Heartland

by Lucy Hounsom

  She blinked, surprised by the question. ‘Hagal,’ she said and then when he looked like he was going to touch it, she added, ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. It’s good at destroying things.’

  ‘You’ve used it before,’ Char said, staring at the sharp constellation. ‘It’s clearer than the others.’ He let go of her hand, his eyes raking over her neck, her bare forearms. ‘There’re so many.’

  ‘So many there’s not enough of me to wear them all.’

  He pointed at her cheek. ‘What about that one? Why does it glow?’

  Trying to push down the memories of that night, she said, ‘Sigel. I was afraid. I’m always afraid of using them and I let it get the better of me. I lost control. I only just managed to regain it in time.’ She paused, said more softly, ‘That’s what happened with the Sartyans. The rumour’s true.’

  Char’s face was blank. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Probably wishing he’d never started this conversation.

  ‘We can only ever be who we are,’ he said finally and it was hesitant, as if he wasn’t just speaking to her.

  Kyndra met his gaze, a challenge. ‘And what if I don’t want to be? What if I want the same life other people are entitled to?’

  ‘That’s your choice,’ Char answered with an echo of flame in his eyes. ‘It’s not my place to tell you who to be.’ He turned away from her, went towards the far wall. Kyndra followed his gaze and found herself staring at a tapestry. It was finely woven, its colours a little faded, a complex scene of a mountain landscape, white peaks and a grey city, high in the clouds. Bright creatures roamed the foreground, their sinuous bodies turned to catch the wind.

  ‘Ségin said the Lleu-yelin were gone,’ Kyndra murmured regretfully, captivated by the images. ‘No one has seen them for twenty years.’

  Char was staring at the lines of the weave too, a small crease between his brows. ‘I remember the Khronostians saying something about a battle with the dragons, a battle they claimed to have won.’

  ‘The Khronostians fought the Lleu-yelin? Why?’

  Char slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know. They said the Lleu-yelin wouldn’t trouble the world again, that they were locked in a place no one would find them.’

  Kyndra tore her eyes away from the tapestry to look at him. ‘How many people know that?’

  ‘None, I’d bet. I didn’t know, before they told me.’

  ‘Someone must have searched for the Lleu-yelin when they first disappeared.’

  ‘Yes,’ Char agreed, ‘except that the dragons’ city, Magtharda, isn’t easy to reach if you don’t have wings.’

  Kyndra still found it difficult to accept that the dragonriders were real. If she ever met one, it would be like stepping into the pages of a story. ‘So there’s a possibility they’re still up there?’ she said.

  Char shrugged. ‘Maybe. But why would they just cut off all communication with the outside world?’

  ‘Were they friends or foes of Sartya?’ Kyndra asked after a moment.

  ‘Good question. I’d say neither, but then the dragons have always been secretive.’

  Kyndra turned back to the tapestry, tracing the dip and curve of sleek bodies. Each dragon had a rider, with swept-back horns and a scaled face. ‘Do you think we’ll ever see them again?’ she asked.

  Char’s yellow eyes were distant. ‘I hope so.’

  27

  Stjórna, Rairam

  Brégenne

  Brégenne stared at Gareth. ‘Mother?’ she repeated.

  ‘I promised to kill you if you ever showed your face here again,’ Ümvast said. The great dark hall had filled with whispers, but her words silenced them.

  ‘How did you recognize me?’ Gareth asked in a small voice.

  ‘No mother would fail to know her own flesh and blood.’

  Gareth briefly closed his eyes; the chamber’s poor light seemed to deepen the circles around them.

  ‘Have you returned to your homeland to die, Kul’Gareth?’ Ümvast said. ‘You are a bag of bones. Your eyes have death in them.’

  Stirred to anger, Brégenne seized Gareth’s upper arm and dragged it into the air, high enough for everyone to see. She was shocked at how wasted it felt. The gauntlet seemed to draw strength from the gloom; it pulsed sickly and Gareth let out a groan, swaying on his feet.

  ‘This is why he has come here,’ Brégenne said. ‘I haven’t brought him halfway across Mariar to die.’

  ‘And who are you?’ Ümvast ignored Gareth’s upthrust arm and the gauntlet, taking in Brégenne’s face, her clothing. ‘My son’s bodyguard or his southern whore?’

