by V. Lakshman
Malak began, “You should stay—”
“Don’t,” warned Bernal, staring at the firstmark until the man dropped his eyes. Then he gestured to the two scouts. “Come on.”
They made their way down the rope ladder quickly, scanning the ground below. Elves from above had dropped balls of lichen, glowing orbs that fell slowly past the climbers, then bounced and rolled to a stop at the bottom. Soon blue pools of steady light illuminated the landing. As soon as Bernal’s boot touched solid rock he snatched a lichen up and held it above his head. Sparrow and the other scout soon joined him, doing the same.
A pit of dread had formed in the king’s stomach. Though martial training was required of all military men and women, there were only a few within distance and daring or foolhardy enough to attempt the Giant’s Step in an effort to return. The names Yevaine and Yetteje came instantly to mind, and since he knew it wasn’t his stubborn niece, he was certain the one tempting the Lady’s grace could only be his even more stubborn wife. He needed to know if she lived or . . . he wouldn’t let himself finish the thought.
They moved forward quickly, searching the area. The second step lay some distance ahead, but this landing was expansive, with crags and rocks that cast long shadows and hid detail. Soon, he couldn’t stand it and called out, “Yevaine!”
“Hsst!” warned Sparrow. She looked at the king and he could see murder in her eyes, but he didn’t care.
He moved forward until he heard a click, the sound of a crossbow locking, freezing him in his tracks. He slowly held out his hands and said, “It’s Bernal Galadine.”
There was silence, the incomplete kind that only close scrutiny brings. He knew they were searching his face, and hoped the light was enough before someone panicked.
Then he heard, “The Lady be praised!” from a voice to his left.
He spun to the voice and saw the glint of one eye—Kalindor! Bernal rushed forward, not caring now what Sparrow and her scout did, but he yelled, “Don’t shoot! Allies with me.”
When he neared, the scene was ghastly. Everyone looked like corpses felled on the battlefield, and what could only be black blood coated the rocks around them. Most of it came from—he surged forward, “Yevaine!”
“She’s unconscious, but alive, Your Majesty,” Captain Kalindor said.
Bernal noted the captain’s finger never left the trigger of his crossbow, his one good eye focused on the two approaching elves. Then he added, “She staunched the wound herself. Lost a lot of blood.”
The captain didn’t have to say what Bernal knew, that her life hung by a thread. He stroked her face, a sickly white pallor he hoped was from the dim light and not from the loss of blood, then turned and searched the darkness.
When his eyes met Sparrow’s, he said, “Help.”
Sparrow seemed to consider his request. “Doing so will mean I cannot heal others that may be more useful,” she said.
Bernal stood, facing the blue-skinned woman, and said, “She’s worth more than a score of you.”
One eyebrow climbed up Sparrow’s forehead. She blinked, looking around as she surveyed the scene. “How will these six change the balance of what we must do? They are inconsequential.”
Anger boiled up, but he held it in check. Sparrow would not be intimidated, of that he was certain. Instead, he nodded and said, “You serve House Galadine, yes?”
“You state the obvious, Your Majesty,” Sparrow replied. It sounded more like she was saying, You’re about as stupid as I thought, Your Majesty.
“Then here lies your queen. Your firstmark said this was a one-way trip. In this world, whom do you serve?”
Sparrow’s eyes dropped in thought. When she looked up it was with resignation. She warned, “Know that my ability to heal is not limitless. You were near death and took much of what I can do. Saving these folk will mean others will die. Let that rest on your conscience, o’ king.”
She knelt and placed a hand on Yevaine’s leg and another on her chest. Sparrow bent her head down, and to Bernal it looked like she was praying. Then a soft glow emanated from her palms, blue and green, the colors of the sky and earth. The men around him gasped with wonder. Bernal knew what Yevaine would feel: that itchiness of healing, the soft warmth that suffused her skin and bones.
In a moment, Sparrow removed her hands and stepped back, surveying her work. She said, “For good or ill, it is done.”
