He lifted his gaze from the glossy wood of the table. His head felt full of cold stew and his arms as heavy as hammers, but he managed to look Nicolaen in the eyes. “When you go back, if you should pass Gryphon, I wonder if you’d do me one small favor.”
“Anything,” said Nicolaen.
“Tell Mother I love her. More importantly, have her send the letter I wrote, but never gave her.”
“You mean the one for the King?” Nicolaen’s mouth fell into a hard, flat line.
“The very one. I’ll not be a Councilor, not now nor likely ever. Mother can do it in my stead, and far better than I would’ve. Tell her I won’t be home until next year, and that I’ll explain everything when I return. The letter’s under my bed, against the wall. The servants rarely go up there, so it should be right where I left it.”
“These aren’t easy messages to deliver.” Nicolaen looked for a last sip of beer in one of the tankards, but found none.
“I know. I’d do it myself, but I’ve a girl to find.”
“So you do,” said Nicolaen. “And we all hope you find her soon.”
That night, his dreams were wretched. In the deep of a starless night, he found himself wandering through a haunted forest, the heart of which contained a moonlit glade and a dark pool of water. He saw Andelusia kneeling at water’s edge. He wanted to call to her, but he had no tongue. As he helplessly watched, she wept great streams of tears, and he knew the pool was of her misery’s making. Graver still, he saw Garrett floating in the water. His friend’s eyes were wide open, gazing lifelessly at a moon too close to the earth to be real. He desperately desired to join them both, but had no feet to walk with, only gnarled tree roots for toes worming into the earth. He feared the boundary between him and them was the boundary of death, thin as air, yet utterly impregnable. I’d have to die to reach them, he said to himself. But not yet. This is only a dream.
In the morning, he felt little better.
He clomped down the inn’s creaking stairs, his back sore from the inn’s soft mattress, his belongings slung in a bag over his shoulder. He hoped for a last meal with Nicolaen, but when he sat at the bar with dark rings beneath his eyes, the scowling innkeeper was happy to dash his hopes. “The big fellow? He left off before dawn. He went west, as should you. No one here can help you.”
He was in no mood for insolence today. He saw a rusted sword hanging behind the bar, and stifled the urge to split the innkeeper open with it. “There’s a road leading east out of this mudhole.” He glared. “Where does it go?”
“Why should I tell you?” the innkeeper spat.
“If you tell me, I’ll leave. You will never see me again.”
The fat man smiled toothlessly. “In that case, the road leads to Orye. Though you’ll find nothing much there. The Furies left us mostly alone, but they gutted the marble city like a fish. Maybe you’ll fit in there. No one’ll be left to remember what you did.”
He had heard the insult often enough to be immune to it anymore. A year or two ago, he would have slapped the innkeeper’s jaw right off his face, but today he pushed himself away from the bar and flipped the ugly man a coin. “My thanks,” he said as he walked away. “The next time you take a breath, remember me.”
“Why’s that?” the innkeeper called after him.
“Because if I’d stayed at Verod, you and everyone else in this pitiful little town would be dead.”
He felt better for having said it, though only for a while.
A short while later, as he mounted up and prodded his horse onto the eastward road, he felt guilty. Is it even true? Did I really make a difference? Would Ardenn have come to battle without me? Would the storm have faltered that day no matter whether I was dead or alive?
The sky was gloomy, suiting his mood. As Glemp dwindled in the trees behind him, he asked himself these questions and many more, but had answers for nothing.
Slow and steady, he rode through the deep wood of Velum. He passed his days with precious few meals, his nights with broken sleep in dense thickets or houses long abandoned. He drew closer to the mountains, and he sensed autumn tightening its grip. Many of the trees along the way were dead and leafless, their trunks twisted and their bark rotting. Fury work, he reckoned. Poison wherever they went. He also mounted several hills which the Furyons had not touched. On those rare, pristine slopes, he glimpsed autumn’s leaves: yellow, orange, and umber, bright and glistening with raindrops. That some things still lived gave him hope enough to continue. If a whole hill can survive a season of death, why not Ande?