  Brégenne dropped Gareth’s arm and raised her own. Silver energy crackled down it, blazed in each fingertip. ‘Why don’t you say that again?’ she asked softly.

  The tall woman’s eyes widened at the blaze that filled her hall, but not with fear. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you are one of those responsible for taking my son away.’

  ‘I am a Wielder, yes,’ Brégenne replied, the Lunar power spitting like lightning. ‘But Gareth has a gift and he chose, quite wisely, to nurture it. Why should you condemn him for that?’

  ‘Kul’Gareth’s place was here,’ Ümvast said, ‘yet he forsook his people, turned his back on his family –’ Brégenne caught the barest flicker of regret in her face – ‘and wilfully discarded the duties to which he was born.’ Her gaze returned to Gareth. ‘For that, there can be no forgiveness.’

  Before Brégenne could reply, Gareth said, ‘Don’t think the choice was an easy one.’ He coughed and when he next spoke, his voice was a little stronger. ‘But what Master Hanser showed me … I couldn’t turn my back on that, even if it meant leaving my home.’ He raised his eyes to his mother’s. ‘Even if it meant that I could never return.’

  ‘And what you learned amongst the southerners,’ Ümvast said slowly, ‘was it worth the price?’

  ‘It served you today,’ Gareth said.

  At Ümvast’s frown, Kul’Das stepped forward and whispered in her ear. When she was done, she remained standing at her chieftain’s side. Ümvast’s eyes sharpened as they flicked between Gareth and Brégenne. ‘Kul’Das informs me you fought off a pack of wyverns.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said one of the warriors, who’d accompanied them into the hall. ‘They drew the beasts’ attention. Without their help, I doubt I’d be standing.’

  ‘For that, you have my thanks,’ Ümvast said, ‘but I am still unsure of your purpose in coming here.’

  Gareth straightened. ‘My companion is Lady Brégenne of the Lunar,’ he said formally. ‘We came to speak with Ümvast, leader of the north. I had no way of knowing that a new chief had been chosen.’ He paused. ‘Or that it would be you.’

  A tiny smile like a snake’s tongue flickered at the corner of Ümvast’s mouth. She nodded. ‘Then speak.’

  ‘Our quest is twofold,’ Brégenne said, letting the Lunar power fade. A hushed relief swept through the hall like wind in meadow grass. ‘First we want to warn you of a threat to the west.’ Ümvast’s face darkened and, watching her closely, Brégenne added, ‘It’s likely where the wyverns have come from.’

  The northern chief rose, shrugging off the mantle that adorned her shoulders. Standing, she was over six feet tall. Anger kindled bright flecks in her eyes. ‘My people will soon be forced to leave Stjórna. No other who has carried the title of Ümvast has ever had to do so.’ She glanced at Gareth. ‘My firstborn shames me, abandons me, my husband is years in his grave. The Rib Wall that once sheltered this land is gone and the ice creeps southward, bringing these wyverns with it.’

  ‘Is this why you built the camps?’ Brégenne asked.

  Ümvast’s look was scornful, but Brégenne heard a whisper of fear in her voice. ‘We are no strangers to cold or hardship, but always the forest has protected us. Now the sap freezes in the trees and shatters them. She swept a hand at her near-empty court. ‘This is something we cannot fight.’

  Muttering filled the hall, grim sounds of agr
eement. Brégenne felt an echo of that cold in her chest. She’d not considered that Acre would bring other changes with it, changes more primal, perhaps more devastating than war between humans. ‘You plan to move south,’ she said.

  ‘We must, if we are to survive.’

  ‘Where do you intend to go?’

  ‘Where we will,’ Ümvast said baldly. ‘There is plain-land near our southern border. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Or we’ve heard tell of a rich city on the shores of the ocean. Perhaps we may settle there and become fishermen.’ She flashed her teeth amidst ugly, scattered laughter.

  ‘Those are people’s homes,’ Brégenne said, unable to hide her dismay. ‘Their lands and livelihoods don’t belong to you.’

  ‘We will give them the chance to defend them.’

  I came to seek your help, she told Ümvast silently, to defend Rairam from the powers in Acre. Instead you’d make the promise of war a reality. You’d march on your fellow people.