Bernal moved closer and looked at the flush of new blood bringing color his wife’s skin where before it had been pale. Yevaine took a deep breath, unencumbered by pain, but her eyes did not open.
Bernal looked at Sparrow, who shrugged and said, “She will wake when she’s ready. I cannot change the need for rest.”
A quick check amongst the men found that those who had survived had mostly minor wounds. Sparrow declined to waste her healing ability on most, with the exception of Kalindor, whose life had been leaking away through a gut wound. He’d cinched up a makeshift bandage across his abdomen so he could focus on protecting Yevaine.
Sparrow went to work on him, and soon the look on Kalindor’s face was the embodiment of relief. The moment Sparrow’s hands touched him he let out a long sigh.
When she was finished, Kalindor put a hand on her shoulder and said, “I thank you, lady.”
Sparrow, normally stoic insofar as Bernal had seen, seemed flustered by the attention. She nodded brusquely, then pulled herself away with obvious hesitation. Bernal kept that observation to himself, thankful that they had been able to find and save these few.
A hand clasped his then, and when he looked down it was Yevaine, smiling up at him. “I thought you were dead.”
He laughed, but tears crept into his eyes. “Still here, causing trouble as usual.”
Yevaine smiled back, then propped herself up, looking around. Clearly she was trying to piece together exactly what had happened. She looked at Kalindor, who nodded in return. Then her gaze was drawn to the two blue-skinned elves, watching her from the edge of the torchlight.
She took a breath and graciously said, “I thank you.”
Sparrow inclined her head. She took a quick glance at Kalindor, then turned to the king. “We need to move. The firstmark will be waiting.”
At the mention of the firstmark, Yevaine asked, “Jeb is here, too?”
“There’s a lot we need to talk about,” Bernal said, shaking his head. “But first, are you six all there is?”
Yevaine pulled her legs in, then with his help slowly stood on shaking legs. “We’re the advance party, there’s a company of Praetorians behind us.”
Two hundred men! The king shook his head, amazement at his wife’s deeds slowly giving way to admiration. He smiled and said, “Leave it to you.”
Yevaine shrugged. “They were bored. I gave them something to do.”
Sparrow piped in then, “Those men need eldritch weapons if they are to help turn the tide. Without them, they’ll be two hundred more for Lilyth’s army. We have to rejoin the firstmark, now.” She met eyes with the king, then made her way to the rope ladder and started ascending.
Bernal looked at his wife and asked, “Can you climb?”
She nodded, looking up the cliff face and the fading form of Sparrow. “No doubt there’s a story there.” Then she looked back at him and asked, “Where’s Niall?”
The king’s heart dropped to his stomach. He met her eyes, and something in his gaze must have told her what was in his heart. He shook his head and told her, “Niall’s alive, but as I said, we need to catch up.”
Yevaine looked at him, her gaze becoming as hard as the rock around her. She moved automatically to the rope ladder, then looked over her shoulder and said, “We have a long climb ahead of us, so start talking.”
Lady, if I’ve ever been favored, let the Aeris attack now, prayed Bernal. He’d rather face a horde of them than the conversation he was about to have with his wife.
Ill News
Trust and truth are often confused.
than to speak the truth into unknown ears.
- Argus Rillaran, The Power of Deceit
D
ragor and Jesyn had spent much of the night planning with Dazra and a small group of dwarven scouts. At first they’d advocated sending as many as possible into the caves of Dawnlight. However, Dazra had revealed that this tactic often created more missing persons, as would-be rescuers also vanished without a trace. It was finally Dragor who asked the question they must’ve both been thinking.
“Why now?” When Dazra raised an eyebrow to that, Dragor clarified by saying, “You’ve been in hiding for almost two centuries. Now you decide to look for your people. Why now?”
Tarin answered, “You act as though this is our very first recovery attempt. What do you think happened after the Demon Wars?”
