Clearwater Dawn

by Scott Fitzgerald Gray

  Three lightning fast knife-strikes knocked the bow from his hand, blocked the feeble jab he made with the arrow, narrowly missed his heart where he stumbled back. The kick that followed dropped him again. Still no emotion in the scarred white face where it vanished once more, but as Chriani pushed himself to his feet once more, he scooped two handfuls of freezing mud, flung them in a half-circle around him. There, the haze of light shifted, dark streaks hanging in the air for a moment before they blurred out. Chriani ran for the faint shimmer that marked the assassin’s movement, no idea where the strength in him was coming from.

  As he’d fallen, he felt the hidden scabbard digging into his side, but even as fast as he fumbled the Valnirata blade from its belt now, he felt it knocked from his hands, skidding unseen to the dark forest floor. Then another drop kick took him in the chest, and Chriani went down for the last time.

  His heart was pounding where he tried to rise, only his arms wouldn’t work. The same pinpoint flare of pain that had numbed his leg was spreading from just below his heart now. He managed to look up, saw the heavy bootprints circling slowly around him.

  Where Chriani focused, he brought the figure back into blurred vision, his eyes stinging where blood was running freely from his forehead. He saw the assailant bend to the ground, pick up the bloodblade where it had fallen. He looked to Chriani, then. Smiled for the very first time.

  And then there was a burst of light around them that swallowed the moons and the dark sky at once, and the figure in white was pulled off his feet, slammed back by an explosion of white-hot flame.

  Chriani saw the bird, then. The same twisting shape he thought he’d seen swirling in the fire that Irdaign had thrown against the stones the night before. Only it was Lauresa at the edge of the clearing this time, a rage in her that he could feel like the blast of heat that made him squeeze his eyes shut as he clumsily scrambled away.

  Through the darkness, her voice rang out with the song she and her mother had made together. The white figure was up and running for her, impossibly fast, but where her voice pitched and peaked, she twisted her hands above her head and Chriani saw knives of pure light erupt around the figure, cut him down with a scream.

  Where it twisted past him, Chriani saw the bloodblade, knocked free where the figure hit the ground in a haze of black and red. The assailant screamed again, Chriani feeling it. Something in the sound of that agony drove his own movement as he rose, stumbled forward six steps. He snatched the dagger from the ground, didn’t slow, all his dead momentum carrying him as he drove into the figure, hit him hard from behind.

  Then suddenly there were ropes of black shadow in the clearing, twisting in between Chriani and the figure even as the dagger was wrenched free of the assailant’s back. Chriani watched him torn away by the force of Lauresa’s spell, holding the figure aloft even as the firesong rose to consume him.

  A searing silhouette filled Chriani’s head, the outline of the figure in white caught where it burned. Then the darkness expanded to swallow all his sight, and there was nothing more.

  — Chapter 8 —

  THINGS LEFT UNSAID

  THERE HAD BEEN A DREAM when he was younger, almost forgotten now. No longer sure whether he could actually still remember it on the rare times he tried to pull it from the shadows of his mind, or whether he was just recalling the second-hand memory itself from some time in childhood. Twice removed from the sight and sound of it, he could see himself being flung into the air, twisting between shifting fields of green grass and blue sky. He was looking down on a laughing face, grey eyes and a shock of black hair. Without knowing how, he recalled the angular lines of the eyes and mouth, the curve to the tip of the ear that marked the familiar features of his father.

  He was having that same dream again now, and though he recognized it as a dream, Chriani couldn’t put his finger on why it had come back to him. Because in the way it came back to him, his father’s face changed to Barien’s at some point, the warrior laughing like he used to. Then in a heartbeat, Chriani was at one of Chanist’s throne room banquets, and he thought he could see the angular face at the prince high’s own table across from Barien. He thought he saw them laughing together, but he couldn’t have. His father dead long years before. Barien dead now.

