—The North: Ancient Tradition and Culture, by Agor Kehn
The Giving Grounds of the Cyurgi’ Di, Raz thought sadly, had never in the history of the faith borne witness to so much pain.
The dead were laid to rest alongside each other, every body lovingly set one beside the other in a curved line that filled much of the innermost circle of the Grounds. Had he been in better spirits, Raz might have found himself taken by the morbid beauty of the place, a massive, perfectly flat circle at the highest point of the mountain within which the High Citadel had been carved. All about them, in dozens of wide, meticulous rings, the corpses of the dead were set out in the old fashion of burial, for the elements to claim. The loops closest to where he stood—Carro and Syrah on either side of him among hundreds of others of the faith—were occupied by the most recent of the lost, their desiccated corpses already marked by the Sun and winds and storms. The outermost rings, though, held little evidence of the men and women they had once held claim to, marked if anything by nothing more than bits of bone or old, tattered cloth that shifted in the cool breeze.
Despite this, however, no soul would ever be forgotten within the boundaries of the Grounds. In the top corner of each space where a body had been carefully laid, the silver of a Priest’s or Priestess’ staff stood erect to the heavens, magically hammered into the stone, shining like a thousand steel trunks in a forest of memories.
And fifty-three new trees had been planted, on this day…
All about him, Raz could hear the moaning cries of denial, the shuddering, choking sobs of those left behind. Now, even as the ceremonies came to an end and the faithful began their slow return back to the Citadel, the loved ones of the departed lingered, unwilling to let go of the hope and dreams they had had with those that would no longer exist as a tangible part of their lives.
Raz knew that wretchedness well, and he shared in their grief.
Tilting his head back, allowing himself a reprieve from the sad scene before him, he looked to the sky. The Sun shone, bright and clear against a heaven of clear blue. It was an exquisite day, a day worthy of the men and women who had fought and died in brave defense of their home, and Raz sent up a brief prayer to his family somewhere above, hidden among Her Stars behind the curtain of the day, asking that they look after the lost.
Then he looked earthward again, watching the Laorin take their leave in groups of twos and threes and fours.
He could feel Syrah shaking beside him, her hand in its now-familiar place in the crook of his bandaged arm. She did not cling to him as she had a four-day ago, but rather stood firmer and taller at his side, taking in the scene. Her chin-length hair fluttered in the gentle wind, and for a few moments he sought her gaze, but for once she was too preoccupied to look up at him. Her eye was on the families of the dead, and he knew what she was thinking. He had told her a thousand times in the last two days that it wasn’t her fault, that her stand had been the Laorin’s last desperate chance, but Syrah wouldn’t believe him. She blamed herself for the blood that had been spilled.
Raz had decided she would find her own truth, eventually.
On his other side, Carro al’Dor stood a changed man. His now-marked face still held that calm, sage quality that Raz had come to know well over the last weeks, but aside from that he was practically unrecognizable. His robes had been exchanged for leathers and fur, hammered iron and studded plates. His steel staff was gone, taken from him at his Breaking, and instead he carried a carved stave that had been gifted to him by the chieftains of the Amreht as he had released them from their forced indenturement to the Kayle’s army. It was a queer object, and yet beautiful, sculpted from white ash so that the detailed faces of the Stone Gods that had been meticulously whittled into the top quarter of the wood looked wise and somber in the light of the day. It was a new take of the fierce deities Raz rather thought he liked. He’d heard whispers that Carro had already begun to earn himself a name amongst the tribes. “Peacekeeper” they called him, which Raz found terribly amusing. In addition to Gûlraht Baoill, the Dragon—as Raz himself was known among the mountain men, now—had had to overcome his injuries to slay six others over the last four-days who had had a change of heart, thinking themselves worthy enough of the Kayle’s crown to challenge Carro for the seat.
Erek Rathst, one of Baoill’s old generals, had been the last of these unfortunate fools, putting an end to the needless butchery.
He suspected Jofrey and the council were already at their wits’ end, having seen true war for the first time, and more blood spilt over the steps of their home would only drive them further from the lessons of the last week.
Out of nowhere, Carro sighed.
“It wasn’t going to end any other way, was it?” he asked darkly, his eyes on the backs of the last of the departed’s families as they clung to the limp hands of wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers.
“No,” Raz said, following his gaze. “And if it had, it wouldn’t have been for the better.”
He felt Syrah’s fingers tighten around his arm at his words.
“Why was he so bent on bloodlust?” she asked quietly. “What did Baoill have to gain for it, in the end?”
“Freedom for his people,” Carro answered with a shrug, watching a woman and her two children pass them to make for the Grounds’ steps, all three faces tear-streaked and stricken. “Or freedom as he understood it, at least.”