Dragor shook his head, and into that silence Dazra said, “My grandfather, King Bara, saw a second gate open. It shone like a star at the peak of Dawnlight. Fearing the worst, he sent a company of axers to confront whatever treachery the demon queen had planned.” Dazra looked down and said, “They did not return.”
“You’re long-lived,” commented Dragor dryly while studying the map spread before them, only realizing after Jesyn hit him lightly that what he’d said might sound callous in the wake of what Dazra had just offered. He cursed himself silently; his only intent had been to note Bara was Dazra’s grandfather. Somehow he and the dwarven leader were out of sync, like two people who kept stepping on each other’s toes while dancing. Apologizing, he thought, would only make things worse.
Instead, Dragor said, “So rescue operations were sent and these, too disappeared?”
Dazra stared at the adept until Tarin nudged him. Then he looked back down at the table and said, “We do not attempt halfhearted efforts concerning our people. King Bara led a full legion from Bara’cor to confront whatever caused the loss of our brothers and sisters. He left behind Thorin Hayden, a man of singular honor.”
“We know the history from our side after that,” Jesyn said, “but what happened to King Bara and your people? It was rumored he sought the Sovereign. Is that true?”
Dazra shook his head and smiled ruefully. “History may create mysteries out of nothing, but our tale is both more and less tragic.”
“Did you get lost?” Dragor said, jokingly.
Jesyn touched his hand and mentally chastised, What’s wrong with you?
Dragor looked around and was met with unsmiling faces at his attempt at humor. So much for trying to lighten the mood, he thought.
After a moment, Tarin picked up where Dazra had left off, the latter just staring at Dragor.
“Our king made a vow that we would not return until every man had been recovered, dead or alive. Vows are important to our people, as you’ve witnessed. Our entats record them and bind us, so we do not give them lightly.”
Jesyn swung her eyes from Dragor’s still silhouette and said, “We have something similar, called the Oath of Binding. It keeps us honest.” The younger adept smiled apologetically. Then she leaned forward and addressed Dazra, “Please accept our apology. We are both tired and amongst strangers with different customs, but we mean no offense.”
Dazra seemed about to say something to Dragor but Tarin laid a hand on his arm and said, “Accepted.”
The dwarven leader nodded slowly, as if the acceptance were being pulled out of him by Tarin’s will and, more grudgingly, her voice.
Then he said, “You asked, ‘why now?’ We found ourselves becoming the hunted, the legion dwindling to only a few hundred survivors. But Bara’s Vow held us.
“At the same time, Sovereign’s forces began sending our own people back against us. Our efforts to rescue them became instead a protracted evasion. We used our ability to phase Dawnlight to hide. It kept us near our people and true to our word, but protected us from Sovereign and Lilyth.”
“What happened to Bara?” asked Dragor.
“My grandfather and father have been lost to the mountain,” the dwarven leader said, his eyes down. “I must ascertain their fate and rescue them if that’s still possible.”
“And now, because we’re in Edyn, we’re exposed. Correct?” Jesyn asked.
“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’d like to use whatever information you’ve gleaned from the assassin to attempt the mountain.” Dazra paused, looking at Tarin. At her nod, he addressed Dragor.
“You’ll want to contact your people—tell them you’re safe.”
Dragor looked up, surprised at this, and said, “Yes, we would.”
“Do so,” offered the dwarven leader. “Tarin has impressed upon me the need for allies. We must know the extent of any support you’ll provide ’ere we plan entry into Sovereign’s domain. There will be no easy escape if we make a mistake.”
At that, the man stood back from the table and said, “We’ll leave you to yourselves. When you’re ready, ask the guard outside to bring you to my tent. My experience tells me we go with a small group at first, followed by a larger force, but I’m open to suggestions.”
Tarin looked at them both and said, “Our hope is that you will join us where the assassin is held. With your permission, we wish to interrogate him.”
“The information I’ve pulled is getting clearer,” Dragor said.
She acknowledged that with a nod but asked, “Can you share these visions with us?”
