King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (14 page)

T
HE TROOPS STATIONED AT THE BATTLEFIELD where the Rivers Ashenbrook and stony Ravela crossed had grown bored. They were not bred to wait endlessly, but to shore their courage up at a moment’s notice and wade into a fray. No major attacks on the horizon, or even minor skirmishes, and the soldiers retreated into dreary activities: mending armor, repairing weapons, drinking and gambling. They found a fruit which could be stewed and fermented into a potent brandy, supplemented by their daily ration of beer. They quarreled and brawled among their various Vaelinar factions, although grievances were kept to a minimum and grudges were mediated speedily by commanders who had no wish for lifelong feuds to flare up at such close quarters. Life was not good, but it was bearable. Their thoughts and attentions turned inward; few if any, noticed the curious ones who scrounged about the broken-rock hillsides, looking for artifacts and oddities. The battlefield had already been well scavenged. All that remained were odds and ends: a torn leather boot here, a tarnishing belt buckle there, a broken arrowhead over yonder. Items of real interest had been found weeks and weeks ago, and only the extremely bored even bothered to search the area. With little interest in yet another futile mission, rather like waiting for the enemy, soldiers ignored the last of the scavengers.

No one noticed the ragged Vaelinar who searched the steep slope leading from the now collapsed tunnel on the mountain where the Raymy had burst forth with their ungodly horde. No one paid any attention as he stooped over each and every bone that lay bleaching in the sun or moldering in the shaded nooks and crannies of the rockfall. His clothes of nondescript color, neither gray nor tan but close to the dirt and rock he combed through, drew no attention. He wore a hooded mantle and carried a large sack tied to his belt, to convey whatever treasures he found. He must have found little. The sack never seemed to fill nor his efforts to wane. He had not been there long, but how long no one could say. Nor could anyone say what he looked like, because none of them had been interested enough to approach him to take his measure.

That undoubtedly had saved them their lives, boring as they might have been. Quendius carried a very long and sharp sword at his back, one that he knew how to swing quite well. His light soot-colored skin stayed shadowed by his hooded mantle, and his dark eyes, set deep within his face, showed little light or forbearance for any of the soldiers stationed on the plains below him. He squatted by bones and turned them over in his hands, one by one, examining them minutely, looking for something—or someone.

On the tenth day of his scavenging, the rogue weaponmaker stood, stretching his back, and gazing down on the encampment. No one noticed him then as they had not really noticed him earlier. He scratched at a Kernan “see me not” fetish sewn to the neck of his tunic. It smelled . . . no, it
stank,
but he could not deny that it worked. Not a great magic like Vaelinars wove, but good enough for his purposes. He made a mental note to find the hedge witches who’d gathered and cured the fetish and recruit them, willing or not, in his future efforts. As for now . . . Quendius turned his head to gaze about what remained of the killing ground.

Narskap had died here. His eccentric, deadly, and faithful hound of a man had turned on him, and died here. Death was too easy, too simple to lose Narskap in. His body had not been collected for burning, as the soldiers’ corpses had been, nor had he been left to the carrion feeders because no sign could be found of his bones, however scattered about the rockfall they might have been.

No. Narskap had died and yet risen to walk away from the battlefield. That was the only answer the days of his searching could provide. No one would have claimed his body because he had been first to the site, only to find it gone. In the aftermath of battle, Quendius thought perhaps he’d misremembered the spot. But again, no. Perhaps he thought himself freed from Quendius now. He would be wrong if he did. Quendius dusted his hands off in finality. Narskap had but one weak link in the chain of his existence, be it living, dead, or Undead, and that would be his daughter. She was the flame that drew his moth-like existence, like it or not, and that was where Quendius would find him.

If not, holding the girl might provide him with a few distractions. He wrapped his dirt-colored mantle about him more closely and climbed the rockfall toward the setting sun, where his camp and horse waited. Yes. He wanted that girl. He knew where she would be, hidden under the cloak of the Warrior Queen at Larandaril.

