by J. C. Staudt
“There’s something you ought to know. Something I haven’t told anybody.”
“Do not let your grief cloud your judgment,” Darion advised.
“It hasn’t. This needs be said. My meeting Kestrel wasn’t by chance. You mightn’t remember me, but I was there. In the tent, that day outside the walls of Maergath. My father’s tent.”
Darion paused. “Your father’s tent… You told us your father left your mother when you were young.”
Axli nodded. “I’m bastard-born, that’s so. Birthed of a common woman in the far Thraihmish north. My brothers and sisters is only mine by half, though. Me mum confessed all when I came of age, who me father was and the like. I went looking for him, expecting to be driven off like a beggar. It came as a shock when he took me into his household. Welcomed me as if I’d never left.”
“And it was Rudgar who sent you to befriend Kestrel?”
She shook her head. “He sent me to kill your wife.”
Darion’s hand found the hilt of his sword. Axli was beginning to show, but he would not hesitate to do what needed done. “Ten years you’ve been with us. Longer. Explain yourself.”
Axli turned to look at him. “My father suspected your pledge to him was a trick. One of Olyvard’s schemes. He sent me to find Alynor; said if you betrayed him, I should kill her. Good thing you didn’t, eh? Took me years to track her down. In the end, all I needed was to find Kestrel and Triolyn. They led me straight to her. By the time I sent word I’d found her, my father had already dismissed you from his service.”
Darion searched her eyes, shocked. She wasn’t lying. “Why would you tell me this now?”
“I needed a way in. Kestrel was it. Never meant to fall in love with the bloody lunkheaded—” She broke off, choking back tears. “Now I’ve his sons to care for, all by meself. Just like me mother. Anyhow, you needn’t worry about me anymore. I came for Alynor; I stayed for him. Now I ain’t sure what I’ll do.”
“Had I any sense, I would slay you where you stand.”
“I might welcome it, Master Ulther. I don’t know how to go on from here. Me whole body feels numb, right down to the soul. If that be your aim, you might know one other thing first.”
Darion waited, unsure he wanted to hear it.
“The assassin,” she said. “The man my father meant to leave behind for Olyvard.”
“I pledged Rudgar my sword so he wouldn’t.”
“He did anyway. I’ll wager the man’s in Maergath even now, awaiting word from Cronarmark.”
“Rudgar’s been dead these six years.”
“Aye, and I’ve mourned him in me own way. Never forget the day we heard the news in Cliffside Harbor. The assassin’s secret didn’t die with him, though. My brother knows, and when news of Dathrond’s invasions reaches him, I’ve no doubt he’ll give the word.”
“Do you know the identity of this assassin?”
“His name’s Sigurdarsson. Norne Sigurdarsson.”
Darion was in disbelief. “I know this man. He traveled with me in the old days, as part of my retinue. Besides Olyvard himself, I’ve never met a more treacherous fellow. His talent for falsehood defies imagination. How did he come into your father’s service?”
“Norne hates Dathrond and its king. He’s a leech, living in the realms to reap its benefits while he spits on everything he touches. Korengadi-born and bred, he is.”
“I never knew it, though I might’ve suspected he was of the north with a name like his.”
“Be wary of him. He’s like to be more dangerous now than in the old days.”
“Should I be wary of you as well? I must leave for Maergath. Surely you don’t expect me to feel at ease leaving you in the castle with my wife and son.”
“Your Alynor and Draithon are family to me now. More than my father ever was. You’re a man of your word, and Rudgar King of Korengad saw it firsthand when you helped him take back his kingdom. You’ve nothing to fear, Darion.”
She was wrong, though. Darion had plenty to fear.
With Axli and the boys safe inside the keep and Alynor standing vigil at Draithon’s bedside, it was all Darion could do to tear himself away. He rode north from Deepsail alone beneath a bleary dawn. The skies were streaked with rain, the red ironglass sphere tucked away beneath his cloak. He was still in shock over the night’s events, but there was no time to dally.
