by Cat Bruno
Her words were quietly spoken, hushed and broken, as if she could not bear to hear them. Aldric’s hand held tighter to her own, and into her ear, he whispered, “You saved the boy. Rexaria you have now earned.”
Even though the others were distracted, she understood why his words were private, why they had not been shared aloud. The boy was Crispin’s firstborn, and, by birthright, should have been named heir. If the story she heard was true, it was Herrin who would not allow such to be done. But, in truth, Jarek could be king. To speak such would be considered treason, and few would support his claim. However, he might only need a few, depending on who those few were.
With a nod, she walked away, toward the cart and Sharron, tearing the blood-soaked tunic and jacket from her still-shaking body. Halfway there, she was nearly naked, standing in blood-splattered pants and little else.
“Take this,” Sharron called as she neared, holding out a clean tunic, dyed a faded yellow.
As she dressed, the other healer quizzed her on her injuries.
“He did not touch me,” Caryss mumbled, walking in a daze until she came upon the King.
Herrin was awake when she climbed into the cart, although his eyes were yellow-tinged and his skin covered in rash.
“Sharron informed me of what occurred,” croaked.
“You were well protected, and we are no worse for it,” she explained, searching for linens to clean the blood from her face and hands.
“What of the boy?” he asked, trying to sit up.
His skin was pocked and orange, and she knew that more damage had been done from the poison than she had guessed. It had been slowly killing him, yet, without it, his body had further declined. It was nothing that she had ever witnessed, and, again, she hoped the fennidi could offer aid.
Wiping at her face, Caryss told him, “Jarek is well. A bit scared, but we all were, I would daresay.”
“I should have never sent him away,” Herrin murmured.
Caryss nearly cried aloud at his words, for he had done more than simply send Jarek from Rexterra. Yet, she stayed silent, realizing that the King was beginning to see the boy as kin.
“We must be gone from here at once, Herrin,” she informed him, scrubbing hard at her neck until the bleached linen reddened.
“Caryss,” he whispered, “This is only the first of many battles. You must seek shelter. We are targets on the open road.”
He was not wrong, she knew, which only caused her to want to find the fennidi more. As she climbed out of the wagon, Otieno came upon her. He, too, was stained and stroked with blood.
“You are no fighter, leseda,” the Islander fumed, so close to her that she could feel his warm breath across her forehead. “A blood-blade does not make it so. When next I tell you to stand aside, you will listen or you will learn to listen.”
Aldric, standing steps behind them, looked away. She would have argued, but even the mage seemed to agree with Otieno, so she said nothing, brushing past him toward Jarek.
He was pale, his blue eyes wide and wild. Rushing to him, she asked, “Are you hurt, Jarek?”
“I wanted to call the storm, but you were too near,” he stammered, as if in apology.
She hugged him quickly. “You did just as you should have. Now find your mount. We must leave at once.”
Over her shoulder, Caryss could see her horse still tied to a swaying pine, and, on her way to own gelding, she called out, “What of the bodies?”
Aldric and Otieno glanced to one another before Aldric answered, “Get the horses from here and I will see to them.”
Within minutes, they departed, all except for Aldric. She turned once to see a flame growing in his hand and did not need to ask what he planned.
*****
Throughout the night, Caryss noticed the group’s fears, jumping and turning in the saddle at each sound. Jarek had even tried riding with his sword across his lap, but Otieno quickly made the boy harness it. With Jarek’s help, the skies cleared and between the nearly full moon and the stars, their path was bright enough to travel. Aldric rode in the front, with two small orb-lights flanking his horse allowing some additional light. The air had cooled, but Caryss was flush and warm, her cheeks red and her hands moist. They had crossed the river hours before, finding a shallow area where the horses could cross with ease. Otieno had tied Herrin to his horse, and then led the large gelding, wading in water that reached his shoulders. The covered cart had to be abandoned, so the King rode with the diauxie until another wagon could be secured.
Once they were on the eastern side of the river, the Tribelands were no more than half a day’s ride, which Aldric insisted upon telling Caryss often. She knew that much had changed, yet the fennidi were still close. Too close to give up on, but she now dared not put the others at risk.
“I know how to find them, but it will wait until after we have reached safety,” she announced, knowing that it was no lie.
“You are certain?” Aldric pressed.
“Yes,” she swiftly answered. “Yet I know we must seek safety first.”
“There is only one who can offer us shelter, Caryss. Is that what you intend?” Aldric timidly asked, as if he did not believe her words.
“We have little choice. Can you keep us shielded when we near?”
The mage paused. “All of you? Not even I can do so much.”
Again, calmly, as if her mind was made up, she said, “With Otieno’s aid, I’m certain that you both will be able to keep us well hidden. Just get us to the forest’s edge, and I will do the rest.”
*****
Once per moon, in an area of the Lower Streets of the King’s City where few traveled, the Lightkeepers met. Their numbers had dwindled over the ages and many of the men were graying, their bodies thin and their faces lined. Yet, still they came each moon, even though their services were rarely needed of late.
