by Justin Rose
Ariel landed beside his head and pointed upward to another cliff face. “Let’s keep moving,” she said.
Reheuel pushed himself to his feet and approached the new cliff face. “All right, I’m ready.”
After he reached the top of the second cliff, Reheuel stopped and looked back at Ariel. She looked dimmer, her glow pale and faded. “You all right?” he asked.
She shook her head and landed on his shoulder. “Your turn to carry,” she said. Her skin was waxy and stretched, and tendrils of gray threaded through her hair.
“You going to be able to keep this up?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Just—tired.”
He set off to the north at a brisk hike, and Ariel wound herself into the rawhide straps on top of his backpack, settling down to rest. When he looked back down the mountain later in the afternoon, he realized that Ariel’s stairs had saved him hours of hiking.
They spent the rest of that day traveling over the first of the Gath mountains, crossing it about halfway up. Occasionally, Ariel would build stairs or a rope or some other temporary construct to help Reheuel avoid detours or tiring climbs. But most of the day she simply slept on the backpack, exhausted by the use of her power.
When night fell, it found them on the far side of the first mountain, resting in a pass at the base of two twin peaks. Ariel pointed to the westernmost of the two. “The caves start about halfway up. We should make it by nightfall tomorrow.”
Reheuel nodded as he dug up a root with his knife. “Yeah, I remember. You going to be all right tomorrow?”
Ariel looked down at her hands. Even in the darkness of the evening, her light was faint and flickering. Her hair had lost its youthful gloss, and a shock of gray ran back from her right brow. “I’ll be fine. I can feel my Tear up there,” she said, nodding to the mountain. “I can feel its power.”
Reheuel cut the root away and lay down. “Good, then we didn’t waste a trip.”
Ariel glanced around at the scraggly woods that surrounded them. “We should keep watch,” she said. “I’ll go first.”
Reheuel nodded. “Wake me in a few hours.”
* * *
On the third morning, Hefthon woke before the sunrise. The air smelled of valerians from the fields around them, and he breathed deeply to shake off the drowsiness of the night. Two squirrels still hung over the dirt-covered embers. He slid them off of the skewer and wrapped them into his pack. At least they’d have something to tide them over for the day. He packed up what items they had in the camp and then gently shook Veil and Tressa. “Time to move,” he said softly. “Sun’s almost up.”
They ate quickly, finishing off the last of the bread and some leftover rabbit. Then they left. Hefthon led the way, following the trail left by Geuel. It was easy to find in the fields: beaten grass and broken plant stalks abounded. In the woods though, he often lost it and made his own paths.
By mid-afternoon, he found himself stopping periodically to wait for Veil. The girl was strong, but she had never traveled far on foot, and she struggled to match her brother’s long strides. With each new stop, Hefthon felt a little more of his temper ground away. He wished that he could have switched places with Geuel, that he could be the one already nearing Gath Odrenoch. He fingered the pommel of his sword often and imagined himself lined with the other guards, waiting behind the parapet, watching goblin campfires in the distance.
Each minute that passed pulled him that much farther away from any chance at glory. He felt shamed, cut off from the world he belonged to. “Hurry up!” he called over his shoulder, watching Veil stumble through a stand of blackberry canes. At any other time he would have regretted the words, but at that moment his sister scarcely mattered. What mattered was Gath Odrenoch. And Veil was robbing him of his only chance to defend it.
Tressa glanced sharply at her son, but she remained silent. She saw his hands, fumbling agitatedly with his sword handle. She saw the stoop to his back and the spring-wound tension in his movements. She knew that his mental anguish was just as acute as his sister’s exhaustion. One was worn by travel, the other by rest. But both were nearly broken.
They made camp beneath a stand of tag alder, partially sheltered from a cold wind that had sprung up in the evening. Hefthon handed his sword to Tressa and moved toward the edge of camp. “I’ll start hunting in the evenings,” he said, “save us the need for extra stops.”
“Don’t exhaust yourself,” she said.
Hefthon nodded. “I won’t. I have too much energy anyway.”