He knew exactly where to go to retrieve her.

S
PRING TICKLED ALONG the southern reaches of the First Home, but on the mountainous seascape where Fortress ild Fallyn held its foothold, the wind and clouds kept the sun and warmth at bay akin to late winter. The seascape along this part of the rugged coast reared up particularly wildly and the fortress built upon its cliffs was created at great sacrifice and with powerful magic. Such a sacrifice that it was said, quietly, the ild Fallyn bloodline had never again been so Talented. Words never spoken near its fortress walls or among the sheltered population imprisoned within.

With the lessening chill as daylight stole into the fortress, Ceyla woke reluctantly, her meager blankets cocooning the scant heat about her body. She hesitated to stretch her limbs out as her body demanded she do, knowing she would lose whatever heat she held. From the deep breathing around her, she could tell that few in the longhouse had awakened yet. Birdsong stayed silent, so the faint winging of dawn hadn’t warmed the stone walls or dense woods about them yet. Still, she rolled a little in her cot.

Someone leaned over her shoulder, breath in her ear, saying, “Quiet.”

She froze. The hand on her shoulder squeezed slightly. “They took Marisanna last night.”

No! She hadn’t awakened enough yet to learn that what was wrong with her morning was not the cold, not the hunger, but the fact that her cot was empty save for herself. Ceyla put her own hand out. “No,” she whimpered.

“She hasn’t come back.” The hand squeezed again, and then the informer moved away from her cot, padding silently into the darkness.

Not Marisanna. No. Ceyla curled up tightly, eyes squeezing out tears, chest convulsed to stay silent.

Her bunkmate, far older and a little wiser, suddenly gone, and she hadn’t even noticed the emptiness next to her. Marisanna had warned Ceyla that this might happen. “I’ve had three children, all boys,” she’d noted. “Not a one of them shows a hint of Talent. I’m no good to them, and I know too much now, so I will disappear one day. When it happens, you mustn’t ask about me. You must forget me.”

“How can you ask this of me?”

Marisanna had looked at her, with eyes of smoke gray and faint jade green, with vivid sparks of emerald in their depths. Vaelinar eyes. “I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

“How would you know? You’d be gone!”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“If they take you—”

“If they take me, the easiest way to dispose of me is to push me off the sea cliffs.” Marisanna had paused for a long time. “The fall probably won’t kill me as they think it will.”

“Probably? How? What do you mean?”

“My children don’t carry the spark, but I hold it deep within me. I can levitate as they do, the ild Fallyn. Not often or as well, but I can. If they throw me off a cliff into the sea, I’ll find my freedom. I’ll either fly or die.” She had given a dry chuckle. “One way or another. Do you understand?”

“You can’t be sure.”

“No. But you can’t mourn over uncertainty, can you?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we share blankets? Because you remind me of the daughter I’d hoped to have one day? Because we are both subjects here? Or . . .” Marisanna had tilted her head slightly. “Because I know you have a Talent, too, although you’ve hidden it very, very well. Keep my secret as I keep yours.” Marisanna had tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Ceyla’s ear then. “Hope for me as I hope for you.”

Ceyla stayed in the hollow of her cot for long moments, sorting her memories from her dreams. She put one hand over to the other hollow, long cold. Gone without a leave-taking. Ceyla must have slept the sleep of the exhausted. And she had had dreams, vivid ones that now crowded back into her head behind her eyes, shoving as if they could burst out into being. She put the heel of her hand to her right eye, then her left as if she could stay the hurtful bulge that she felt though it did not seem to actually exist. Secrets, pushing, demanding, to be loosed. Dreams of secrets and now Marisanna taken. She took a deep breath and got out of bed, into a day that promised only a bone-chilling future as she dressed.