When the men were younger, they would often be gone for moons patrolling the northern boundaries of Ageria, near the border with Eirrannia, and nearest to the Tribelands that any non-Northerner could get. But those days had long past. Now, when the group met, they would trade stories with one another, telling tales of their past glories.
As the sound of the Lighthouse Bell began to ring, the men took to their seats, and, by the eighth bell, they quieted. Lexor, a man who had become Lightkeeper when he was only twelve, stood at the front of the dusty room, bright sunlight shining on each side of him as it seeped through the low windows. He appeared to shine, but all knew that it was only trick, and no real magic was at work.
Clearing his throat, he addressed the gathered group, “May the Light be with you all on this great morning.”
His greeting was met with a chorus of responses, “May the Light be with you as well.”
With a nod, he continued, “We are lucky to have with us today one of our brothers who has just returned from Ageria. He even spent some time in Eirrannia, where all know that Lightkeepers are usually not welcomed. He has just arrived, and I have had but a moment to speak with him, so I wait, just as you all do, his words. Let me introduce Timmon Sagana, who many of you might not know.”
A small man came forward, in dirtied linens and sandals that were held together with straps of cotton. Another chant followed him and faint applause as he neared the front of the room. His face was younger than the others, yet it was lined all the same, dirt coloring his wrinkles dark. On the edges of his head, just above his ears, and around the back, sections of hair grew, white and wiry. It was clear that he had spent hard days on the road, and, as he hobbled, acrid air followed him.
When he spoke, his voice was strained, deep and raspy, “My brothers, it is with great haste that I came here today, having departed from Eirrannia nearly two quarter-moons past. One night I spent in Ageria with kin, and then I rode directly to the King’s City. You might wonder what could cause such haste to make me hurry here so. What I shall answer will surprise all.”
The room had gone quiet and only the ho
arse voice of the newly returned Lightkeeper could be heard. All eyes watched him, and, while they were wrinkled and weary, they were sharp, clear, and attentive.
As they leaned toward him, Timmon continued, “It seems something has changed with the Dark Ones. The Bears, as usual, are silent, but the Crows are stirring, and the Wolves have gathered. While I was in Eirrannia, which was no small feat, I heard talk of old conflicts arising between the two. Brothers, in time, there will be war.”
Silence followed.
And, then, noise erupted as questions were shouted at him from all corners of the room.
“War, did you say?” someone screamed.
“What has been the catalyst?” another asked.
Lexor, who still stood nearest the man, had a gaping mouth, and, finally, when he had regained himself, called, “Silence, brothers! This man has gone without food and sleep for days to reach us. Let us call an intermission while he recovers. On the eve, at eight bells, we will meet again and more will be discussed.”
With much grumbling, the Lightkeepers nodded their agreement, although they did not leave when Lexor and Timmon did. Instead, they gathered and discussed the implications of what their brother had reported. Not since before their time as Lightkeepers had the Tribe warred within their ranks, and the news was as unexpected as it was alarming. None knew what it would mean for the Lightkeepers, or if Tribe war would threaten the rest of Cordisia. However, what they all agreed on was that their services were going to be required soon.
As the morning sky brightened, one thought was common among all the Lightkeepers. Soon, it would be time to add to their numbers. War was coming, and they were old and few.
*****
“He might already know we are here.”
“As he is stronger than all of us, I would imagine that he does,” Aldric told her as the group neared the clearing.
Yet he complied with her request, weaving the pulsing magic over the group, although Otieno had insisted that he would not need it, pointing to the sword across his back. When he reached for the strands nearest Caryss, Aldric’s forehead creased in concentration. At the Academy, when first he met her, before her night spent with Conri, there had been nothing but soft light around her, bright and flowing, and easy to weave. Now, the light had deepened to a grayer shade, not black like his, but no longer as pure as it once had been. He had noticed it first at Nicoline’s, and now it further darkened. The babe, he thought, knowledge falling on him suddenly, and nearly undoing the work that he had already finished.
The other healer, Sharron, had been the easiest to shield, and her pulse was as bright as Caryss’s had once been. The boy proved slightly more challenging as he struggled to relax enough to let the mage thread his life forces. The king had been in increasingly failing health and slept much, which made Aldric’s work simple. He now lay in a small wagon, much smaller than the first. If not for him, Aldric believed that Caryss would not have sought the Tribelands.
As his hands moved around Caryss’s body, he began to struggle. She had become nearly impossible to ward.
After several attempts, she hissed, “We have little time, Aldric!”
With closed eyes and his lips near her ear, he whispered, “The babe makes it difficult,” then, taking a deep breath, he added, “Her power is nothing I have seen, and I know not how to contain it.”
“Hells! Must I do it myself?”
As he watched, the wave around her flickered, as if she wore a long robe that she had shrugged free from her shoulders. The light dimmed, the darkness fading from it until he was once again outside the small healer’s cottage in Litusia, meeting the woman he once knew as Bronwen. Aldric had to strain his eyes to see that her belly was still rounded, or he would have feared what had happened.
Before the light could darken and strengthen, he quickly worked, braiding a magic of invisibility over her, just as he had done with the others. This time, he finished in moments.