Chapter 8
The sun rose dully on the fourth morning. From her perch on the roof of the fairy keep, Randiriel could just make out its hazy outline behind a bank of thick gray storm clouds. It rose slowly from the eastern horizon, its dim light seeping over the forests like a stain. The eastern side of the Faeja was darker and wilder than the western, heavy with hundreds of miles of forest. It was all, technically, under the Iris. But the lands to the east held no real allegiance to man. They were the forests of the elves and the gnomes, steeped in ancient allegiances and enchantments far predating any single empire. As the sun climbed, the forests shed their deeper shadows, lit with a pallid gray. Their leaves took on the muted colors of an old painting. To the distant northeast, Randiriel thought she could see the gleam of Lake Esrathel, home of the merpeople.
When the light of dawn finally struck the Faeja, the sun had nearly risen; it devoured the plains beyond rapidly. Randiriel turned and watched as gray chased black across the plains of the human empire, swallowing the scattered woodlands and miles of farmland in dreary daylight. She knew that somewhere, miles beyond the horizon, lay the mighty Western Mountains, the true end of the Iris’s dominion. And somewhere between those distant rocks and the river which flowed beside Randiriel’s keep lay the Capital, the center of human order, the Crystal City.
There’s a flag out there somewhere, a golden iris sown in sky-blue silk.
That’s what Geuel had said. Randiriel scoured the plains with her eyes, knowing that the Capital was beyond the horizon but still wishing she could see its distant sparkle. She wondered what it would be like, to believe in a symbol so purely that you would die for it. She pictured herself as a woman, as if she had never become a fairy. She thought of living in the Capital, walking beneath that banner every day and knowing that it was her own. The fantasy was nearly intoxicating. To live every day with a fear of impending death, to spend every moment as if it might be your last, to know that your life was as brief as a winter breath.
Perhaps that was why the humans loved their symbol. The symbol was a taste of eternity. Every human was born to die, but the Iris never had to. The Iris could go on and on through the ages. And when a man gave to the Iris, his gift lasted.
Every one of them would bleed again, just to see it wave where it has never waved before.
Randiriel smiled to herself. She would see the Golden Iris. She would watch it wave above the Crystal City and try to believe. She looked down at the dull silver of the fairy keep. The Fairy City had been beautiful. But trivial. Temporary as childhood. While Ariel had meant it to last forever, it had passed in a matter of days. And even if it was never reborn, its passing would change nothing in the world. Its only meaning was in novelty.
A distant peal of thunder rumbled in the east, nipping the heels of an unseen lightning bolt. Randiriel glanced in that direction and saw the black centers of the gray clouds churning angrily. The storm would be brutal. A flash of silver off to her left made her turn her head. Brylle landed on the roof nearby and nodded toward the storm clouds. “The others will be frightened,” she said. “They’ve never felt a storm alone.”
“They’ll live. It’s only sound.”
“Perhaps, but not to children,” she replied. “To children it’s the sound of Ingway, clapping his wings as he comes for their souls.”
Randiriel laughed. “We’re not children, Brylle. Most of us have lived through five generations. It’s time we
all grew up.”
“Many have,” Brylle replied, “thanks to you. But the others need care.”
“Then care for them,” Randiriel replied. “What difference does it make though, whether their fantasy shatters now or a thousand years from now? Someday their constructed innocence will end and they will face the same world that every grown being faces, a world with pain and anger and costly beauty. And nothing will have changed for their extended innocence. Nothing to last.”
“But at least they’ll have that thousand years,” Brylle said. She paused for a moment. “You’re not going back, are you?”
Randiriel shook her head. “Ariel told me as much, though I think she meant to hide it. Not that it matters. I’m glad. I want to leave—to feel and to know. I want to see the Iris waving over the Capital.”
Brylle sat down and stared out with her over the plains. “I’ve lived for a long time, Rand,” she said. “I’ve seen the world and known it.”
“Then how can you stay here?”
