The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  He dropped that last with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. He had worked the last two decades of his life trying to find a way to skirt the spiderweb of Vaelinar influence that cobbled the lands together. Much easier hoped for than done. The scarring of the southern and eastern lands by the Mageborn Wars left gaping holes in the firmament, not only of the land itself but of the atmosphere about it. The very wind could not be counted upon, nor the waters, for the elements themselves had been turned and corrupted. Ofttimes, only the Ways could skirt those lands safely, or if not a true Way, only a road laid down by the Vaelinars. He hated that, hated it far more than that despicable Dweller song about the Ferryman of the Nylara. And the Ferryman, who’d taken the youth from his body and the strength of his limbs, he hated with every fiber of his being.

  He kicked his leg aside and stood, the brace moving with an oiled smoothness to cage his weakness. Kerith belonged to those born of Kerith, placed by the creating hands of the Gods to inhabit these lands, but the Vaelinars were like an insidious parasitic plant that managed to seed itself into every crack and entwine itself upon every living thing it could possibly feed upon. If it were up to him, he’d kill them off one by one, quietly but surely, but it was not. And, indeed, that would be an insanity even he could not carry out. Quendius was another matter. Bregan was not certain what Quendius had in mind ultimately, but for the moment, he wanted to see an ending to the Ways as much as Bregan did. That made him a useful ally. He wondered if his father held his own alliances with Quendius, cutting Bregan out of his own future.

  He glanced at the clever clockworks again. Opening the door to his offices, he gave a shout for a horse as he grabbed his cape, and he could hear the apprentices scattering on the landing below him to do his bidding. He could hear threats echoing in the stable yard as underlings scurried. He would not throttle the lad who did not have his horse ready by the time he strode into the guild yards, although he had the temper to do so. No. The lads were not responsible for his unhappiness, and they would not, for the moment, bear the brunt of it. Quendius had spoken to Willard only of smugglers, and as of this moment, he was still uncertain of what ultimate outcome had been planned for him. Was he to have been assassinated by those who waited and were driven off by Daravan and his lackey? Or was there to have been a historic meeting, corrupted and befouled by Daravan as only a Vaelinar could twist happenings? Did he trust Quendius or not? And that, he supposed, was the ultimate crux of the matter. That Quendius had come to him, a sly whisper on the night wind, was undeniable, and yet Bregan supposed it would be too much to assume the man held as much contempt for the Vaelinars as Oxfort did. Far too much.

  A horse waited for him, one of the hot-blooded elven breed, and Bregan curled his lip as he mounted it. The nervous beast danced a side step or two as he bent down to make sure his right boot fit the stirrup properly. The feeling in the leg came and went, and he’d learned the hard way that he could not ride well if the leg had gone into one of its numb spells. Today he could feel pins and needles, but that did not reassure him. The arm did not need to be braced, although he could no longer use it with the strength and accuracy he had before. No matter. His sword fit his other hand equally and lethally well. He turned the mare out of the guild yard, flipped a coin to the stable lad who looked the most hot and mussed and had probably done most of the work (or the yelling), and headed onto the public streets.

  The mare stretched her legs in a long-striding walk, her head up and ears flipping back and forth to catch the sounds on the city streets. He could smell hot wax, cooking fish, and the salt of the sea. As they moved closer through the trade and market streets toward the small row of temples, the aroma of incense grew stronger. The horse flared her nostrils at the unfamiliar odors. Some smelled sweet and others pungent and still others downright unpleasant, the last meant to keep away the spirits of the deceased Mageborn who had brought a downfall to all the Gods and temples and believers. He had little faith in anything that held sway on Temple Row; he’d seen much in his years on the road that influenced his judgment of mortal flesh. He slowed his mount down as the streets grew crowded, and even the riding lane filled with the jostle of bodies, all it seemed, intent on going the same way he was. The thought passed through his mind that he ought to turn back; he disliked crowds, and he could see nothing here of any use to him, despite his father’s instructions. There would be an interrogation later, as always, if he had done as bidden by his father, yet that did not influence his decision one way or the other. He simply took a shorter hold on the reins to calm the mare as they pressed onward. It was his own curiosity, the interest in what his father might be thinking about, and what profit might be had by this visit that kept him going.

