by Cat Bruno
Conri followed, silently.
And then he saw her.
He cried out then, for Luna, for none else could understand his wrath. But the sky was light yet, and she offered no solace.
In his rage, his eyes blackened further, hot and burning, as if fire lived there. His hands shook, and his back arched forward. Conri fell to his knees, collapsing onto the still-wet grass. Half-kneeling, he howled, as if the sound could wake her.
Over and over, he howled, as mountain and sky looked on. In the distance, his call was answered with pleading whelps, yet none neared. But for the girl, his daughter, Conri mourned alone.
As he his legs shook and his face contorted, Conri struggled against himself. Fed by his anger, his body began transforming, something he long ago had learned to control with ease. Yet, here, with his daughter beside him, he weakened. The High Lord could see nothing but a thickening haze, dark and blood-tinged. Without recourse, he thought of Caryss, of how she had never seen him except as man.
The thought gave him renewed strength, enough so that he breathed hard, panting and drooling, and fought further. Soon, he stood, unchanged. Man once more.
The child had been watching.
“I would not see her last as wolf.”
Syrsha nodded, and he found himself forgetting that she was but a child. Her mother lay dead, steps from them both.
“Why did you come, faela?” he finally asked, his eyes shrouded.
Lifting her bony shoulders in a shrug, she told him, “So I can remember.”
Caryss, her face bloody and her hair spread around her like coppery flames, lay unmoving. Across her neck was a gash that spread from ear to ear, her once-ivory neck stained crimson, until no white remained. Her eyes were closed, sparing them both. Yet he knew that his daughter had watched her mother die.
“Tell me what happened,” he whispered.
Softly, as if she would soon be gone, the child told him, “The prince attacked while they rested. She called the epidii, and they came, but the Crow took to the sky and attacked. Two were able to escape, one was not. The epidiuus that mother and Jarek rode was struck and fell. They might have escaped when Jarek opened the sky, but an arrow hit his arm. The other healer, the one mother knew well, tried to help. He and Jarek rode for the wood, but they were soon caught.”
With a bowed head, he asked, “Whose sword slayed her, faela?”
Standing beside her mother, her nightdress falling past her bared feet, the child answered, “It was the Prince’s sword, but the Crow took it from him. She was killed by kin, father.”
She must have noticed his gaze, because Syrsha hurriedly added, “Willem killed the Crow. You will find his body just there.”
Across the field, where the girl pointed, lay a black-robed body. And another nearby.
Unmoving, he asked, “Willem is dead, too, then?”
When she nodded, he asked, “How was Willem able to kill the Crow? I see no trace of fire around the body.”
“With my dagger,” she whispered, as if reluctant to admit such.
“Faela,” he began, but as he glanced to the girl, who was now sobbing, her image flickered with the wind, as if made from flame.
When she next looked up, her eyes wet and gleaming; she stared at him with eyes of the wolf. He knew then, his blood hot and his eyes sharp, that Syrsha was Tribe.
“They will all die,” she vowed. “Not just the Prince and his men. The Crows, too. I will kill them all.”
Reaching for her, his hand found only air, and, pulling back, he told her, “You are but a child. I will do what must be done.”
With a furious shake of her head, she stated, “Her death is mine to avenge, father, as you have promised. Have the Wolves ready for my return.”
Her voice did not waver in fear.
“Faela, this cannot be so, even as much as I may want it. War is coming, no doubt, but we cannot go against his wishes.”
With a laugh, the girl stood.
For the first time, he noticed her gap-toothed smile and winced.
“I am not afraid of him as you are,” she hissed. “I owe him nothing, for he allowed my mother to be killed.”
Her eyes, so much like those of her grandfather, revealed nothing, as if she was without weakness. She had much to learn, he knew, just as he knew that he would not be the one to teach her.
The High Lord would have chastised her, but, for a moment, he saw her as she was. The image steadied, and she shined.
“Your word, father.”