After a long, lonesome week of travel, he came to Orye, realm of white stone and weathered towers. For all its desolation, the city was a welcome sight. His food was nearly gone, his blanket sopping, and his tangled beard in need of a good shave. It was late afternoon when he arrived, the end of a gloomy day. Feeling as tattered as ever, he dismounted, slung his empty satchel over his shoulder, and strode wearily into the city’s west end. His first footfalls fell upon a broken, root-infested street, the sides of which were lined with statues the Furyons had defaced. Pale towers loomed overhead, white and grey and silver-blue, most of them quiet as tombs. Every stone he saw was cracked, every alley strewn with dying weeds, and every dwelling infiltrated by thick, spidery black vines. This place was beautiful once, he imagined. The streets were probably polished, and these towers proud and powerful. But Orye seemed a jungle now, crippled and ancient, older than the oldest house in Gryphon.
In Orye, many folk still lived. He cut deeper into the city, and he saw them toiling here and there, their faces as pale and blank as the statues the Furyons had hewn. He saw a line of women carrying water, a gaggle of little girls hurling rocks into the dome of a crumbling tower, and an assembly of the city’s most venerable eyeing him warily as he passed. But few men, and no signs of battle. It looked as though the storm had done most of the damage to the city, and not swords and spears. As much as he wanted to approach each gathering of people, he chose to wait. I’ll be here a while, he reckoned. I’m a stranger. And these folk look willing to hang me if I speak a word.
He wandered deeper still, crossing a courtyard guarded on three sides by white-domed towers. He glimpsed a dozen Grae soldiers throwing dice beside a fountain. They were clad in silver and blue, while upon their tabards he saw sigils of oak. The King’s men, he recognized. And here so soon. Jacob must have sent them the day after we won.
He was surprised to see the soldiers here. He wondered if Jacob would approve of them dicing while Orye suffered for lack of husbands and sons. He might have scolded them, but thought better of it when he saw their crossbows, loaded and ready. Though for what? He wondered. The Furies ran off weeks ago. The only enemy here is hunger.
That night, he found a marble tower in Orye’s eastern quarter, where few folk lived.
The tower seemed empty enough, save for its rats and ravens. He made his bed in its second story, on the floor of a room where the moonlight glided in through tall, narrow windows. All was quiet here. In a way, the room reminded him of his tower chamber in Gryphon. Peaceful. Remote. Far enough above the street so I can hear no one outside. After gulping down a skin of water and devouring his last apple, he took his dagger’s edge to his cheeks, carving away the beard he so disliked. He reckoned the people of Orye would like him better for it, if they see I’m young and not a vagabond.
No sooner did he finish than the night closed in, the moonlight paling behind the clouds. He hoped the solitude of the tower would shelter him from his nightmares, but when he laid down his head, the dreams came as always.
At dawn, he awoke to the sound of rain dripping through a crack in the ceiling. It puddled beside his bed, crystalline against white marble. He heard thunder rolling beyond the window, booming somewhere beyond the mountain spur that shadowed all of Orye. Rain or no rain, he thought as he slid out of his bedroll. Time to wake. I need food, and there’re questions to be asked.
He emerged from the tower and stepped into the drizzle. The morning was as gl
oomy as he expected. A chill lived in the air, the grey clouds giving shape to the day’s dark ceiling. Everywhere on the street were pools of rain, the water as clear as lakes in white-bottomed quarries. No one in Orye seemed to mind the ill weather. He saw widows gathering apples from the last living tree in a withered orchard. He glimpsed barefooted children running like spirits through the mist, not one of them sparing a glance in his direction. The indifference of Orye’s survivors suited him just fine. They don’t know me here. Maybe one of them will tell me the truth.
He took a few steps beyond the tower door, the rain beading upon his cheeks and nose. Pleased by the day’s dreariness, he set off toward the nearest cluster of people. Answer me true, he hoped. Tell me one of you has seen her.
It was not until dusk he returned to his tower. Alone, he splashed through the puddles outside the door and climbed the steps. The rain was gone, but his feet felt leaden. His head was pounding, his wet cloak clinging to his shoulders. Another day, he lamented. How many did I talk to? How many different ways did they deny her existence? His belly was full, at least. His dagger was gone, traded for a bowl of stew, a pile of potatoes, and the two loaves of bread jutting from his pack. They’ve no use for coins here. Another week, and I’ll have to trade my horse.