Ceyla shivered into her shawl, its thin wrapping pulled up around her head and ears as well as her neck and shoulders—as if that could seriously keep her from freezing—and made her cautious way across the subjects’ grounds. Few had risen yet to do their chores and exercises, the dank morning keeping those in their cots who dared. Other subjects were already buried deep in the tasks of keeping the stronghold running. It was hard work, brutal work in the winter, and no one could afford to be looking about in idleness. She could creep along, most likely unseen, if she took great care. And she had to. A sharp splinter in her heart drove her to seek solace despite the weather. She could no more ignore its pain than she could the icy spring descending upon the stronghold.

Mist off the angry sea tide kept the cold low-lying and enveloping the land. It clawed at the shore like an angry, spitting cat, its breath sea salt and biting, wind whipping at her like a lashing feline tail. Shivering, she ran hunched over, trying not to think of better days. She found a spot at the stronghold wall where she could look over, across the boundary expanse to the cliffs, which arched in a curve to the sharp rocks below. She saw nothing on those rocks. Not like in past days when broken bodies could be discovered there, bones shattered and lungs filled with sea water. Escapees, they were told. And some might have been. Others were no doubt sacrifices to the ild Fallyn blueprints.

Because she could not see Marisanna did not mean that she did not lie down there somewhere, arms and legs akimbo, rags soaked in sea water and blood. But Ceyla grasped at the secret she’d been granted as if it could help, staring into the wind until salt spray dried her skin and stung her eyes, and could not aid her.

“They threw her over last night.”

Ceyla jumped and would have screamed, but the fear so constricted her throat she couldn’t get the sound up and out as she spun back against the wall, facing the young man who’d accosted her. “Nahaal.”

He lifted and dropped a shoulder, peering past her to the rocks, the wind whipping back his hair from a face that, if he mourned, showed no sign of it. She supposed that if he looked closely at her, he might see the same blankness. The ild Fallyn did that to one. Weakness could never be shown.

“I have not seen her body wash up.”

She couldn’t bear his words. They poked into her hearing like sharp sticks, and she turned away from him.

He made a scornful noise. “She wanted to be thrown over.” He pushed Ceyla away from the wall and with a grunt of effort, went over it, floating and landing halfway down, boots skidding over the spray and moss-slick rocks. He regained his footing while she stared. Marisanna always said her sons had no Talent, yet here was Nahaal . . . had she even known? Did anyone here know? She hugged her arms around here, trying to shut out the wind and shut in her questions. The ild Fallyn must know, for he wore decent clothing and he hadn’t been sent out to do hard labor. Yet.

Nahaal bent and picked among the sharp stones for a moment and stood, with a rag wind-whipped in his hand. He made another leap and came down next to Ceyla. He put the rag in her hand. “So much for my mother’s hopes. Don’t linger here. I might have to tell them you were here, and secrets never sit well with our masters. I have lessons.” He strode off, covering the ground in huge, leaping, strides.

Ceyla looked at what she held, remembering Marisanna’s brightly colored shawl, a scrap of it sodden and smelling of salt and blotched with what might have been water-diluted blood. She squeezed her fingers tightly about it. The ild Fallyn knew about Nahaal and tossed his mother over anyway. Nothing could save any of them. She wanted to call after him and remind him of that, but she pressed her lips together tightly.

She leaned over for one last look and saw—or hoped she saw—a bright-colored flash moving stealthily at the cliff’s bottom, near the sands. Did something or someone move down there? Despite the shredded cloth she held? Ceyla held her breath as if it could help her see better. Marisanna had held hope for freedom. She tucked the possibility away inside her. Soft words in the night, a comforting touch on her shoulder, a knowing look in friendly eyes. That could not be lost. Not if she held tightly onto them. Ceyla opened her fingers and let the sea wind take the scrap from her hand, deciding that would not be how she would remember her friend.