Looking once more at Caryss, he sighed, lifting his dark eyes until they found the girl’s.
“Her death is yours to avenge. As the Wolves are yours to lead when you are ready.”
With a nod, she rose.
“Jarek is with the Prince. He knows where the others have gone, and I think the Delwin’s mages will try to find out. Help him, father, whenever he may have need of it.”
“I will find him,” he told her, without rising. “Go, child, you have been gone too long already.”
Despite himself, Conri smiled. The girl was unlike anything he had expected.
*****
29
After several hours of riding, the Prince called for camp to be set. Jarek watched as the remaining men, fewer than before, dismounted and began briskly constructing a high-peaked, thickly-clothed tent. Soon, their job was completed and Prince Delwin jumped from his saddle, threw his reins to his squire, and made for the tent.
For a moment, Jarek sat unwatched, but it did not last long as a large, light-haired guard made his way to him, pulled him from the horse, and guided him to sit by a hastily built fire. The healer, who had been confined to the cart with the King, was nowhere to be seen, and Jarek figured they were to be kept apart. He would have no friends here, he knew, nor many in the King’s City.
His shoulder burned where the arrow had scorched him, yet he frequently moved it, making certain that the area did not tighten up. As he sat, his hands still tied at his back and his feet, bound too, Jarek watched the yellow and orange flames leap from the charred logs, as if trying to escape. Feeling envy, he looked about, yet his hopes were dashed as two more guards joined him near the fire.
The prince had told him little, leaving Jarek to worry what would become of him once they arrived in the King’s City. The healer was to be jailed, and Jarek wondered if he would, too, having killed two Royal Guardsmen. Once in Rexterra, he thought of time-walking to find his father, yet each time he had tried to do so in the past, Crispin had never been able to see him. He was not as skilled as the girl, and could not risk being seen by others, he figured, nor could he be gone from his body long without suspicion raised.
He would wait, he figured, knowing not what else to do. If Delwin was to be believed, he could join the Royal Army, where his mage-skill would be rewarded.
None talked to him, and only the light-haired one looked his way. A few of the men began heating water, and Jarek’s stomach rumbled, having not eaten for most of the day. His feet were dirty and marked with blood, his hands as well. Dried and cracking blood lined his shoulder, yet with no hands free, he could not clean the wound. His sword had been taken from him, as had his teacher. Without Otieno, Jarek would never become the swordmaster he had hoped. Only then did he drop his head to his chest, tears stinging at his eyes.
Dirty and cold, he cried quietly under the blanket of night, longing for the farm and for his mother. His hunched shoulders shook and tears dripped onto his knees, dampening the only clothing that he had been allowed.
The fire jumped and parried, crackling and smoking, and soldiers came and went, talking among themselves but never to Jarek. He was nearly asleep when he was grabbed from behind and lifted into the air. Moments later, he was roughly placed on shaking legs.
“Prince Delwin wants to see you,” the light-haired guard said, half-dragging him across the field and into the Prince’s tent.
Once inside the tent, it took his eyes several moments to adjust to
the orb-lights that floated about, and another long moment to realize that the prince was addressing him. When the guard struck him in the back with his elbow, Jarek looked to his uncle, forcing himself not to tremble.
“My advisors would have me kill you for what you did to my men, Tomasz. Yet, I am not in the habit of killing children. Or I could have you imprisoned alongside the healer, where you would live out your days. Which would you prefer?”
Syrsha’s words came to him as he stood half-naked before the prince. Make him think you mean him no harm, he reminded himself, knowing that he would have to convince the prince as much for his life to be spared.
His words unsteady and cracking, Jarek told him, “I would prefer neither, sir.”
“And what of the men you killed?”
With his eyes shielded by sky, Jarek answered, “There are few who can do what I can, my lord. Perhaps none in all of Cordisia. I am young yet, with none to teach me, and, at times, I have been misguided.”
“What would you have me do with you?” the Prince asked from across the tent, seated behind a small table with a plate of food before him.