The adept shook his head. “I do not know how with someone not trained in the Way.”
“Then your insight is useless,” said Dazra matter-of-factly. It was not delivered with any ire, his retort more factual than accusatory. It still felt harsh.
Dragor looked at him a moment, then decided it would be better to concede. It would be the first building block to a better relationship with these dwarves, so the adept said, “All right, you can interrogate him provided he’s not killed and you share whatever information you gain.”
“Very well.” Dazra didn’t wait for either of them to acknowledge that. He nodded curtly and walked off. Tarin stayed behind a bit longer and met their eyes with sympathy.
“Not everyone meshes at first,” she offered, looking at Dazra’s retreating form, “but he’s a good man. Give him some time.”
Dragor looked at her and said, “I can’t say anything right around him. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
Tarin raised an eyebrow at that, then said with a wistful half smile, “Neither did I, and now he’s my husband. Stranger things have happened, Adept.”
Evidently she was amused by their shocked faces. She smiled and said, “Do you think he has a personal healer just following him around?” She let out a small laugh and moved to the door. Then over her shoulder she added, “I’m his conscience. We’re trying to trust you, so don’t make us regret that.”
A moment later, they were alone.
Jesyn spun and hit Dragor on the shoulder. “Seriously, what’s the matter with you?”
“Oww! I was trying to lighten the mood,” he offered, for a moment feeling as if he were the student.
“You’re acting rude, and I don’t have the energy to get in between you and Dazra all the time.”
Dragor nodded, not sure exactly what to say. Then he motioned to a chair that looked more comfortable than the stools arranged around their table and moved over, sitting down. The furniture everywhere was large enough for both of them to sit on, making him feel like a child.
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” he replied, thinking she meant sitting in the chair. It was only after he’d taken his seat that he realized she meant help with communicating with the lore father.
He gave her a chagrined smile and said, “No, I can create the bridge to Giridian.”
The concern on her face reminded him of how he’d felt when Giridian had accessed the lore fathers’ memories. Dragor held out his hand and smiled, squeezing hers reassuringly.
“Thank
s, just stay nearby. Your presence is comforting.” It was only then that he realized Giridian had said something similar to him, and he felt a small smile creep onto his face.
He cleared his mind and then reached out to the Way. He could feel the connection when it completed and the lore father was with him.
Dragor! You’re safe?
Both Jesyn and I, and we’ve found the dwarves.
The astonishment that flooded through their connection was unmistakable, so Dragor quickly corrected, Actually, they found us.
He quickly went on to relate their travels, and how they now found themselves on the slopes of Dawnlight, preparing to enter the mountain in search of Armun. Dazra offered his help if they could combine their efforts and find out the fate of his missing people, as perhaps the two were linked. Finally, he asked if there was any help for them. There was silence from the lore father at first. Then, haltingly, Giridian shared Thoth’s revelation regarding the war between Lilyth and Sovereign, Arek’s birthright, and rescinding the termination order he’d given Kisan. He spoke of the Phoenix Stone lying on an island in the Shattered Sea. He even shared the new candidates who had come to the Isle, including Kymoria, who looked to be a promising addition.
Dragor smiled. And when can Tomas come? His power will be much needed for this effort into Dawnlight.
The pause that followed felt strange, as if the lore father didn’t want to speak. Dragor’s eyes widened and he said out loud, “No . . .”
He failed and left? Dragor demanded, hoping.
The silence from the other end told him the news was far worse. His gaze flicked up to Jesyn and his eyes began to well up, so he squeezed them shut.
When the lore father mindspoke, it was slow and heavy, as if the man dragged the weight of Tomas’s fate entirely on his own shoulders.
He fought bravely and would not quit. In the end, I bear the blame, for I had not prepared him well enough.
Dragor was quick to say, No, you can’’t blame yourself.
He could feel the lore father smile at that, but without humor. Can’t I? Who then carries the blame for the fates of our students, if not me?