  From the growing press of flesh about him, Bregan thought he might have forgotten an observance day. He searched his mind for a religious rite that might explain the growing numbers descending upon Temple Row and could not find one. Yet here they were, flooding toward the Row, their lunches carried in sacks or gripped in their hands, meats still steaming, juices dribbling onto the paving stones where dogs darted in and out among the crowds to lick up the goodness. He caught words and breathless phrases over the jumble of noise and clatter of horse hooves. One of the priests was going to speak, one who had a reputation for fiery rhetoric and insightfulness and just plain entertainment, one who promised to cast enlightenment on recent Events and Omens. Bregan stifled his disgust at the thought of being forced to stand in one of the squares and listen to inflammatory talk, but the assignment might have its possibilities. There was always trade in fear: goods for protection and retribution against that which might attack you. Even if reason should prevail, the short market should be profitable.

  Letting his senses guide him to the square teeming with activity and anticipation, he forced the mare into the crowd, making his way to a corner where he would have good access to the oratory and be able to cut through a nearby narrow lane to leave quickly if he so desired. That lane now held little traffic, being out of the way and not nearly wide enough to accommodate more than a person or two at a time, and the flow of listeners into the Row coming from much easier directions. He held his riding whip in his right hand. There was no need for tremendous speed or accuracy to protect himself with that; it was mostly to keep the opportunists away from himself and his mount. He could feel people sizing him up and, wisely, turning away. He noted the Town Guard lining up around the edges of the square, their red-and-gold tabards quite visible among the more drab colors of the crowd.

  It was then, too, he realized that he saw no Vaelinars, veiled or otherwise, among the onlookers. Likewise, no Bolgers—who commonly skulked around the edges of the city—could be seen anywhere. Not being seen did not mean there were no elven about, but the Bolgers lacked that sort of discretion and freedom of movement in the towns. In the countryside, that was another matter altogether. A flurry of activity rippled by one of the temples and he saw a tall, thin Kernan emerge, flanked by young apprentices. They wore light blue and light green, with a silvery border, and he could not for the life of him remember what God or Gods that symbolized. This man, not a youth but showing no true lines of age on his face, thin to the point of being spindly, with hair of nondescript brown bound back with leather thongs so tightly that it left his hooked nose to be his only prominent and interesting feature, stood between two youths wearing green and silver. Did he look as if he waited to be noticed? Bregan watched him closely. No. He looked more as if he were steeling himself. A reluctant prophet? Or one as yet unused to and unsure of his effect on his people?

  His mare snorted as someone brushed her hindquarters and he flicked his riding whip that way, cracking the air, a warning to give them distance. A muttered curse and a stumble followed. The horse flicked her ears before quieting. As she settled, so did the crowd, but only because the Kernan priest raised his hands, palms out to them. A hush settled over the square, packed shoulder to shoulder with listeners, with only a pocket or two of exception. Bregan
sat his mount in one such area.

  The two youths in green and silver set down vases filled with incense sticks and knelt, lighting them quickly. They stayed on their knees. The priest waited until thin blue-gray smoke curled from every one of the herbal sticks before clearing his throat.

  Not a good voice, Bregan thought, when the other began. He wouldn’t be heard by most of his audience. The next few moments proved him wrong as the man began to talk, his words growing more powerful and distinct with every breath. Bregan scanned the people about him, listening. Acoustics of the square. Of course. The great speaking rooms at the guild were built for such, and he should have recognized it when he saw it. As cobbled together as Temple Row seemed, it was anything but. Every architectural feature here from shrine to temple to shrine down the Row had been placed deliberately. Coincidence, then, that this priest emerged from a temple facing the square most propitious for such talks? He did not think so. If he did, he’d be an even greater fool than the enthralled common folks about him. They paused, sack lunches in their hands, fistfuls of food halfway to their mouths, caught up by his words.