“I don’t understand it,” Syrah said. “I don’t understand what could have driven him to this, what could have driven all of them. What sort of men speak only in bloodshed? What sort of men need a dragon to fall from the heavens on their heads in order to convince them to take a knee?”
Raz smirked at that. It had been an amusing moment, in the hours after the battle, explaining to Syrah, Carro, Jofrey, and the surviving council what had happened after he’d fallen from the cliffs with Baoill. He’d intended for the mountain men to believe he could fly, of course, intended to strike terror into their hearts as he plummeted from the sky amongst their midst, but he hadn't considered the Laorin would think the same.
They had fought even as they fell, like birds of prey clawing at each other during an earthward dive. As gravity ripped at them, pulling them through the grey gloom of the falling snow, neither had known or cared when the rocks of the mountain would rush up to meet them. They’d been consumed, conscious only of the other, battling with fists and claws and the great ax as they held on to one another, refusing to let go. It had felt like an hour—though it must really have been only seconds—before Raz found a way to gain the advantage. He’d had one clawed hand in Baoill’s hair as he tried to wrench back the man’s neck and bite at his throat, the other wrapped about the haft of the axe. The Kayle’s free braids whipped about his face, the loose edges of his cloth shirt flapping in the wind.
That was what had given Raz the idea.
An instant later his wings had exploded outward, extending to their limit, pushing against his fall. As Raz’s own speed was cut short Baoill had continued downward, howling in rage as the ax had been torn from his hand, Raz lifting away unexpectedly and taking the weapon with him. The howl turned to a roar of pain as the fistful of hair Raz still had in hand snapped the Kayle’s head back, dangling him for half-a-second over the emptiness of the abyss below.
Then, using every ounce of strength left to him, Raz had brought the great ax back to its extent, screaming his victory to the storm around them before the iron blades whipped around with terrifying force.
Gûlraht Baoill, Kayle of the mountain tribes, had died mid-fall, his decapitated body dropping away to vanish into the twists of snow as Raz’s descent continued to slow.
In comparison to this, landing had been almost easy.
Raz—whether by luck or skill—had just managed to guide himself precariously towards the cliffs moving by him now at a much more manageable rate. His back strained and spasmed as unused muscles tried to control his flight, but it had been all he
could do to get close enough to swing the great ax out again, slamming its double head snuggly between two outcroppings that came so close they’d almost taken his arm off. From there Raz had hung for a moment, catching his breath and centering himself.
Then he’d begun to climb.
It had taken him nearly ten minutes to manage what couldn’t have been more than fifteen seconds of falling, and he had done so in a desperate rush. The great ax looped securely in his curled tail, the braids of Baoill’s head foul between his teeth, he had ascended the snow cliffs with all haste, summoning every ounce of speed he could muster, drawing on old skills honed on the roofs of Karth and Miropa and every fringe city the Arros had ever set foot in. The wind had howled around him, doing its best to rip him from the stone. The icy edges were slick beneath his fingers and feet, and not for the first time Raz wondered how, by the Sun, man survived without claws.
By the time he made it to the top, the growing sounds of battle driving him ever faster, Raz felt as though every one of his limbs was likely to fall off from fatigue
Initially he had cursed to find he hadn't managed a straight path, ending up beneath the bowed lip of the Citadel’s outer wall. The mortared granite proved easy to manage, however, and he’d found ample foot and handholds in the eroded joints between the stones. In thirty seconds he was vaulting—or rather tumbling weakly—over the crenellations and onto the ramparts. He’d forced himself shakily to his feet, his breath coming in misty bellows as he looked out over the plateau beneath him, the battle raging like a mad ocean across its edge.
His vantage had allowed him to find Syrah, her hair distinct along the front lines of a Laorin force that looked to be rapidly losing. At the sight of her, Raz had found the strength to pull himself up onto the top of the wall once more. Taking the ax from his tail and the Kayle’s head from his teeth, he’d spread his wings.
And leapt.
“Arro.”
Raz blinked, pulled back to the present as a familiar voice spoke his name. He was surprised to find Jofrey al’Sen standing before him, flanked on either side by Benala Forn and Cullen Brern. The High Priest looked worn and exhausted, and Raz couldn’t blame him. As new as he was to the mantle—which now hung over his shoulder, the single black stripe cresting the hood that was pulled over his greying hair—Jofrey had just been forced to handle the single most violent event to have ever fallen upon the Laorin.
And it was clearly already taking its toll.
“High Priest,” Raz said in greeting, nodding his head respectfully to the man. “It was a splendid ceremony. Her Stars will shine with new lights tonight.” He then turned to Brern. “You have my condolences for the loss of your brother. I did not know him well, but he seemed a strong, good man.”