  Against the pounding of his heart, Chriani felt the laughter shred to silence. The face of his forgotten father was still in his head when he woke, not sure how long he’d lain unconscious in the moonlight. He heard shouts and the crash of footsteps from the far side of the thicket, though, and the fires along the perimeter looked to be burning higher where his vision blurred. Not long enough for the watch to have reached him but enough time for Lauresa and the white figure to be gone.

  There was no sign of either of them in the empty glade as he tried to rise, the bloodblade lying in the dirt near his hand. He could barely breath as he scooped it up, could smell the charnel reek of burned flesh on the wind.

  Inside him, twisting past the pain that rose with every ragged breath, he felt the fear. He felt his hand at his chest, shakily making the moonsign against the blackened expanse of turf and trees all around. He felt the memory of the cold anger in Lauresa as she’d spun fire from her hands like spider’s silk. He tried to push it away, knew he never would.

  He heard voices getting closer. He didn’t have much time.

  Where he rose, he felt pain like a red-hot knife slash him from stomach to shoulder, but he forced himself to his knees, tried to clear his eyes where they sought out detail in the haze of moonlight. He found Lauresa’s footprints easily enough, swinging past the spot where he’d lain before turning for the creek bed, heading back towards the encampment. She’d lingered at his side, Chriani reading her movements in the cluster of footprints obscured by the marks his hands had made where he clawed his way upright again. She hadn’t stayed with him but she’d stopped at least. That was something, he thought bitterly.

  The other tracks took longer, but Chriani found them in the end. In his mind, the image of the figure in white falling beneath the hail of light and fire that had flashed from Lauresa’s clenched fists had been fixed as permanently as his own name, and he would have laughed openly at the notion that anyone could have survived it.

  He had, though. The one who’d almost killed him. Lurching away from the camp, Chriani saw his footsteps staggering with a drunken gait. He was favoring one leg badly, the heavy prints of the steel boots twisting to disappear across the frosted scree of the dry creek where it cut through the trees. Chriani followed for a dozen paces, expected to see the body, but there was nothing. The assassin gone.

  He felt his mind and memory flex around the word. Assassin.

  He should have realized it even as they fought, he knew, but there’d been little room for thought in the near-fatal beating he’d taken. He remembered the thin smile that had played across the pale face, the Valnirata blade turning slowly in white hands.

  As torchlight flared through the closest trees, he found himself wondering if Lauresa had made it back, how much longer she might need. He’d keep them busy here, he thought darkly. One last piece of obligation dispensed with.

  The Princess Lauresa kept her secrets well.

  At the fore of the party that came crashing up the trail with swords and bows drawn, he saw Konaugo, naturally. Chriani was still working on trying to stand when two members of the captain’s guard helped him roughly to his feet, Chriani grimacing against the pain in his side. He’d broken ribs before, but this was worse. He saw shadows for a moment, then felt the cold sting of Konaugo’s gloved hand across his cheek bring him back to wakefulness.

  In the captain’s other hand, he saw the stolen officer’s arrow he’d shot, saw a lieutenant he didn’t know pull the one shaft that had somehow managed to stay in his quiver where it hung haphazardly from his leg. A perfect match, Konaugo not even bothering to look.

  “The prince’s assassin was here,” Chriani said thickly. He was overcome with retching, sent a gout of b
lood across Konaugo’s cloak before he caught himself. “He has sorcery. He hides as he moves…”

  Konaugo caught Chriani’s face with his spit, gave a nod to the guards to either side, who released him even as the captain grabbed him, pulled him like he weighed nothing into the shadows.

  A dozen strides away, moonlight twisted through a copse of stunted pine, Chriani dragged there, stifling a scream where Konaugo slammed him up against the twisted bole of a deadwood snag. The captain’s knife was out again, Chriani slumping to the ground, trying to rise against a blackness that rooted deep within the pain.

  “A man lucky enough to survive trying to kill Konaugo once should be smart enough to not try again,” the captain whispered. “So perhaps you’re not as smart as Barien seemed to think…”

  “Barien knew you too well,” was all Chriani could gasp, and he felt Konaugo’s thick fingers bunch his tunic where he hefted him again, hurled him a half-dozen paces to slam against the frozen ground. Chriani hit hard, head-first. He saw shadows again, felt the darkness come crashing up to meet him even as he fought to push it away.