Jarek needed no further prompting and knew that his answer was his only chance to live outside of a prison, having thought of little else as they rode.
“Let me replace the men that I have taken from you. With training, I can be as good with a sword as they were, and more, too, once the skies are mine to command. There are none like me, my lord, as you yourself must admit. I have no kin and am far from my homeland. Let me fight for Rexterra and at your side.”
The prince’s eyes were mostly gold and across them flashed interest, but Jarek sensed that there was more.
“What of the Northern healer?”
Keeping his eyes on Delwin, Jarek evenly replied, “She lies dead. As I have said, I know little of her. No one else wanted me, sir, and when she told me that she could take me from the temple, I gladly went. If you prefer, send me back to the temple. Or let me fight at your side.”
The golden eyes watched him, as he had never been watched before, and Jarek nearly dropped his gaze. Yet, he stood taller, keeping his sky-tainted eyes on his kin, and keeping the golden rims vacant from his own face.
Let him judge me, he thought, having learned from Otieno how to keep the lie from his face.
“Tell me of the others. The ones who were with you,” Delwin called, reaching for his fork.
With ease, Jarek explained, “There is another woman, also from the North, who is healer, too. A dark mage, a man of the forest, and a swordmaster from the south.”
“And the babe? What of it?”
Nodding, Jarek replied, “Yes, a girl not yet two moons.”
Putting the fork down and chewing slowly, Delwin again brought his gaze to Jarek, then asked, “What was their plan?”
With the lie, he blended in truth, as he answered, “The king was to be delivered to kin of Willem, the man who killed the Tribesman, somewhere in Eirrannia. That is where we were headed when you found us. Caryss had tried to heal your father, my lord, but she feared there was little more she could do. After he was safe, we were to travel to the Southern Cove Islands, to the home of the swordmaster. He promised to instruct me, and said that I showed talent.”
“Why would the healer go there?” Delwin demanded.
“To protect the babe. From what I overheard, the babe is Tribe and would be unwelcome in Cordisia.”
The prince was silent, as if considering what Jarek had said. While he waited, Jarek struggled to appear calmer than he felt. With little clothing, he felt as if he had little to hide behind, except the lessons that Otieno had drilled with him over the last several moons.
“You think they will head south?” Delwin mused, as if he did not quite believe Jarek.
“I do not know Cordisia as you do, sir, and I have never been out of the North, so I do not know how the babe would be seen. Otieno, the Islander, often talked of his homeland and promised safety was to be found there.”
“You would not lie to the man who will one day be your king, would you, Tomasz?”
With his words, Jarek could hear his men reach for sword.
Again he thought of the diauxie.
“Did you not mention that your mages would know truth, my lord? If you would bring them in, I could prove myself further.”
Again, the Prince sat, in judgment.
After a moment, he called, “Izzo, find the boy some clothing and something to eat. Untie him as well. You will stay at his side, and, if he calls for lightning, you will put your sword through him.”
Jarek struggled to keep the emotion from his face, and listened as Delwin continued, “Tomasz, if I find that anything you have said is lie, you will not be spared. Keep your hands at your side and attempt no escape, nor any storm. You have heard my instructions. My men will not hesitate to kill you.”
“It will be as you say, my lord,” Jarek mumbled, feigning fear.
Dismissed, he followed Izzo from the tent, who said nothing as he led him to another tent, where piles of clothing were laid, as well as bits of armor and uniform. First, the guard cut his feet free, then his hands. Once done, he pointed him to the clothing.
“You will need boots, too, boy, and will have to beg a pair as I see none here,” Izzo gruffly said.
As quickly as he could, Jarek dressed, looking nearly identical, except for the coat, to the Royal Guardsman. The clothes hung from him, but he had grown much in the last half-moon year, and would catch the man soon, and surpass him, too, he guessed. When he was finished, they left the tent and went back to the fire, where Izzo fetched him a steaming bowl of soup. The sky was still thick with clouds, and the flames of the fire were the only light to be had, so both men sat fireside and ate.