Kestrel’s death still seemed to him like a dream. The memory of it had lain heavy on his shoulders since the night before; half a ton of stone tumbling from above, and the look in the singer’s eyes as he grasped his final moment. Darion would never forget that moment, or those eyes so full of sadness. It would haunt him for the rest of his days; one more among a vast accumulation of memory-dreams.
He pressed on through the rain despite his weariness, camping each night beside the road in a shivering stupor with neither fire nor a comforting thought to warm him. The memory-dreams became his torment, veiling him both night and day in despair and doubt. And there was a new voice ringing loud above the memory-dreams now. His own, speaking truths long suppressed.
They’ve called you Protector. Hero. Legend.
Laughable.
You were never fitting of such praise. You couldn’t protect your son and friends from death at the hands of your enemies. Or death at your own hands, for that matter. With aging eyes and a misdirected spell, you murdered a man loyal to you. You aren’t the hero who can save your daughters, either. You’ll fail with them just as you’ve failed with the others. Your legend will fade from memory as that of a traitor who forsook the realms, and nothing more. You’ve laughed at death one time too many, old friend. Now it’s death’s turn to laugh. And he’s on his way.
How careless a mistake Kestrel’s death had been. How needless, when he could’ve simply handed the dungeon keys to one of Tarber’s garrison and retreated from the tower himself. Instead he’d died with the thieves and murderers and rapers of Deepsail, men who didn’t deserve his company.
Darion found it strange that only now did he realize how much he’d come to like the singer. He wished he could’ve allowed himself a moment of sincere appreciation to tell Kestrel what his companionship had come to mean. He never would’ve done, yet he wished it all the same.
Then there was Draithon, his only living son fallen into perpetual sleep. And Alynor bound to his side. The boy had saved the lives of everyone except perhaps his own. Darion’s only hope was that leaving his son to rescue his daughters was a worthy cause.
After crossing the Seasight Bridge from Orothwain into Dathrond, Darion followed the road northwest. He turned east after the Gohshan and slogged through leagues of wet countryside to the Fengate Fords. After the fords lay Brynhalter, a fetid mudfarming town at the northern edge of the Fens of Dathrond. He arrived on a gray afternoon with a strong south wind smearing the town in swamp-stink.
Every building in town was either brick and mortar or mud and thatch, where wood and stone would’ve done anywhere else. Darion passed stacks upon stacks of fired brick, outdoor ovens and covered awnings filled with fresh-made bowls, plates, jugs, pitchers, and cups. They were expert potters and brickmakers here, and it showed in the quality and breadth of their work. Nearly every brick laid in every noble’s house in Dathrond was harvested and kilned in Brynhalter, and much of the pottery found throughout the realms was made of mud from the flats together with clay soil from the Red Range foothills.
Tarber King had gifted Darion a strong horse—a bay colt with sturdy flanks and a smooth gait—yet Darion was convinced he’d ridden the animal to within a few leagues of its death. He could not say how widely the sphere’s influence stretched; he only knew he needed to keep distancing himself from Deepsail as fast as he could. Thereby, his brief time in Brynhalter was spent replacing his steed and acquiring supplies.
He traded the bay colt for an older mare of lesser breeding. He shrugged off his wet clothes for a new cloak, tunic and trousers, which quickly became just as wet as the ol
d ones. Then he bought a ten-day’s worth of trail rations and moved on.
His path from Brynhalter was clear; he would hug the southeastern edge of the Sparleaf all the way to Forandran, City of the Gods. From there he would cross the desert to Maergath, throw himself upon the mercy of Olyvard King, and beg for his daughters’ lives, even if he had to trade them for his own. Without a way to destroy the sphere, it was his only option.
Tarber King had brought Darion into his private study the morning he left Castle Deepsail. Palavar had left dirty plates and upturned winecups over spilled crumbs and stains in the rug, and Tarber’s servants had been too busy to tidy up yet. “Travel would be faster by sea,” the king had said, “but for the fleet of Dathiri warships blockading Ralthia.”