  As for what the priest said, it held no deep meaning for him. The spindly man merely recounted recent events that any tale-spinner at a toback shop might tell. Bregan quickly lost interest in his words and surveyed the listeners instead, wondering what it was his father had wished him to observe.

  Then he heard it. Words caught his attention like heavy rocks dropped into a still pond. “The Gods are bending close to us again. They will speak as they have spoken to us in centuries past, voices to guide us and to punish us. This I know for a certainty, because I have heard their whispers. Surely they will get louder! Surely they will return to thunder in our ears! We must prepare to listen. We must brace ourselves to be chastised before we will be led by them again. Are you ready?”

  A blending of voices called back, echoing among the buildings and columns, shouts of joy and fear and derision. Did they believe him? They must. They pushed and shoved against one another now, lifted small children among them to their shoulders to hear better, pointed and shouted. Lunches forgotten, hooded cloaks against the promised rain pushed back to see better, bodies crushing closer to hear better as if this priest knew for a certainty what they had only dared hope.

  How, after all these centuries, could they believe?

  A better question, Bregan thought, as he reined his now nervous mare close. How could they not? How could any people stand forever as forgotten, shunned? How could they persevere against that without hope that they would one day be forgiven?

  What day would the Gods speak? The tall priest did not know, but it would be soon. The judgment was upon all of them, even as the Warrior Queen built her troops for a war that would envelop them all. She would be called to the Court of Gods as all of them would be, accountable for her deeds against Kerith. The Gods had been watching the Strangers and come to a decision about them, and their trial would be at hand along with all the other peoples of Kerith.

  The moment of clarity faded for Bregan, as his thoughts raced ahead, tumbling over one another with an eagerness he had not felt in years. He could use this building tide. Oh, yes. This fervor could be used.

  He put a heel to his mare, reining her out of the crowd, moving slowly for the listeners still stood in rapt attention, their faces uplifted to the speaking priest, and he ducked her out of the way along that narrow, ill-used lane. He looked back once.

  And saw, in the shadowy threshold of the temple behind the priest, a visage. He should not have seen it. He knew he was not expected to. What man would expect to be noticed in shadows the color of his sooty skin?

  Quendius stood listening, as well.

  The clouds opened up. A spattering of fat, heavy, and cold raindrops began to fall. It would be a deluge in a handful of moments, dispersing the crowd far more quickly than the Town Guard could. Bregan put his whip to his mare, then, to urge her down the lane and away as quickly as possible before his attention had been noticed. He did not want those flint-dark eyes to look his way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LARIEL SAT IN A QUIET ALCOVE of her rooms, a small retreat built to overlook the gardens from a corner of her apartments. From-its windows, she could see the Andredia below, a bright blue-and-silver rib bon among the greenery of Larandaril. Even winter frost hardly touched here, although it did, and would, despite the evergreens which flourished everywhere, and the winter grasses which the wind sowed prodigiously and which even the rodents and grazers could never quite keep cropped down. Here was a land which the harshest of seasons might never touch more than briefly. The only seasons which affected it were those of man, and the deadliest one of war loomed now on the country’s borders. It had already survived a season of plague, and she wondered how resilient her country could be.

  Those boundaries threatening to be breached lived and breathed with the magic that was Larandaril as well as the land itself. No one crossed them unless one of the Anderieon blood gave them free passage. She was safe here as she could be nowhere else, and yet she knew it could be an illusion. Had not her friend and confidante, Tiiva, the last heir of House Pantoreth held the keys to this manor for decades, and still planned her death? Had attempted it once in Calcort through the assassin Kobrir and attempted it a second time through Quendius, Narskap, and the great sword Cerat? What safety remained for Lara, then, if not here?