I am a soldier now, he thought, a Rexterran one, looking at the men around him, huddled and quiet around the fire.
Someday, I will be their king.
*****
It was not hard to find the boy. The mages that the Prince traveled with were novice ones, unable to notice when Conri walked through the campsite. The boy had surprised him during his stay in the Tribelands, and his powers were old ones, and rare, even if he still had not fully mastered them. Although, Conri had to admit, Jarek did possess some control over them, evident by the charred bodies that he had found in the meadow.
The High Lord had lost much, yet having the boy with him would offer some solace, he thought, nearing Jarek, who lay curled up beside a dying fire. Wearing a light mask of fog, he approached.
None had seen him, although he cared little as they posed no threat. Each of them he could kill easily, even the Prince.
Gently, he kicked at the boy, rousing him. Blue eyes opened and settled on him, in fear, until recognition came. The boy looked much as he had when he had last seen him in the Tribelands. Yet, nearly all had changed since then.
In a whisper that fanned the fire, Conri told him, “Come with me Jarek.”
Jarek sat up and shook his head.
“Did you not hear me? I am here to see you safe.”
Quietly, as if he was afraid the others would hear him, Jarek mumbled, “If I am to be king, I must learn of the men I will lead, as Otieno once said.”
Nothing the boy could have said would have surprised Conri more.
“You wish to stay here? With the Rexterrans?”
“Can I speak freely?” the boy asked.
With a nod, Conri told him, “We are cloaked. None can see me or hear us.”
“Then heed me, High Lord. And know that I will never be Delwin’s. He thinks me a boy, and that I will nod and listen and obey. And I will. Until I have learned all that I have need to. I am heir, not he, and not my father. Rexterra is mine.”
“Syrsha feared for your safety.”
“I have sword and sky,” Jarek hissed.
“Yet you are here, and Caryss is dead,” Conri answered, growing impatient.
Sadness crossed the boy’s face, and he dropped his eyes, y
et said, “Was it not you who warned me not to call the sky if the babe was near? I had to wait until she was gone. By then, it was too late.”
His words, true ones, hung between them, before Conri spoke. “I can do little to help you in Rexterra. Think on this hard, Jarek.”
“I have. None will know me for who I am. Not even my own father. I will be Delwin’s pet until I am ready.”
“You still think to take the throne? A boy’s foolish thoughts,” Conri warned.
“No more foolish than Syrsha’s,” Jarek quickly retorted.
The glow of the fire cast its shadow on them both until Conri’s pale skin shone, and Jarek’s face reddened.
“You know too much, Jarek, and Delwin’s mages will question you. Have you thought on that and what it means?”
“I owe much to Caryss and to the others. They are kin to me now.”
“You know nothing of what will come.”
Conri’s words cut through the air, loud and crackling, yet none heard, and the fog around him thickened.
Suddenly, he knew what he must do.
“If I cannot convince you to come with me, then you leave me little choice, Jarek.”
The boy paled, looking around hastily.
Conri kneeled beside him as he lay on the ground, and raised his arms, “I must make sure that none know of the babe. Nor of her plans.”
In a voice filled with panic, the boy asked, “What do you mean to do?”
“You will not be harmed. But you must forget what you know.”
“Lord Conri, please,” he begged, reaching for the Tribesman, “I will tell them nothing!”
“You might not want to, but you are not yet strong enough to fight the mages. This is the only way.”
The boy sobbed, “You will make me forget all those who I have loved, including those who lie dead.”
Jarek’s cries were muffled by a growing haze as Conri hummed and placed his hands on the boy’s forehead. With little time to work, he hurriedly searched Jarek’s thoughts, until he found the boy’s first memory of Caryss, when he first saw her in the Grand Palace in the King’s City. From there, he mind-locked everything, erasing the boy’s memories until nothing remained. Jarek struggled against him, but he was young and his powers too raw to stand against Conri’s.