“I’d not wish to encounter them,” Darion had replied. “In fact, I’d prefer they press the attack. A close friend of mine now fights with the Ralthian army to defend Atolai. He’ll find many targets for his arrows, I’m certain.”
“I pray he does. With the sphere moved north, the Ralthians will stand a better chance when the mage-song returns to them. If they can repel the Dathiri fleet while we drive Palavar’s legion from Deepsail, Olyvard’s conquest will flounder.”
“Until he devises his next one.”
Tarber had given Darion a hard look. “You must do something to stop that happening, whether it means destroying the spheres or taking Olyvard’s life. He must be stopped.”
Neither option had struck Darion as a viable one. “You took everything from me when I merely disobeyed him. Will you not do worse if I end the man?”
“There is little I can do to countervail my past errors but to offer my sincerest regrets. This is my solemn vow: cripple Dathrond’s power, and your former life will be restored to you.”
The more Darion considered it over the long leagues of his travel, the less certain he was that his former life would make much difference to him now. His only desire was for this weary work to be done; for the king’s grudge to be brought to an end so he could mourn his losses and find rest. He wondered what Sir Jalleth’s advice might’ve been, were he alive to offer it.
“What do you suppose is our purpose in this world?” Darion had asked the old knight one day in his boyhood long ago. “Why do we all share this world, doing what we do and thinking what we think? Have we been put here by some grand accident, only to wallow in our misguided ways until our days are done?”
“That’s a heavy question for such a light young lad,” Sir Jalleth had said, chuckling. “By that token, one might ask what gives us the auspices to comprehend such things as our purpose in the first place. If you’re asking me—”
“I am.”
“I’d say the harmony of nature is too complex to be an accident; there is too much beauty and tragedy in the world for our lives to be meaningless coincidence.”
Darion had never forgotten those words. Beauty, indeed there was. And tragedy, in equal or greater measure. But what of purpose? What was the meaning of a man, if not to spend his life in search of his truest existence? Darion believed he’d found it in his family, though it’d taken him long enough.
Now, through the limbs of tall trees at the Sparleaf’s edge, he caught sight of Forandran’s gleaming steeples against the glare of the setting sun. He’d never much cared for the city, though he would not deny its elegance or the artistry of its buildings. It was Forandran’s people for which he held true disdain. Bloody god-loving fanatics, Darion thought to himself, spurring his mare into a trot.
At least he’d have a bed to sleep in tonight. The rain had stopped the evening before, but his clothes were still damp and he was very much looking forward to hanging them up. The days were getting colder, and it would soon be snow he was facing, not rain. Southern Dathrond wasn’t a bad place to overwinter, but Maergath wasn’t a place Darion wished to spend any season.
Forandran’s streets were teeming with people when he entered through the west gate several hours after sundown. Strange to find so much activity so late at night, even in a city full of zealots and street proselytizers. Instead of the usual street-corner homilies on every avenue, Darion encountered a much grislier scene.
He passed temples where barebacked flagellants whipped themselves upon the steps with leaden scourges while crowds cheered them on; streetside fire pits where adherents tested their faith by walking over hot coals; and open intersections in which participants hung from scaffolds by skin hooks. Some sort of holiday, Darion thought, though one with which he was unfamiliar. He’d never paid much attention to religious occasions, and this one appeared to be more butchery than celebration.
Even when he took a room at the Seraph’s Slumber Boarding House in a secluded part of town and sat to a bowl of leek soup and a mug of stout, Darion could hear the screams and jeers of faraway celebrants. He slept little that night, and not only from the noise. Forandran would be the last settlement he’d see before Maergath. Ahead of him lay a long trudge through the desert on a horse he was far from confident about. He wished he’d been able to save Tarber’s colt for the final leg of the journey; if the sphere kept aggravating the weather as it had thus far, it was like to be a long week’s travel.
Chapter 28
Daylight was waning by the time Maaltred and the girls arrived at the Temple of Adenc, the streets filling up in anticipation of the festival’s evening events. Ryssa and Vyleigh smelled awful, but Maaltred tried to mask his revulsion. He sat them down on the same bench he’d occupied with Norne and Sister Wolla while waiting for Cronion’s return several days prior.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, removing his pack. “I might have a little something for you to eat.”