He tugged the tower door open. It groaned as he pulled, straining as though its makers had made it a bit too large. He set one foot inside, but when he saw a lamp in the hallway hanging from five white fingers, he froze. “Already?” he groaned. “I might’ve known. Let me collect my bedroll and I’ll be off.”
“I’m not here to evict you,” said the man behind the lamp.
“No?” he grunted. “Then let me be. My skull rings from this lovely weather of yours. I need to lie down.”
The lamp-bearer took one step closer. In the narrow, pale-stoned hallway, Rellen saw him. He was an old man, slender and hunched, his knobby limbs draped beneath a shabby robe. Wisps of white hair dangled down his cheeks, wet as seamen’s ropes. Behind his frayed hood, his ample eyebrows jutted out like feathers on the face of a wrinkled old owl. “Pardon me, young ser.” The old man held his lamp higher. “But I don’t believe this is your tower.”
“That much is plain. Unless you mean to kick me out, let me be.”
The old man sidled nearer still. Too close for Rellen’s comfort, the little fellow lifted his lamp and gazed upward, feathery eyebrows framing inquisitive eyes. “You’re not a soldier,” he declared, poking Rellen in the chest.
“Well no. Not anymore, I imagine. What of it?”
“Why, if your hair were darker, I’d say you were one of them, the bad ones, strolling about all a mess as you are. They looked likewise once the storm fled, did you know?”
“No. The last thousand Furies I saw were dead in the dirt. Who are you anyway?”
“Eh?” The old man narrowed his eyes. “No one of consequence. But I’ve seen you and I’ve heard the others whispering. So I wonder; what are you doing here?”
“If you heard the others whispering, then you already know. I’m looking for a few someones. I mean Orye no harm.”
The old man hoisted his beak of a nose, inspecting him head to toe. “From the looks of you, you’ve not found who you’re looking for.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Who is it you seek?” The old man pestered. “I heard whispers, true enough, but whispers mean as much as crows’ caws when one gets to be my age.”
“A woman, a few soldiers, and a wizard. I never really thought I’d find them here. Still had to try.”
“A wizard, you say?”
“A skinny little thing in a cloak. Probably as much a wizard as you are.”
“And I’m none.” The old man shrugged.
By now the interruption agitated him. He had brooding to do, bread to wolf down, and plenty of bad dreams to endure before I do this again tomorrow. “Look, old man, unless you mean to boot me out, let me be. Today was rather fruitless. I’ve sleep to lose and things to think on.” He pushed past the old man and his too-bright lamp, striding swiftly for the stairs at the end of the hall.
“Wait,” the old man called after him.
“Now what?” He spun about.
“You’re young to be so grave.” The old man squinted down the hall. “Look around you, lad. Orye will soon finish its crumbling. The King’s soldiers will leave and many of us will pass from here to another city, perhaps one the Furies didn’t ravage so well. In time, we’ll recover. But you…I see only despair in your eyes. You don’t need to crumble. You’ve more in you than that.”
“Crumble?” He felt amused. “Old man, I’m not sure who you are—”
The old man raised a feathery eyebrow. “You may call me Marcus, if you prefer it to ‘old man.’ Lord Marcus, to be exact, though I was never keen to titles.”
A memory, faint as starlight, sprang to life. “Lord Marcus? You mean Lord Marcus Graf, steward of Orye? I’ve heard of you.”
“Aye, you have.” Marcus beamed. “And you’re Rellen Gryphon, yes?”
He nearly dropped his bag. Lord Marcus Graf, he remembered. Steward of Orye, warden of the Crown Mountains, and Dennov’s father. He had met the man once, long ago when he was a child. “How’d you know it was me?” he stammered.
Marcus bowed. His feathery brows resembled a sage old owl’s, yet his gaze was as piercing as sunlight. “My Dennov, bless him. He came to your house, to your father’s house. I know you met him there. I received the last of his letters only a few weeks ago. And today, one of the villagers told me a wanderer from Gryphon had come. I knew who it was without knowing. I had to see you for myself.”