  Despite seeking, Lariel had not yet found the fled Tiiva Pantoreth. Death and betrayal still awaited her from that source. Lara gave a dry chuckle. Join the crowd, she thought wryly. May you all have a very long wait.

  Still, although the thought of her death weighed on her, it didn’t weigh as heavily as concern for her lands and the people she tried to protect. That, she supposed, was as it should be.

  She had other business to attend. Lara put her hands palm down on her knees, and took in a deep breath, preparing herself. A momentary distraction caught her attention as she took in the missing digit on her left hand, the purpled scar at the point of amputation, and then she dismissed it. A scar only in the sense that it disrupted that which others called beauty, but a trifle to be considered in the overall scheme of things. She had been trained to be a warrior, and the toll of such a life came in scars and maiming, more to be feared than the loss of life. To be maimed meant she might live but without the ability to act as she chose. This was a warrior’s legacy, and the only one she shrank from. If she could find a Way, she would have it be the one which led to victory without the fight, before the battle, a subjugation or compromise of wills before the massacre of bodies. Such a Way would be worth universes.

  She took in a second deep breath, willing away the sight before her eyes, and looking inward, centering on that which rested inside of her, waiting to be called forth. This, one of the least of her abilities, and yet at times one of the most valuable, was to extend herself into the senses of another, giving her vision where most could not see, knowledge which might otherwise take days or even weeks to gain. She worked at plucking the threads of the living things she sought, bridging them to hers. She had not the ability to twine them together for more than a few moments, but that would be all she needed. Whether now, when she sought to look through the eyes of flesh, or later when she sought to anticipate the actions of another, moments were all she had to touch and learn and plan her own decisions. It worked the same with lesser or greater beings.

  Hawks loosed against the dimming sky, like arrows shot into the horizon. She’d ordered them sent out and seen them taking wing, and she linked her memory of that moment with their passage now. Hawks winged their way to the northeast, across Hith-aryn where the aryn trees blotted out the hillsides and fenced off the wide-ranging fields of grain against the wilderness of the blighted and scarred areas left by the Magi. She could hear the beat of wings against her ears, feel the pulse of strain rush in her bloodstream, see the land below as they banked in tandem, drawing near their destination. She could feel the crisp early wint
er wind like a tide carrying their flights, bearing them, coasting when wings had grown weary but the destination was in view. The lord of the aryns would have them in a moment, unrolling the message she had sent, the ripple of destiny come his way. Bistel had already sent Bistane to them in anticipation, but this would be her formal declaration and call for mustering.

  Lariel’s breath fluttered in her throat. She closed her eyes, wiping away the brilliantly colored view of Hith-aryn, and pulled to herself the senses of other hawks, wings outspread, as they spanned the forests of the north over the libraries and lands of D’Ferstanthe. She could see through the eyes of the bird the vibrant colors of the northern forests, the streams flowing with ice-cold waters and lumber being sent downstream, chimney smoke rising from the many scattered cottages and, as they neared their destination, even the image of a great, lumbering giant of a Vaelinar came out into the courtyard to look upward at them. Azel d’Stanthe in his usual robes of indigo, broad shouldered with a bit of a girth at his belt, glasses glinting in a beam of sunlight escaping the clouds which had been rumbling in from the north all day. Lara could see his eyes on the birds, see his lips purse, and hear a sharp whistle pierce the air which caught the hawks’ attention and brought them swooping in lower.

  Another message delivered.

  She shook herself lightly. She forced herself northwest, to the harsh coastline and countryside where Stronghold ild Fallyn reigned. Only one hawk flew here, meaning that the other had been lost somewhere along the way, faltered, or perhaps even died in the effort. When the sharp fortress walls came into view, Lara made a noise of disdain and broke her contact. Lara did not stay with this hawk long enough to see the wild beauty of Tressandre ild Fallyn as she moved off the parapet to call down the hawk to her wrist, where sharp eyes would meet an even sharper and more predatory gaze of verdant green flecked with smoky gray and leaf green.