  ‘The south is weak,’ Kul’Das said and Brégenne looked up at her. The woman’s fingers were clamped around her staff and one of the raven heads knocked gently against her knuckles, its beady eye seeming to wink. ‘They have grown soft, let their skills rust. They’ll not present a challenge.’

  Brégenne narrowed her eyes. ‘You are no northerner.’

  ‘Kul’Das is a trusted friend,’ Ümvast said. ‘She is one of us by deed, not by blood.’

  ‘And what great deed did she perform to earn her title?’

  Kul’Das’s look became one of loathing and even Brégenne was shocked at its vehemence. ‘My deeds are not under discussion here,’ she snapped.

  ‘Indeed they are not,’ Ümvast agreed. ‘I am beginning to wonder what is.’ She looked at Brégenne. ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘I came to seek your aid in the war that looks set to come,’ Brégenne said, unable to rid her tone of its bitterness. ‘My companions volunteered to undertake a dangerous journey into Acre—’

  ‘Acre?’ Kul’Das interrupted. ‘What nonsense.’

  Brégenne turned a disbelieving stare on her. ‘What else caused the Rib Wall to fall? You’ve seen the Acrean ice fields for yourself, you’ve seen these creatures invading your homeland and you haven’t put two and two together?’

  ‘Wait.’ Ümvast held up a hand. ‘The lost world is returned?’

  Brégenne reminded herself that, once upon a time, she had found the fact just as unbelievable and so she swallowed her frustration and turned a calm face to Ümvast. ‘It’s a long story, if you care to hear it.’

  The four of them retired to a small chamber with a fire that could not keep out the cold. The stones of Ümvast’s fortress felt like ice when Brégenne accidently brushed against them. Kul’Das had seated herself arrogantly in a carved, unpadded chair that made Brégenne ache just looking at it. Instead she chose the most comfortable one she could find and ignored the scorn Kul’Das sent her way.

  ‘A story worthy of our warrior poets,’ Ümvast said when Brégenne had recounted the events of the last few months. ‘I thank you for it.’

  Kul’Das looked sour. ‘How do we know she speaks truth?’

  ‘Why would we come all this way to lie to you?’ Gareth asked, eyeing her with dislike.

  ‘You have already said you came in search of our aid,’ Kul’Das retorted. ‘No man is above stretching the truth to get what he wants.’

  ‘Their story is not in doubt,’ Ümvast said and Brégenne was gratified to see the woman’s expression curdle. ‘It goes a long way to explaining our own predicament.’ Ümvast looked at Brégenne. ‘Nevertheless, I cannot give you what you seek, Wielder.’

  ‘Why not?’ Brégenne said. ‘I’m only asking you to defend your lands, your freedom. The Sartyan Empire was responsible for starting the war that ended with Rairam being separated from Acre and my companions claim that it’s still a force to be reckoned with. As long as Sartya’s in power, Rairam is under threat.’

  ‘We are losing our lands already and not to this empire you speak of.’

  ‘I understand,’ Brégenne replied, ‘but that doesn’t mean you can take what isn’t yours.’ She looked Ümvast in her cold brown eyes. ‘Rairam needs to stand united if it’s to have any chance of resisting the empire. And the Breaking has caused enough chaos without you adding to it.’

  There was silence. The fire crackled half-heartedly, as if tired of fighting the chill outside and, looking into it, Brégenne felt her own weariness. She’d started out full of purpose, determined to bring the people of Rairam together. But peace, it seemed, bred its own divisions.

  ‘Did you not say your quest was twofold?’ Ümvast said finally.

  Brégenne looked up. Gareth sat bleak and pensive, staring into the fire. ‘The gauntlet Gareth wears,’ she said. ‘He found it in Naris’s archives. We keep many artefacts there that we know little to nothing about – relics of Acre mostly. There’s a powerful enchantment on it that prevents its removal.’ She didn’t mention the terrible ability it granted Gareth, not yet. Instead she thought back to the conversation with Argat. ‘On our journey here, we heard a story of two warriors from Ümvast who were searching for a pair of gauntlets, one light, the other dark. It would have been years ago, but it’s our only lead. I was hoping you might know more.’

  Ümvast shared a look with Kul’Das. The woman’s expression was neutral now, but Brégenne had been watching her and had seen a brief surge of interest brighten her features.