He took a step backward. The way Marcus spoke betrayed that Dennov had died. He wondered if the old man knew about what had happened at Verod, and how much blame was about to fall atop him.
“You don’t remember my son?” Marcus prodded. “He spoke often of you in his letters. You met him long before he went to Gryphon. You were much younger in those days. You came to Mormist as your father’s emissary. Ah, Dennov. The poor lad was all I had left. His mother, bless her, perished many winters ago. I’m alone anymore, just me and my empty tower.”
He scrutinized the old man’s face, only then seeing the resemblance to Dennov. Most recognizable were Marcus’s mannerisms: the way he tried to smile when saying something grim, and the benevolence beneath the boldness. “So…” He felt unwontedly nervous. “Are you here to exact vengeance?”
“Vengeance?” Marcus jerked upright. “Bless my mother’s grave, no! I know what they’d say of you, but I also know what’s right. You and your dark soldier friend couldn’t have stemmed the Fury tide. You’re no coward. You’re Emun’s son. When I heard you’d left, I knew it was for good reason.”
“So…why are you here, if not to punish me?”
“Why, to help you, young Master Gryphon. Why else? You’ll gather your things, summon your horse, and come with me. Last night was your one and only in this tower.”
Frost
In the dining hall of House Graf, Marcus’s question hung in the air so long it made Rellen feel a fool for not knowing the answer.
“Why’d you do it?” the old man had asked.
Why did I? Rellen thought. Think about it. Answer him.
His tongue stayed still. In a vain attempt to mask the silence, he hoisted his goblet to his lips and drank deeply of the last of House Graf’s wine. The wine was rich and red, powerful enough he felt his head begin to swim after this, his third swig.
“You don’t have to say.” Marcus sat at the far end on the long trestle table, benevolent as ever.
He felt some of the tension leave his body. Maybe because of Marcus’s kindness, he thought. Or maybe because of the wine. “I can tell you everything else, but the reason we attacked that day eludes me.”
“In that case…” Marcus lifted a palm, bidding a servant to refill his cup. “Tell me the rest.”
He set his goblet down and felt the breath leave his body. Ton
ight was his fourth eve in the Graf tower, and he remained ill at ease. The hallways here were empty and cold, his bedchamber too large and dark, and Marcus’s servants like hollowed-out versions of the folk they must have been before the war. The great hall left him feeling particularly grim. The pinpricks of light from a thousand hanging candles reflected against the dark floor, glaring up at him like angry little eyes.
Marcus had told him that the Furyons had occupied House Graf until a few weeks ago, and that this was the last place they had abandoned before fleeing. That the enemy loved the hall’s stark black stones and cobwebbed corners hardly surprised him.
“When Jacob didn’t make it to Mooreye…” He tried to focus. “…we thought we were done.”
“And yet you attacked anyway?” Marcus set his cup down.
“We did. Nicolaen and I had this wild notion the Furyons would never expect us to bring the fight to them. We were right…and wrong. Half the men in Gryphon died on Nentham’s streets, and the other half will always have nightmares. Young lads or old, I saw them bleed on Fury blades. The Pale Knight slaughtered Therian and his lot. Nicolaen’s cousins were cornered in an alley and gutted. Even Lorsmir and his sons never made it out. They say they found the old smith and his brood sprawled in a gutter, six Furies dead around them. When they tried to drag Lorsmir’s body out, the dead Furies stood up, or so they claim.”
Marcus curled his lips as though he was about to be sick. “I heard other tales like yours. A month ago, a band of mountain men fell upon a Fury patrol at night and skewered them to a man. The next morn when they went to pick the bodies clean, the fallen Furies were gone. They say there was blood aplenty, but nothing else. Even the Fury whose head they chopped off was missing, like he’d picked up his skull and wandered off with it.”
“Ghouls.” He shivered.
“Sorcerers,” Marcus reasoned.
A silent curse for the Furyons, and Rellen’s mind fled back to the fields of Mooreye, the black grasses and abyssal skies as they had been on the day of the enemy’s destruction. “I can see it now.” His fingers curled into fists. “Attacking the Furies a second time was not my idea so much as the King’s. A week after Mooreye, Jacob delivered a host we never expected. Forty thousand, maybe more, most of them mounted.”
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 81