Memories would not comfort her, would not soothe her mind with balm, and so she turned away, her gaze sweeping over the stronghold grounds—or at least that small portion that she was familiar with as a subject and worker. She drew her shawl up to cover the back of her neck. It would never be warm here the way it had been in the countryside she remembered from her early youth, with sand dunes and grasses that swept over them, a beach so hot it could burn the soles of your bare feet in the summer. She remembered those days to keep her warmer at night, burning the reserves of her own fuel to keep going. Her body had always been slender and spare, boyish with little plumpness to keep her buffered. Now she was scarcely more than stick thin. While other subjects thrived under the ild Fallyn yoke, she did not. She had no Talent the Vaelinar could discern, but they would not throw her away, not just yet. Not until she had been bred back and her children could be tested, as one tests a litter of hounds to see their mettle. Marisanna’s fate awaited her.

Ceyla shuddered. She checked her thoughts and corrected herself. Ild Fallyn hounds got more regard than the subjects did. They looked at her eyes, the royal Vaelinar did, at her eyes of brown and caramel and gold and said to each other, there should be Talent here. Vaelinar magic. But where? And she would not answer them, not yet, not if she could keep her soul from them. The ild Fallyn sought to bring back their blood, blood thinned by Kernan partners over the centuries, but not with kindness and a welcoming warmth. No. They were trying to breed the Kernan out, and enrich the Vaelinar bloodlines, a mission that would take decades, if not centuries, but then the Vaelinars had the lifespan to make such plans. But the only breeders who lived were the ones with promise.

She counted herself lucky that she had had a childhood outside the gates of the ild Fallyn fortress. Many here had not. But that same luck rubbed and chaffed her, for Ceyla had memories to haunt her that the others did not, memories that gave her discontent and unhappiness as much as they soothed her. She knew what she missed beyond those armored gates. The others did not or chose not to. Looking at them and living with them drove home one further point: she would never be allowed to go back. When the ild Fallyns were done with her, she would be discarded as well. Even breeding successfully would be no guarantee.

She held no wish to be like Tench, most Vaelinar-like of any of them, and with more than a passing resemblance to the Warrior Queen’s late brother Jeredon, or so those who had seen both, could testify. After the abortive war at the River Ashenbrook, Tench had been gathered up from the barracks of the subjects and disappeared within the fortress halls, never to be seen again. Was he the father, as some dared to whisper, of Lady Tressandre’s unborn child rather than the Anderieon heir she claimed? Perhaps. Likely. No one could know for sure, at least not from Tench’s witness. He had vanished.

Nor would she become like Nahaal, cold at his mother’s death, the only spark in him a seeming pride in what she now knew meant he had a gleam of Talent. He’d always been brash and confident. Ceyla wondered how Marisanna could have overlooked him. He would be trouble to her now, now that Marisanna was gone and Ceyla had seen his ability. He would be after her, demanding payment for the reveal.

Her day would come. She’d been raped and often, she had no hope of avoiding that, but conception had been withheld and now that she’d matured, even the choice of her body would be taken from her. She had to prove herself. She kept her meager Talent as hidden and under wraps as she could, and it was perhaps because of that very Talent that she could anticipate the means with which her captors would test her to reveal herself. If they decided she could not be bred, and she could not be successfully categorized, she would be locked into drudgery until the stress of her toils, age, and, perhaps, Tressandre’s legendary temper killed her.

Ceyla ducked her head and made her way to a kind of freedom. There was a corner where the worlds met, the actual grounds of the ild Fallyn fortress abutted the forbidden quarters of the subjects. Here, a few things grew like trees and flowers. One such blossomed now and later in the year, she would comb through it carefully, harvesting what little fruit it might bear in the thin and bitter summer. More importantly, the corner stood neglected. No gardener worked here, and the patch drew no attention or visitor except for herself. She sought it out when she could, just to touch something that grew unfettered, unstained, and untainted by the hand of her captors. The stone wall buckled in an odd way about it, giving a niche where there ought not to be one, as if the mason had planned an alcove for a statue or perhaps a fountain, and then been forced to abandon it. She could just fit into it, the scrawny tree hiding her further in its shadows, and be safe for a while.