“My father will be here soon,” Ryssa insisted. “You won’t like it when he arrives.”
Maaltred studied her. He might’ve mentioned he wasn’t on the same side as Eril. But children were children, and in Maaltred’s experience, gratitude was seldom their most refined virtue. Never mind that he’d just snatched them from the jaws of death. “I’d like us to be friends. I won’t ask you to think highly of me. The gods know I don’t deserve that. But I do want to see you reunited with your father. Believe me when I say nothing would bring me greater joy.”
Ryssa stared at the crust of bread in his hand. Her eyes were hungry. When he held it out to her, she hesitated. Then she snatched it away and stuffed it into her mouth, barely stopping to chew before she gulped it down.
“There, that’s a good girl. You must be ravenous. How about some for your sister?”
Ryssa scrunched up her mouth, but she nodded. Maaltred gave her another piece, which she appeared reluctant to hand over to Vyleigh. She did anyway, and the younger girl devoured it just as quickly.
“I’m sorry I haven’t more to give you,” Maaltred said. “When Vicar Norne returns, we’ll see about getting you cleaned up and fed.”
“I have to go,” said Ryssa.
“Go where?”
She crossed her legs and wiggled. “I have to go.”
“Ah.” Maaltred looked around. “You might find a spot behind the pile of rubbish there.”
Ryssa shook her head.
“No? Well I don’t see many other suitable places.”
“It’s dark. The bad elf-man will come and get me.”
“He’s not going to get you. You’re with me now. I won’t let him take you. If you need to go, I suggest you be quick about it.”
She shook her head again, squirming. “He’ll get me.”
“He’s not over there. He isn’t anywhere near here.”
“I’m scared.”
Maaltred sighed. “Would it help if I went over to check?”
A nod.
“Very well. Wait here.”
He started toward the heap of damaged furniture only to hear little footsteps behind him. Ryssa was behind him, and Vyleigh was slinking down off the pew to toddle after her. Maaltred rounded the pile and inspected the sanctuary’s shadowy corner for signs of Eril or
any other monstrous being who might be lurking.
“There, you see? All clear. Have at it.” He turned back toward the pew.
“Wait,” she said. “Don’t go.”
Maaltred picked up Vyleigh and moved off a ways while Ryssa squatted behind the heap. He felt a pull, as if someone were tugging at his robes. There was no one behind him, though, and Ryssa was still out of sight behind the furniture pile.
He blinked and tried to clear his head, but he felt dizzy. The air in the room was shifting, a sudden change in pressure. He’d felt this way before. It isn’t possible, he told himself. The red sphere is in Deepsail, the green here in Forandran, and the blue in Maergath. Three dots in a constellation, curving across the realms. For him to feel another power so close would mean either someone was bringing Maergath’s sphere south, or Deepsail’s sphere north. Either could mean disaster for Dathrond.
Presently Ryssa finished and came round the pile. Maaltred brought the girls back to the pew and sat heavily, though his vertigo was fading. The girls occupied themselves for a time, but soon they were both sleeping soundly on the pew beside him.
Hours passed with no sign of Vicar Norne. When the temple doors finally opened, it was Cronion who entered. The dwarf whistled a tune as he ambled across the room, failing to notice them until he was halfway to the front. He gave a start, then slumped his shoulders. “Oh, not you again.”
“Why is it you’re the only one I ever run into here? You and Nanla both claim there are other proprietors besides yourself.”
“Silent partners, if you must know. What are you doing here?”
“Hiding out. These are the children Norne and I’ve been searching for.”
“Good for them. And good for you.”
“We need your help. They could use baths, fresh clothes, and a hearty meal.”
“Awfully presumptuous of you,” said the dwarf.
“Had I the means, I’d care for them myself. You’re better-equipped for the task than anyone I know in this city, limited though my social reach may be.”