  ‘Show me, Gareth of Naris,’ Ümvast ordered. When Gareth drew off his glove and lifted his right arm, the gauntlet glinted darkly in the firelight, flush with his skin and looking more like an extensive tattoo than a piece of armour. Both women leaned in to study it, while Brégenne kept a close eye on their faces.

  ‘What think you, Kul’Das?’ Ümvast asked after a while. ‘Is it his?’

  She grunted. ‘Could be. The way it’s melded to his skin.’ She turned her blue eyes on Gareth. ‘And the boy’s condition bears out the stories. How long have you worn it?’ she asked him.

  Gareth glanced at Brégenne. ‘About three months.’

  ‘He should be dead,’ Kul’Das said to Ümvast. ‘If it is one of the pair, he should not have been able to withstand it more than a few days.’

  ‘Gareth’s a Wielder,’ Brégenne said, thinking back to the day in the forest where he’d withered the trees. Only the Solar power had broken the influence of the gauntlet. ‘It could be his ability’s protecting him. The two powers are fighting each other.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said “his”?’ Gareth asked. He lowered his arm and tugged his sleeve over the gauntlet, as if he couldn’t bear to look at it.

  ‘A legend—’ Kul’Das began, but Ümvast overrode her.

  ‘Not a legend,’ she said. ‘A story with its roots in truth, a story of Acre,’ she added with a nod to Brégenne. ‘Have you heard of the Kingswold Knights?’

  Brégenne blinked. Yes, she’d heard of them – they were another myth out of Acre. But something Kyndra had said came back to her, a point the young woman had made when stressing how strong the empire had been in Kierik’s day. The knights were the only force capable of holding their own against the Sartyan soldiers, but they’d made a stand at a place called Kalast and suffered a ruinous defeat.

  ‘I don’t know much,’ she answered, ‘except that they fought the empire and lost.’

  ‘In the days before the sundering – the Deliverance –’ Ümvast clarified, ‘our ancestors were numerous and held great lands, far more than we do today. Though they were all renowned warriors, one group considered themselves the elite. They accepted only the best, trained children from the age they could walk, and their prowess in battle was unmatched. Their leader and founder was a man they called Kingswold.’

  Gareth was staring at his mother with the same intensity he’d reserved for the frieze on the throne-room doors.

  ‘I do not know how he acquired them, but Kingswold had in his posses
sion a pair of gauntlets, one symbolizing light and the other darkness. When worn together, they bestowed great power—’

  ‘What sort of power?’ Gareth interrupted, a strange light in his sunken eyes.

  ‘That knowledge is lost,’ Ümvast said and Gareth sat back with a sigh. ‘When Kingswold wore the gauntlets and led his knights into battle, they were unstoppable.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Gareth asked. ‘How did the empire wipe them out?’

  ‘One of the gauntlets was lost. And Kingswold had cause to regret the safeguard built into them, for he could not wear the remaining gauntlet or utilize its power. Naturally, the knights’ enemies cornered them, demanded their surrender. In his desperation, Kingswold donned the remaining gauntlet.’

  A heavy silence was all about them. ‘It granted Kingswold great power,’ Ümvast said, ‘but without the other to temper it, he lost control. Half his knights were dead before the enemy engaged. The rest were slaughtered by the empire. It’s said he was laughing when they put a spear through his chest, his face alive with an unholy joy that remained upon his visage even unto death.’

  ‘And the gauntlet?’ Gareth asked in a whisper. ‘Was it lost with him?’

  ‘That I cannot say,’ Ümvast replied, her brown eyes – so like Gareth’s – sharp on his face. ‘It could still lie in the spot where he fell, or it could have been taken by the enemy. At any rate, it is irrecoverable. If the gauntlet you wear on your wrist is indeed one of Kingswold’s, it is a death sentence.’ Her voice was inflectionless.

  ‘If it’s irrecoverable, why were two warriors searching for it?’ Brégenne asked. ‘I assume they knew the story.’

  ‘The story of the Kingswold Knights is a powerful one,’ Kul’Das said. ‘The warriors you mention would not be the first to seek to reclaim the gauntlets, no matter how foolish the errand.’

  Gareth went to bury his face in his hands and then snatched the right one away just before it touched his cheek. Instead, he dragged his chair nearer the fire. ‘I’m always cold,’ he complained.