“Because beauty has no cost here,” Brylle said. “And you’re right, every childhood we save will eventually shatter, no matter what Ariel may wish to the contrary. But at least they will make the world beautiful a little while longer. I think that means something. Perhaps, after you leave here and see the world’s pain, then you will see why this place matters.”
Randiriel smiled doubtfully. “Perhaps,” she said and went back to watching the plains.
* * *
The rain began shortly after noon, soft and pleasant at first, tiny droplets floating on a cooling breeze. They soothed the burning in Geuel’s arm where his wound still festered. Gradually though, the sprinkling became a downpour, the droplets swelling to bulbous proportions and growing in number till they felt like one solid mass of lukewarm water.
Geuel opened his mouth periodically to refresh himself, still enjoying the rain as a welcome change from his journey’s usual swelter. It slowed him down, but he knew that he could still make the city by nightfall.
By mid-afternoon though, the rain had shifted from a welcome relief to an extreme inconvenience. The water, which had initially felt almost warm, chilled as Geuel’s body grew accustomed to it. In less than an hour, it felt freezing. Several times he fell while struggling up muddy hills and embankments. And each time he found it harder to rise again. Bruises and scrapes previously forgotten became more sensitive as the water ran down through his clothing and soaked at dried scabs and dirt. His body grew cramped and stiff. When evening neared, his visibility was gone, particularly in the woodlands. If his surroundings had not already become familiar, he knew that he would never have found his way. Around five thirty, he reached one of the outlying farms and struggled over the wooden fence of its pasture. He threw aside his pack about halfway across the field, welcoming even that tiny loss of weight.
When he reached the house, the full exhaustion of his journey came crashing down on him all at once. Every mile, forced from his mind by necessity, suddenly made itself known in his groaning joints. The torn blisters on his already calloused feet screamed in the stinging water that filled his boots.
He pounded on the door with his right hand, letting his left drop to his thigh to support his drooping body.
The door creaked open partway, and a boy around Hefthon’s age peered out cautiously. He swung the door open when he recognized Geuel. “Geuel!” he cried, “what are you doing out in this infernal weather? Come in.”
Geuel pulled himself upright by the door frame and entered. “Thanks, Toman,” he said. “Listen, I’ve come from the Fairy City.”
Toman started to laugh, knowing Geuel’s disdain for the little people. His laugh died on his lips as Geuel gripped his collar.
“Listen,” Geuel said, his voice coming in a pained growl, “the goblins are coming. The Fairy City’s gone, collapsed into the Faeja.”
Toman paled and dragged Geuel farther inside. “Talk to my parents,” he said. “Tell them everything. I’ll ride for the city.”
Geuel shook his head. “I’ll go.”
“You can barely stand,” Toman replied. “Stay here. Follow when you can.”
Geuel nodded. “Thank you, Toman.”
Toman grabbed a coat from a nearby rack and darted outside, his eyes flashing with excitement. Geuel closed the door behind him and sat down to take off his shoes. Toman’s father and sister entered from the dining room nearby.
“Geuel, what happened to you, boy?” Toman’s father asked, glancing at the door from which his son had just left.
“Goblins,” Geuel replied. “Toman’s gone to warn the city.”
A short while later, Geuel sat in a rocking chair in the family’s living room, washed and dressed in some of Toman’s clothes. Even unlaced at the throat, the shirt bulged uncomfortably on Geuel’s large frame. But it felt good to be clean.
Toman’s father listened quietly as Geuel told his story, pausing afterward to consider. After a moment, he said, “There’s no doubt they’ll come. They’ve been feeling us out all summer, prowling the farmland. I know at least half a dozen folks who’ve seen ‘em skulking ‘bout their farms in the evenings. We’ll head for town, get behind the walls with the others. We can warn the Perring farm on the way. No doubt they’ll send out riders to warn the others.”
Geuel stood, his joints groaning in protest. “You should bring food, weapons. It may be days before they show, may be hours.”
“Goblins aren’t known for planning,” Toman’s father replied. “If they have a weapon, I doubt they’ll wait to use it.” He turned back to his daughter. “Saddle four horses,” he said. “Make sure the others can get out to pasture.”