With shaking, exhausted hands, he looked to her, and asked, “What did you do?”
As he had been the one to cast the mage-spell, he could see them all still, and it was with some shock that he watched Caryss smile at his question.
“I scolded her for not cooperating.”
Little made sense but he followed nonetheless as she began walking. Her steps seemed reluctant ones, like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Her tunic, dyed a faint yellow hue, only deepened the sight, until he forced himself to look away or call out for her to stop.
They arrived at the steps of the sprawling complex soon not long after, and he watched as Caryss started to climb the wide stretch of stone stairs that led to two iron-worked doors. The doors were like nothing he had ever seen before, heavy and tall, wood reinforced with swirling iron. Across both doors, starbursts had been shaped and attached to thick strands of iron. On the upper corner of the door on the right, a crescent moon had been created. Luna, he knew, and sighed, hoping the mother of the Tribe watched her children now.
Suddenly, Aldric understood why the doors seemed so unusual and he raced to intercept Caryss before she could open them.
“Caryss!” he shouted, unconcerned if he was heard.
Her pale fingers hovered just above the iron knob, but she turned to him, confusion across her sun-speckled face.
“This is no ordinary warding,” he warned breathlessly, bending in half as he felt himself weaken.
Dark eyes looked upon him, no longer the color of the Northern forests.
“There is no warding that the daughter of the wolf cannot undo,” she stated, as if he should have known it to be so.
His next breath did not come until they were all inside of the large building. As he exhaled, his arms raised and his fingers splayed open, dissolving the spell that had successfully covered them, allowing the group to pass by three different groups of Wolf guards. The king was lying, with limbs overflowing, in the pushcart. Sharron stood silently behind him, but in her eyes, Aldric saw worry. She is no fool, he thought, turning to see Otieno beside Caryss, with his large sword drawn, two hands gripping the hilt as he held it out before him. Caryss, her eyes once again her own, was pale and jittery, her courage fleeing as the girl had.
When she glanced back at him, it was as Bronwen, the same girl he had vowed himself to moons before, and he shook his head as he tried to forget the image of the black-eyed one.
“You have come as Caryss. Do not fear him. You have a weapon within reach and a weapon within womb.”
His words had been spoken hurriedly and low, yet Aldric knew that their presence was now known. The air tasted of ice and snow, and, across his arms and on the back of his neck, prickled flesh sprouted.
Silence spread, thick and cold, until he shivered and shook.
The sound of boots striking the slate floors struck, hushed at first, then louder, nearing.
“My arrival was unexpected,” Caryss called out, offering no bow, yet reaching for no sword.
Across from her, the man asked, “Will you see the High Lord?”
“In time. We have traveled long, Conall, and not without incident. Are there rooms where we may briefly recover?”
Nodding, he told her, “Of course. The High Lord, as it is, will likely return within the hour. And he will know that you are here, if he does not already. Have your man sheathe his sword. Even you must know what he holds.”
The look that Otieno and Caryss shared was hidden from Aldric, but he watched as the diauxie carefully placed the large Greatsword back in its scabbard that hung heavy across his wide shoulders. When he had finished, Conall turned and beckoned for the group to follow him, and, soon, they were outside of a large room with several small cots, a well-appointed sitting area, and an attached privy in the far corner.
“You have but a few hours before Conri returns,” the Tribesman told them, his voice not unkind.
He had not, Aldric realized, been surprised to see them.
Near the doorway Aldric felt a steady throbbing and understo
od that the room had been warded enough to only allow a few to enter, which had apparently included the High Lord’s brother. Without warning, Caryss walked across the room and sat heavily on one of the cots, a luxury they all had missed over the last few moons. The Tribesman watched her, and Aldric knew that Conall had noticed Caryss’s rounded belly, although nothing was said.
On his way out, Conall called across the room to Caryss, “After you speak with Conri, there is another who will want to see you.”
Before Caryss could further inquire, the man was gone. As if he had not been there at all.
*****
The cot was narrow, but the feather-filled mattress was as soft as spun silk, and Caryss let her weary body collapse into it. She could not help but notice the others watching her, especially Aldric, who knew more than the rest of her hatred for Conri. It was to him that she often had turned when her fears for the girl overtook her, and it was he who had counseled and comforted her when she told him that she never wished to see the Tribesman again.
And then she had led them all to his door. Without addressing his questioning gaze, she buried her head beneath a sweet-smelling pillow. Sleep came easily, although it did not last long.
Slowly, her growing belly making it more difficult to rise from the down-filled cot, Caryss sat up until she was seated cross-legged.
He was home.
Around her, the others still dozed. Without a word, she walked to the privy, looking down at her ill-fitting tunic. It fit snugly, better suited to Sharron than to herself. Most of her clothing had remained in the King’s City or had been discarded with the wagon, but in the satchel that she carried was a healer’s robe that she had not yet worn.
“Sharron,” whispered, noticing that the woman was awake as well, “Can you bring me my bag?”
After the two women went into the privy, Caryss closed the door. There was a large tub with a similar system to the one that she had long ago used at Willem’s villa. Within moments, the basin was filling with steaming water.
