Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  Chapter 10

  The graves were nearly finished when Alynor caught sight of Darion and Draithon riding across the fields toward the hamlet with Triolyn between them. She drove her iron spade to a stand in the dirt and wiped her brow, wincing as the sweat stung her raw chafed wrists. The rope had cut deep, but the old axe in the woodshed was sharp, and she’d severed her bonds after a few long hours of fiddling.

  She’d been anticipating Darion’s return, yet seeing him now made her afraid to face him. Clambering out of the long knee-deep pit, she stood waiting in her dirt-smudged frock while they approached at a fast canter. Darion performed a moving dismount when he saw the two bodies wrapped in burlap beside the graves. He released his horse’s reins and came to her with eyes white and wild, shaking his head and grabbing her about the shoulders.

  The graves were measured with the size of their occupants in mind; one large, one small. Darion searched Alynor’s eyes for an answer. When she gave him none, he released her and knelt beside the smaller form, fumbling with the drawstring at the top of the shroud. After a moment he cursed in frustration and drew a paring knife from his belt to cut the string and let the shroud fall open. He saw the strands of golden brown hair, dropped the knife, and sat heavily.

  Draithon was crying before he got off his horse. He knew by the sizes of the graves and the shapes of the bodies beside them. Triolyn shed no tears, though his look was dark and dour. He stayed ahorse while Draithon slid off his mount and collapsed in the grass, heaving like a babe in arms.

  Only numbness remained in the hollows of Alynor’s soul. She’d cried her tears. Yet seeing Draithon like this struck some tender place within her, and next she knew she was beside him, sharing in his sorrow, a wellspring of grief surging forth anew.

  Darion sat and stared into the golden afternoon.

  The fields swayed in the breeze.

  Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  A long time passed before he found the will to speak. “How did it happen?”

  Before Alynor could answer, he added, “Where are the girls? Alynor. Where are they?”

  “Taken,” she blurted. “Warpriests from Dathrond. I don’t know how they found us. They came looking for you with a band of seaside ruffians they’d hired in town. Jeebo and Westhane stood up to them, and—”

  “They murdered a boy of seven,” Darion finished. “A boy of seven.”

  “They told me to tell you… that if you wanted to see Ryssa and Vyleigh again, you’d go to Maergath to confess your crimes and beg the king’s forgiveness.”

  Darion set his jaw. “So this is how Olyvard King has spent his years. Refusing to forget. Has his spite truly soured him so that he would exploit my own children against me?”

  “We tried to defend ourselves,” Alynor said. “Our spells didn’t work. The mage-song refused to be woken.”

  Darion blinked at her. He told her what had happened on the hunt, about the wolves and the smokehouse and the mage-song. Alynor recounted her own ordeals, starting with the wolverine’s sortie on the root cellar and ending with the fierce thunderstorms and the recent profusion of wild growth.

  “When did you first notice this disruption in the mage-song?” Darion asked, helping her stand up.

  “A few days before the priests arrived. One of them was carrying an orb of green glass. He used it to cast a spell on me, and I swore I could feel its power swelling through the whole hamlet and beyond. I’ve little doubt that’s what’s been suppressing the mage-song.”

  “Its reach must be considerable to have affected us as far away as the Wayfarer’s Table. Even now the mage-song feels thin.”

  “I tried to destroy it, but my sword blow was insufficient to crack the glass.”

  “An item forged by nature’s power would be difficult, if not impossible, to destroy by mundane means,” said Darion.

  “How could the king have devised such an item without the fourth part of the ritual?”

  “I imagine he found a way to use the other three. You remember Sir Jalleth’s ward, don’t you? It covered an area no greater than a fathom or two. This orb appears to magnify the same effect across leagues.”

  “So Olyvard has found a way to prevail without destroying the mage-song.”

  “Turns out he didn’t need to destroy it, so long as he’s able to prevent its waking at certain times and places.”

  “Won’t an imbalance between the worldsongs wreak havoc?”