“What should I do?” Geuel asked.
Toman’s father hooked his hand. “Come on to the cellar with me, I’ve got some things to fetch.” He walked over to the kitchen and dragged aside the main table. An iron ring lay set into the wood beneath it. Toman’s father dragged up on it and pulled part of the floor free, sliding it aside. A dark hole yawned in its place, a flight of rough-hewn wooden stairs running down into the darkness.
Lifting a tallow candle from its niche in the wall, Toman’s father moved down into the darkness. Geuel followed and found himself in a small cellar, roughly the size of the kitchen above them. Wooden shelves lined one wall, covered in clay pots and glass jars of canned produce. Against the other wall lay a few cedar chests. Above them, wooden pegs jutted from the wall with two leather cuirasses. Toman’s father opened the cedar chests and handed off the contents to Geuel: two plain swords, a dagger, an old wooden shield, and a bow with twelve arrows. He pointed to the stairs. “Take that lot to the horses. I’ll fetch what’s left.” He dragged the armor sets from the wall and began piling jars of produce into them.
Geuel strode quickly outside where he found the girl and Toman’s mother cinching the saddles of several large plow horses. He strapped the swords into place on two saddles and hung the dagger on his belt. The shield, he tied into place with a strip of leather from Toman’s sister and the bow and arrows he rolled into a pack using a blanket from Toman’s mother.
Within twenty minutes, the four of them were riding for Gath Odrenoch. Every few minutes, Geuel looked upward to the skyline, waiting for the orange glow of fire over the trees, waiting for his nightmares to come true.
* * *
Reheuel awoke on the fourth morning to a chilling wind. The mountains of Gath were small, but the air was still cold at the height where he lay. He struggled upright and stretched his back with a grunt, feeling his body settle its members back into place after another night on lumpy earth. Ariel flew down from the bough of a nearby stunted poplar. “Are you ready to climb?” she asked.
Reheuel nodded. “Last day, why not?”
They traveled in silence for most of that morning, the cold filling them both with a sense of apprehension. Dark clouds hung brooding over the eastern sky, and far off in the distance, Reheuel could see the trailing curtains of a distant rainfall. It reac
hed them just before noon, a miserable downpour that soaked the rocks and turned every minor cliff face into a death trap.
Ariel flew low, buffeted by the rain drops that, to her, felt like waves. She seldom created any aids for Reheuel, her focus constantly shattered by the storm. Several times, she crawled beneath shelves of rock or pine boughs to rest her wings from the weight of the water. And each time, it only became harder to fly after she had moved on.
Reheuel struggled as he climbed, falling twice when his hands slipped on the wet rock of small cliffs. His arms and waist were bruised heavily by the time they stopped to eat midway through the day. Ariel curled up beneath the shelter of a group of ferns and tried to blot out the sounds of the storm. “How much farther?” she called over the wind.
Reheuel shrugged. “A few hours normally, but probably not till nightfall in this.”
“Should we wait till morning?” Ariel asked. “They’ll be more active in the night.”
Reheuel glanced about at their surroundings. They were in a small hollow, blocked from the wind by a rise to the east and sheltered partially from the rain by the poplar trees that surrounded them. “Perhaps, this is as good a place as any to stop.”
He unrolled his wool blanket and dragged himself back against the base of a poplar tree, feeling the trickles of rain that burst through the thin branches and ran down onto his shoulders. It was going to be a long and miserable rest. He never noticed, hours later, when exactly he fell asleep. But he awoke with a start in the night. Ariel stood on his shoulder, tugging at his sleeve frantically. “Look,” she hissed as his eyes struggled open.
He turned sharply to follow her pointing arm and gasped. It was night, and the rain had stopped. The moon and stars were completely hidden by the thick clouds overhead, but still hundreds of lights glowed above them in the night sky, drifting westward like a cloud of embers from a forest fire. “Fairies?” he asked, knowing the answer but unable to imagine any other explanation.