Cullen Brern said nothing—indeed, he seemed unable to speak, his jaw clenched and his eyes red—but he nodded in thanks.
“I’ve come,” Jofrey said in a tired voice, and Raz thought he could sense uncertainty behind the man’s word, “to give you our thanks. You are a true friend of the faith. We knew that the moment you leapt from the cliff.”
Raz said nothing, feeling that there was more to come. Syrah, too, seemed to perceive something foreboding, because he felt her hand tighten against his arm.
Jofrey sighed, reaching up to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I’ve also come to tell you that, come the end of the freeze, you will no longer be welcome within the walls of Cyurgi’ Di.”
Raz felt Syrah spasm beside him. On his other side, Carro took half a step forward, enraged.
“What?” the former Priest spluttered. “Jofrey, how could—?”
“I understand.”
Raz’s firm words cut Carro off, and the man froze, then whirled.
“You understand?” he demanded, slamming his stave on the stone in anger. “What do you mean, you understand?”
Raz didn’t look at him, his eyes on Jofrey as he spoke. “The Laorin and I tread different paths. It would not do for a place of faith to shelter a killer. It would send the wrong message, encourage a poor image of Laor and his followers.”
Jofrey, for his part, looked almost relieved, and he nodded. “We have suffered a great loss. We are hurting. What aid you have offered us has been unorthodox to begin with, and I won’t be surprised if my name is struck from the faith’s history for allowing it. I must preserve what dignity Cyurgi’ Di has left. You will be welcome through the end of winter. Additionally, our healers—” he indicated Raz’s dressings “—will continue to be at your disposal until such time as you are no longer in need of them, as will any other facilities you might require. When the snows melt, however…”
“I’m to take my leave,” Raz finished the man’s trailing words. “I will, and I thank you for your hospitality.”
Jofrey gave him a small smile, then turned to Carro.
“Carro…” he started hesitatingly, and this time it was obvious what he intended to say was painful.
Carro, though, stopped him with a wave of his left hand, still strapped to his chest. “I know,” he said with something between regretful glumness and a glower. “I have the same thanks, and the same conditions.” He shrugged. “I’ll be spending most of my time among the clans that haven’t left anyway. There's a man—Rako the Calm, they call him—who seems to have been sympathetic to Emreht Grahst’s agenda. He seems eager to have my councel, and teach me the ways of the Sigûrth.”
“I’m sorry, old friend,” Jofrey said with a sigh. Then his eyes sharpened. “That being said, once things are settled amongst the tribes, count on the aid of the Citadel as you need it. You have my pledge of unconditional support.” He paused, then stepped forward, placing a hand on Carro’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said quietly as a tear fell from Benala Forn’s eye behind him. “We will not forget what you have done for the faith, Carro.”
Again, Carro shrugged, though he looked a little flushed.
Giving them a last nod, Jofrey and the councilmembers took their leave.
“Bastards,” Carro grumbled once they were out of earshot, though he didn’t sound like he meant it.
“They’re only doing what they must,” Raz said, watching the backs of the retreating trio as they took the steps down from the Grounds.
“Maybe,” the man grumbled, moving as though to follow, “but they’re still bastards.”
When he passed in front of Raz and Syrah, he paused, and looked around. He scrutinized Raz for a long moment, the X-shape scar on his face distorting as his features shifted, becoming something like pride mixed with grief.
“Talo would have been proud of you, lad.”
Then he left, trailing Jofrey and the others, leaving Raz with Syrah at his side and a lump in his throat.
For a time Raz and the woman stood in silence, watching the final stragglers say their goodbyes to the dead before taking their leave. Raz knew Syrah would not be able to go until she was ready, just as she knew he would not leave her on her own in this place, full of lives she believed lost by her own foolishness. And so, in silence they waited, her hand in the crook of his arm, his hand on hers.
When they were the last living souls within the boundary of the Grounds, Syrah finally looked up at him.
She had kept her peace as Jofrey had said what he’d come to say, which Raz had found distinctly odd. He would have expected her to jump in, more so even than Carro, and certainly to have had harsher words for the High Priest about his decision to banish the men who had bled and sacrificed for the Citadel. When she’d held her tongue, he’d grown curious, wondering what was on the Priestess’ mind.
Now, as he looked into a face set in resolute desire, he understood why. Her right eye was covered as always, now by tight black wrappings wound about her hair and diagonally across her cheek and forehead. Her left took him in fiercely, her mouth set. He could see a hundred things in that face, experiences and emotions and desires she hadn't spoken of, but that he suspected. He saw anger, lingering and unquenched and venge
ful. He saw confusion, a mix of uncertainty and need that drifted about her features every time she looked at him. He saw doubt, the same doubt he made out every evening as he sat outside her door, listening to the hesitation in her prayers.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 132