  “Havoc doesn’t begin to describe it. Without magic, our world is doomed. The king is playing with the fabric of creation; altering the harmony of all things.”

  “Hasn’t he any thought toward the consequences?”

  “None at all, were I to wager a guess. When did they leave? These priests, and the ruffians they employed?”

  “Just after sunrise, two days past.”

  “Which direction were they headed?”

  “West. Toward the sea.”

  “Triolyn, see the horses fed and watered. I’d hoped to rest easy this night, but it seems we’ve an evening of preparation and another hard ride ahead of us. We move in haste at sunrise.”

  “They’ve got two days’ head start,” said Triolyn. “How can we hope to catch them up before they take ship for Dathrond?”

  “I don’t intend to catch them up. No doubt they’ll possess the means to travel faster through the wilds than we can. We’ll need to clear our path through the jungle by hand.”

  “Darion, you must be on your guard,” Alynor warned. “They’re trying to lure you to Maergath.”

  “They’ve succeeded.”

  “Would you trust the king to release Ryssa and Vyleigh after what he’s done to us?”

  He turned and met her with a cold stare. “I trust Olyvard to do what he’s always done. Lie and connive and mislead. So long as we assume he’ll keep to his habits, we’ll know what to expect.”

  “But he wants you to confess to your crimes.”

  “For Ryssa and Vyleigh I’ll confess to any crime, whether I’m guilty of it or not.”

  “Draithon and I are coming with you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t try to stop—what did you say?”

  “I said of course you’re coming with me. I’ve left you once. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  Alynor was stunned to silence.

  “Tonight we will bury our dead,” said Darion. His composure faltered as he spoke. “Though the pain of it is too great to bear, I would honor Westhane and Jeebo with our conduct. To see them laid to rest, and to make amends for their suffering.”

  When Draithon began to cry again, Alynor embraced him. My son, she thought. My only son.

  Darion came near and put his arms around them both. “It’s days like these we must hold fast to what we have. We will grieve, and our grief will not soon cease. Yet we must press on and fight for what is ours. For Westhane. For Jeebo. And for Ryssa and Vyleigh. Our efforts do not preclude our remembrance of the dead. Remember that. Ache for our son, our brother, our friend; yet do it with restoration in mind.”

  Draithon pulled away and wiped his tears. “However I can help, Father, I am willing.”

  Darion rubbed his chin as if puzzling over an idea. “Have you flown Hyrana of late?”

  “The last time I saw her flown was months ago. Jeebo said she’s getting old.”

  “How did she look? Strong?”

  “I reckon,” Draithon said uncertainly.

  “How far do you think she can fly?”

  “You mean to bring her with us?”

  “I mean to draft a letter. Never have I thought to use a hunting bird as a messenger, nor am I certain it can be done. Yet Hyrana is the best-trained of our falcons. She’s put food on our table for many a year. With Jeebo gone, the worst we could do for her is to set her free. She’s long since earned it. Let the other birds loose and bring Hyrana here. Then replenish your saddlebags with whatever’s lacking.”

  “What about Kestr
el and Axli?”

  “Should we meet them on the trail or find them in Cliffside Harbor, we’ll let them make their own decision. Triolyn, you are free to choose your course as well, but that can wait until the morrow.”

  Draithon left the graveside to carry out his father’s instructions. When he was gone, Darion retrieved parchment and ink from the cottage and scrawled a few sentences along a narrow strip. When Draithon returned with Hyrana in hand, Darion fastened the folded scrap of parchment to the bird’s jesses and donned a rawhide throwing glove. Alynor watched her husband take the bird into the fields behind the hamlet, stroking its breast and speaking in a soft voice. When he tossed Hyrana into the air, the bird spread its wings and tore over the high grass to vanish behind a far stand of trees.

  “Where did you send her?” Alynor asked when Darion returned.

  “Does it matter? She’s no pigeon. She’ll never make it there. Better she’s set free than left to die in her mews. Come. Let us do what needs done.”