  “I spent six years riding with the rangers among Barien’s Leisanmira,” Konaugo whispered hoarsely. He strode slowly past Chriani where he lay prone, glanced beyond the trees to his guard, Chriani knowing that none of them would move from where they watched. “I’ve heard their charm-song. Seen it sap the will of the strongest men. I watched the witch-princess ascend to the throne that Prince Goffree died to defend, then watched her Leisanmira lackey stay behind even after Chanist found the wisdom to finally rid himself of her reek. Whatever death found Barien in service to the prince, it was short payment for his true allegiance all these years.”

  Where he felt the anger surge, Chriani welcomed it. He let it spike, felt it flood his limbs with a strength that wove through the pain as Konaugo lifted him again, smashed him back against the dead trunk and held him there.

  “Barien was a singularly unambitious fool,” Konaugo hissed, “but what worth he saw in you defies even my ability to fathom. Your shiftlessness reminding him of the son he hadn’t the sack or the cock to sire himself, no doubt. Warden to the princess so he could watch Chanist’s court with her witch-mother’s eyes.”

  Chriani caught the movement of the moonsign, Konaugo’s hand moving above his chest as he leaned in close. Afraid of Irdaign, he thought.

  “And does she own you, too, boy? Or was traitor a job even Barien wouldn’t trust you with?”

  Where Chriani slammed his head forward, he felt Konaugo’s nose break. The captain stifled a cry, conscious of his troops only a dozen steps away. Chriani counted on that, counted on the momentary flash of pain distracting him as he knocked the dagger from the captain’s hand. He fell on it, rolled up with the blade at arm’s length before Konaugo had taken his first step toward him.

  The captain wiped blood from his face with his sleeve.

  “A chance to die quickly should not be lightly thrown away, boy.”

  In his voice was an anger and a venom like Chriani had never heard. And he realized suddenly that as much as he hated Konaugo, Konaugo hated him more. Had hated Barien more. Chriani feinted low, flicked the blade up to score Konaugo’s cheek where he tried to grab it. The captain winced, fell back a step.

  “Barien died slow,” Chriani whispered. “But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

  Konaugo blinked. Surprised, Chriani thought. Good. As he lunged, the captain swore, but Chriani slashed him off, scored the leather of one bracer and felt like he caught the arm above it.

  “So where did you tell the prince you were that night?” he hissed. “Hanging limp and begging for release in some half-blood brothel as usual?”

  “You will die the maggot-meat you were born to be, tyro…”

  “Did you make some excuse for the blood on the uniform you should have worn? Or did you bury it like the fucking cur you are?”

  Where Konaugo lunged again, Chriani wasn’t fast enough, landing underneath the captain’s full weight as they fell. The last of his strength broken by the futile display of bravado, blood streaking Konaugo’s hands where they found Chriani’s throat.

  And then from the glade, there was the sudden drum of hoofbeats, Konaugo glancing up. Chriani’s breath was gone, his heart pounding past the bursting point. But even through the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard the Prince High Chanist’s voice, distant. Where is the tyro?

  Two of Konaugo’s men raced for them through the trees, their expressions telling Chriani that they’d known what was happening there.

  “My lord,” one whispered, and with an effort of supreme will, Konaugo pulled his hands from Chriani’s throat.

  Chriani didn’t remember rising, didn’t feel the arms around him as he half-walked, was half-dragged from the shadows. His sight splintered once, twice more, told him he was blacking out again. When his vision cleared, Chanist and a squad of horse were there, troops running in every direction. From the haze of light to both sides, he guessed that the perimeter had been pushed out, watchfires burning every ten paces by the look of it, the camp hemmed in by flame.

  He saw Chanist toss something to one of the guards whose grip was all that kept him from falling to embrace the dirt once more. Something cold was pressed to his lips, and there was a bitterness in his mouth that cleared his head suddenly. He choked, swallowed.

