same:

  “Sorry m’lass, haven’t seen ‘im.”

  “No, none of those men sound familiar.”

  “Maybe you should try the camps, though they be dwindling these days.”

  And then, her eighteenth morning at the Barrelhouse arrived. She emerged from her bath, hair trimmed to her collarbone and fiery waves bouncing, dressed in the same simple white as every morn. She sat down on the edge of her bed and sighed. Today was the first rainy day in weeks. The gloomy light sloughed through her window and pooled unhappily on the floor. She was reminded of her towers in Gryphon, Maewir, and Lyrlech.

  Too many towers. She locked the window tight. All of them the same. All like prisons.

  The sound of a small hand rapping against her door startled her back to the present. She ignored it, but after a second, more fervent knock, she went
to the door and cracked it open.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Psst,” said Mirra, a skinny, freckle-faced barmaid.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Memory of the Wind

  Rain crashed against the Barrelhouse’s walls. Thunder rattled all of Muthem: stone, window, and shingle. Standing in her room’s doorway, Andelusia looked at poor, freckled Mirra. She doubted what the girl had told her.

  “A woman?”

  “Yes.” Mirra made a face. “An old one, too. She’s wrinkled as my own pa, she is. Grumpy, too.”

  She furrowed her brow. Of all the people she had approached, all the Thillrians she hoped had seen Garrett, she remembered few among them being crones.

  “I will see her,” she said. “Probably looking for someone else.”

  Mirra shook her head. “Maybe. But how many Andelusias can there be?”

  Just me, she hoped.

  Gliding into the hallway, she beckoned for Mirra to lead the way down the Barrelhouse’s stairs. Both she and the girl hurried none, for the stairwell lanterns had yet to be lit, the windows were dark with rain, and the roof leaking in dozens of places. She remembered no Thillrian storm as powerful, save for mine.

  In the commons room, she found her caller.

  Some fifty winters old, the woman lurked at a corner table, her cropped silver hair framing her unreadable face. She was haggard and drawn, the light in her eyes dim. Andelusia looked her over as she crossed the floor.

  I do not know her. She looks unhappy. Is that good or bad?

  Tucking her dress beneath her, she slid into the creaking chair opposite the woman. She dared no optimism. This is a mistake, she assumed. Garrett and the others are dead.

  “I am Andelusia.” She gazed deep into the woman’s grey eyes. “You wanted to see me?”

  The old woman stiffened. “I think not, perhaps. You’re hardly the girl described to me.”

  She sighed. It was the at least the hundredth time she had heard the same. “Yes, I know. I am not the ghost-girl, nor is my hair jet and my eyes full of clouds. Not anymore, anyway. But I assure you, I am the real Andelusia. Sunshine has this effect on me.”