  The sun was melting into the forest as they lowered the bodies into their graves. They held a vigil by candlelight so they could each spend time saying their goodbyes. Alynor waited for Darion and Draithon to take their turns before she went to sit alone beside Westhane’s grave and pay her respects. It took her a long time to find the words, and she felt clumsy trying to condense the depth of her feeling into a few remarks. Yet she hoped wherever Westhane was, he was listening.

  When she was done, she went to stand beside Darion and Draithon so Triolyn could take his turn. Rather than keep his sentiments to himself, the archer cleared his throat and spoke aloud. “I would say a few words, if I may. Westhane was a good lad. A fine lad. Always clever, always droll. Daring. And talented, for all that. He was… ahead of his years in everything he set himself to trying. He’ll be missed. As for Jeebo… I never much saw eye to eye with him. I’ve never fancied his god, or his pets. He always had a cheerful word to give. Though I never much cared for that either. He was a mixed-blood of the Galyrian islands. A foreigner who didn’t belong. Yet he offered himself, and his good company, whenever possible, and in so doing made life better for the rest of us. He died—I imagine, leastwise—trying to protect the boy. And the family. He ought to be honored for that, and hold a place of true respect in our memories.” Triolyn paused for a long moment, mouth open as if to say more. Then he pressed his lips together and gave a confirmatory nod. He took a large step backward, hands folded behind his back.

  “Thank you, Triolyn, for those words,” said Darion. “It will be difficult for any of us to find rest this night. Yet we must try.”

  That night in bed, Darion pulled Alynor into his arms, and they both wept until the night was deep and the rift between sleep and wakefulness became impossible to conquer. Alynor dreamed of dark days ahead, of the looming presence of chaos in a world thrown off-balance. Her worries over what was to come had proven well-founded, and she was certain she had not yet seen the worst of it.

  Chapter 11

  “I reckon this is where we part ways,” said Rochlathan, speaking to be heard above the pounding surf. He and his fellows were arrayed on the rocky beach before the town of Cliffside Harbor while Maaltred and the vicars stood on the pier with their two young charges.

  “Unless you’d like to join us on our cozy voyage across the open seas to the scenic deserts of Dathrond,” said Norne.

  “My thanks for the offer, but I must refuse. We’re quite happy with our fee.”

  “I imagine you would be,” said Norne. “To say nothing of the life-saving cure I provided you. That was done free of charge.”

  “Aye, I’ve found considerable enjoyment in not dying. Nearly as much, I’m sure, as you’ve found in not being lost to the wilds.”

  “Point taken. Farewell, all.”

  Roke and his friends offered cordial words in parting, though their eyes gleamed with thoughts of the fresh coin in their purses. Maaltred’s apprehension deepened with his every step along the dock until they reached the humble skiff set to take them to their vessel, the Seadrake. A group of sailors returning from shore leave had already boarded the skiff, leaving precious little room for anyone else. The girls had scarcely stopped crying since they left home, and Maaltred’s head felt like a goblet on the verge of shattering. He was glad they were at least old enough to know their way around a chamber pot.

  The skiff’s hull was well-barnacled, and as Maaltred stepped inside he noticed a fuzzy green scum growing thickly from the pitons along the underside of the pier. He thought of the ironglass sphere in his pack and wondered, not for the first time, whether quelling the forces of magic had been the wisest of courses.

  The skiff heaved over the choppy bay waters as they rowed for the Seadrake, throwing Maaltred’s stomach into a wobbly two-step. The girls appeared to be enjoying the crowded rowboat even less than he was. The elder sniffled and whimpered, too exhausted to cry anymore; the younger screamed a mournful, ear-splitting dirge and searched the grimy faces of the sailors, expecting to find her mother and father among them. When she didn’t, she cried all the harder.

  Seeing her there, a tiny girl alone and sobbing in her simple frock of brown wool, tugged at Maaltred’s affections. This was a bad idea, he thought. In his mind he saw an image of his niece Liselle, a memory of when she was a child no older than the one next to him, crying over the bodies of her slain parents. She had been too young at the time to understand, yet she’d known enough to realize her parents were gone.