  In his arms, he felt the pain shred and twist away. Like the warmth of fire-heated furs against chilled skin, he felt a surge of sensation break through a numbness he hadn’t been aware of. He blinked where the haze of blood lifted slowly from his eyes. Riding with Chanist, set off from the grey leather of the guard, he saw three figures in black, two cloaked against the cold, one exposed where he leaned low in the saddle, scanned the charred ground to all sides. At the figure’s neck, Chriani saw the warmage brand.

  “Take him to my pavilion and keep him safe,” Chanist called. “The princess Lauresa is alive this night only because of him.”

  Konaugo was behind the prince, Chriani saw, a darkness in his gaze that had no words to describe it, but it slipped beneath the obedient nod as Chanist wheeled past him.

  “The assassin was here,” the prince barked. “An attempt was made on the princess’s life. Seal this camp. Anyone who crosses the perimeter in or out except by my leave dies.”

  And then he was gone, spurring off with the others to the fire line. Chriani watched them for a long while, tried to sort the sensations coursing through his limbs, his heart still racing. Konaugo was gone when he looked back.

  He realized he could walk only when he tried it. He felt his ribs still aching, could feel the imprint of Konaugo’s fingers at his throat, but the burning in his lungs was gone. Where he glanced behind him, he saw contempt in the eyes of the two guards making good on Chanist’s orders to escort him, but a particularly dark look stopped them. He tossed the empty flask of the prince’s healing draught back, one of them catching it as they shifted off toward the fires of the outer perimeter.

  As he passed the inner line and made for the light of the officers’ pavilion ahead, Chriani felt the fear still with him, still circling at a distance. Like the assassin’s form as he’d slipped from solid to shadow and back again, it was there, then not there. Chriani fought the urge to focus this time, suddenly desperate to not see.

  He was within sight of Chanist’s tents when he felt the stinging sensation rising on his skin. His senses were already on fire, something in the healing draught making his nerves jangle. He remembered the same sensation from the throne room that night, spilling his fabricated story as he’d quaked in fear of spellcraft pulling the truth from his mind.

  The guards at my father’s pavilion are told to expect you. Lauresa’s voice in his head was the same whisper, the same close echo that it had been that first day, but Chriani felt his pulse quicken. He felt fear and anger in his heart now in equal measure, but whether the anger was directed at her for the duplicity or at himself for not seeing that duplici
ty, he wasn’t sure.

  You won’t be able to come to me, she said. I will meet you there.

  He wasn’t wearing the ring, but he heard her in his mind just the same. Wondering darkly whether she’d ever even needed the rings in the first place, wondering if she could hear him now as he could hear her. A darkness in his thoughts that he wasn’t bothering to hide this time.

  Ahead, he saw two guards watching him from the time he appeared across the officers’ pavilion, spears locked across the entrance to the prince’s tents. He didn’t slow down, didn’t meet their gaze as he approached, the spears lifted as he passed through them, up the steps and through the curtained alcove without a word.

  Inside, he found Lauresa waiting in the study where she’d waited just a short while before. She had changed from the riding clothes she’d been walking in, dressed now in a long white shift in which she seemed to float just above the floor. Her hair was tied back, her skin pale in the unnatural brightness of the evenlamps. Even more regal than normal, he thought, not sure if that should have been possible.

  From her expression where she turned to see him, he realized that Chanist’s draught had done nothing to affect how bad he must look. He touched his face as he nodded to her, felt still-drying blood caked there.

  “Sit,” she said, motioning to the low bench along the far wall. He did so without emotion, Lauresa filling a basin from the jug of water there, wetting a handkerchief she pulled from within her sleeve. She knelt as she washed Chriani’s face, the water cool where she gingerly touched him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Well enough for you to leave me,” he said evenly.

  “I ran for aid,” she said. “I did not know how badly hurt you were. Had I tried to move you, you might have died before any healing could save you.”