  Liselle was a maiden of seventeen now, near full-grown and ready to be off on her own—if she could ever settle on a husband. She was among the most sought-after of all the maidens in Sparrowmeet, yet she’d found no acceptable match among the many eligible suitors vying for her affections. Maaltred knew she longed for love, so he was proud of her for refusing to settle for less. He’d raised his sister’s daughter as though she were his own, and he wanted to do right by Tanielle and Holdek.

  That was, perhaps, another reason he had accepted the king’s offer three years prior. To improve his station in the kingdom would be to elevate Liselle’s prospects for marriage. So much for that notion, Maaltred thought, lifting the sobbing Ulther girl into his lap. He tried to distract her from the roiling current, but she fussed and squirmed and reached for her sister. A child seeks love from a familiar face and distrusts all others, he lamented, putting her down again on the thwart bench beside the other girl. As well she should; I wouldn’t trust me if I were her.

  Liselle had required weeks of adjustment before accepting Maaltred and Juna as caretakers, and months longer to see them as parental figures. By contrast, these Ulther children knew they were in the company of strangers. They knew their captors were no worthy caretakers, even if Maaltred wished to be. You mustn’t grow attached, he told himself. Olyvard King is a man of his word; should the traitor fail to reach Maergath in time, he will not back down from his threat.

  The skiff arrived at the Seadrake, and a rope ladder was lowered. When the sailors had embarked, the older of the two girls—Ryssa was her name, Maaltred remembered—climbed the ladder without rancor. The younger girl—Vyleigh, he thought—proved herself the more troublesome of the pair yet again, refusing to climb and instead lying in a tearful heap on the thwart bench. Someone suggested they fashion a rope harness to hoist her aboard. In the end, one of the sailors came down the ladder, tossed the girl over his shoulder, and climbed up while she struggled and kicked against him.

  The Seadrake’s captain was nowhere near as colorful a man as Jafe Briston of the Howling Whore. Then again, neither was his ship. Captain Womarr was a brusque, tidy fellow in a double-breasted waistcoat and fat white shirtsleeves. His was the sort of clean, well-run vessel Maaltred had expected on the way here. It was a galleon, too, larger than the Howling Whore by a significant margin. Its ample crew and copious sails gave Maaltred hope for a faster journey, if not a smoother one.

  “I trust the children will be kept well in hand,” Womarr said by way
of greeting.

  “Count on it,” said Norne.

  “Splendid. Keene here will show you to your quarters.”

  Quarters, thought Maaltred. I like the sound of that.

  A skinny pimple-faced boy bade them follow him belowdecks. He led them to a spacious cabin with two stacks of triple bunks along one wall and a pair of hammocks hung from the adjacent bracings. Sullimas went to one of the lower bunks and labored to a seat, one hand over his belly.

  The boy looked concerned. “Everything shipshape there, milord?”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m an old man in need of rest.”

  “Right then. If there be ought you need, just give me a shout,” said the boy before taking his leave.

  “Eight bunks for five people,” Maaltred said when the boy was gone. “We’ve room to stretch our legs.”

  “Not so hasty, Brother Maaltred. Seems someone’s laid claim to at least one of these other beds.” Norne spread one of the hammocks to reveal the travel bag stowed in its folds.

  “We’re sharing?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “With whom?”

  Norne shrugged.

  Maaltred found out when the next skiff came in, though. He was on deck getting a breath of fresh air when two broad-chested men in fine velvet traveling clothes ascended the rope ladder. They looked identical but for the line of silver studs down the left ear of the one and the tattoos patterning the face, head, and neck of the other. They were bald-headed, with pointed ears and chiseled faces, and stood a head and shoulders taller than everyone else on board. They’re each half a giant, Maaltred thought.

  The two newcomers shook hands with Womarr and an elf in a hooded black cloak; they spoke gravely for a time before breaking into lighter conversation. Even the humorless captain managed a smile once or twice. Maaltred inched closer, trying to hear what they were saying.

  “Have the tides been this rough all day?” asked the man with the piercings.