The Coming Storm (17 page)

In the light of the waning moon she saw him dismount. Another reason why she would have known if her mother had gone. She would have heard. Tolan called to one of the guards. That one trotted off. Tolan waited. This was also not usual.

Caradoc came, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Why had Tolan rousted Caradoc out of his bed at this hour?

Peering through the arrowslit, she watched Tolan talk to Caradoc. Talking and talking. In plain sight. She knew that compelling voice, that soft sing-song chant.

Chilled, paralyzed, she watched helplessly.

After a moment Caradoc stopped rubbing the sleep from his eyes and his hand dropped to his side. They walked away with Tolan’s hand on Caradoc’s elbow as Caradoc bent his head to the smaller man to listen.

A cold ball of clay seemed to have taken up residence under her breastbone. After a long time waiting to see if they would return, she lay back down to sleep. That was when she heard steps come up the stair to stop outside her locked door.

Tolan. Somehow she knew it.

Would he try the door?
No, he only stood there looking at it. She could sense him out there. As still as a mouse in front of a cat, she remained curled up in her bed until well after he’d gone.

How long could she bear it? There were still weeks until the day of her majority. What then? By law she would be free of her father’s will, no longer his ward. Would they allow her to go? It was unlikely. She was the Heir to Riverford. If they meant to hold this place unchallenged they dared not let her go.

That was a worry for another day, she couldn’t bear to think about it.

It had been a difficult journey, even under the best of circumstances and never had Elon been gone from Aerilann for so long a time, save that time years ago when they’d set the boundaries. There had been little need. That was a circumstance he knew to which he should best become accustomed. It had been some time, perhaps as long as a century, since he’d been so far north and east. There had been no need until now. This journey taught him one thing certainly – if he were to perform his duties as chancellor as he’d sworn to do, he needed to travel the Kingdoms more.

In truth, Elon would rather deal with the directness of the highland mountain Kings than those of the Heartland. So far away from the intrigues of the High King’s Court they were more honest in their opinions and prejudices than their brethren. They’d been the last to agree to bow to a High King. High in their mountain fastnesses, they were more dependent on each other than a High King the breadth of the country away. Honest, yes and more natural, more attuned and in harmony with the land they governed.

Folding his arms, Elon looked westward. Below him the long grasses stirred in great susurrus waves, seemingly endless and eternal. Only the wind was more constant, racing down the face of the mountains behind him to roll around and through the hills until it burst out unimpeded onto the great rolling plains. It was like and yet unlike the lands around Aerilann. There, too, the long grasses still waved, a buffer between the lands of men and those of Elves, wild still and free. Open.

Like but unlike. The land here was more rugged than the woodlands, the soil harder and more stony. As the land had risen, the thin skin of the earth had been shed to reveal the friable bones of stone beneath it.

Once, Elon remembered a time when there had been only the high grass stretching from horizon to horizon, rising so high one could only see above it if one was mounted – and so the bond between Elves and their horses.

In contrast the distant, neatly ordered fields of men seemed forced and unnatural. He still didn’t understand this need men had to structure and control everything around them.

He’d heard some men compared that impulse to a Veil. They were different. A Veil shifted, moved. It was bound to the earth by only the lightest of bonds, a protection and a diversion, not a division, not a boundary such as the fences and walls of men were.

A narrow dark thread wove through those neatly defined squares – neatly defined in defiance of the lay, the warp and weft of the land – and strayed north, parting the grasses before it disappeared within them. The King’s road, stitching the Kingdoms together.

There was no small sense of relief, however, in returning to wilder country.

Jareth came to stand beside Colath and looked across at Elon.

Those dark enigmatic eyes were fixed on the horizon.

What was it he saw, Jareth wondered? What had he seen over his centuries of life?

“Has it changed much?” Jareth asked.

With a small nod of his head, Elon indicated the distant horizon.

“Once, these grasses stretched as far as the eye could see.”

Jareth couldn’t imagine it. “Do you ever wish it hadn’t changed?”

With a small shake of his head, Colath answered, “That’s a thing for men, Jareth. Change is constant. We know this. The past is the past. It can’t be undone. What is, is.”

 Moving downwind, Jareth drew his pipe out of his pocket, filled it and lit it with a small fire spell. Drawing in the smoke with deep contentment, he nodded acceptance.

There were many times on the journey when Elon had wished he didn’t have to deal with any of the Kings, lesser or High but there was nothing for it. Some thought he wasted his time and theirs. At least, so far in the mountains, there were few who had contact with his people. He needed to speak with their Hunters and Woodsmen and couldn’t afford to waste the time seeking them out in the high reaches of the mountains. It would have been like seeking a needle in a haystack. After the first few, however, he’d learned  it was better by far to determine where they were likely to be, rather than wait for them to return.

“Will we visit the Dwarves?” Jareth asked.

Elon shook his head. “They wouldn’t love us for disturbing them without good reason.”

And as yet they still didn’t have good reason, however much Elon’s foresight prickled. Concern, yes, increasingly.

There was little doubt the Hunters and Woodsman showed signs of tension and worry. Nor had it been impossible to miss the haunted fear in the eyes of the mountain people.

As Jareth had told him, those were folk not accustomed to such concerns. They were a hardy, stolid lot, inured and attuned to the harshness of the high country. Most had chosen to live on the very edge of the Kingdoms, close to the borderlands but far from the crowded clamor of the towns and cities in the lowlands. With a care for their spouses and children, they had sought out a more challenging life, fraught with danger but not daringly so. There was a certain tension now around their eyes and more caution in their actions. None went to market these days save in a caravan of two or more. It was too dangerous.

Even so, those were impressions.

More than once, someone speculated  it was merely a part of a natural cycle, perhaps. Nothing more. No one denied, though, that the incursions were unusual and that some of the borderlands creatures were being found much deeper into the Kingdoms than they had in the past.

One had only to look into the weary faces of the Hunters and Woodsmen to know  it was far more than that. They were tired. Not yet exhausted but very tired. Elon heard the muttering. If it kept up like this…they said, but left the consequences unsaid.

 The Dwarves, with their love of contracts, would find such speculation annoying. Like their deepest, darkest Caverns, it was either dark or light., and such considerations were neither.

In its own way, it had been somewhat unsettling as they had ridden south to skirt the Dwarven lands to find folk so completely and blithely unconcerned.

“At least, we should find a warmer welcome in the next Kingdom” Jareth said, longingly, with a sigh of relief. “A bed. A real bed. Perhaps a warm bath or shower from the cistern on the roof.”

He could almost feel that water, cool enough to be refreshing, warm enough not to chill, running over his skin.

Jalila merely shook her head at him. Jareth could never find a comfortable sleeping spot on his own. Yet she sympathized, as she knew Elon and Colath did.

A bath was so much a part of Elven culture  it was offered to any guest as basic hospitality. She could almost smell the scents of the bath salts and herbs that would fill the lightly steamed air, although men didn’t use such things. Even plain water, though, and the harsh soaps of men would be welcome and refreshing after these weeks on the road.

Elon looked westward, toward Aerilann, once more, Then he turned toward the fire and the simple meal that awaited them there.

Ailith started across the courtyard and spotted Caradoc standing on the parapets once again for the first time in some few days. The first time, in fact, that she’d seen him since the night Tolan returned from his circuit. There’d been some talk about his absence from his customary position and rumors had flown – but very quietly. She lifted her hand to wave but this day he paid it no attention.

A soft voice, close at hand and unexpected, startled her by saying, “He’s most unlike himself of late.”

She jumped nearly a foot.

“Sorry to startle you, Ailith.”

Korin. Studying his face, she saw something old, something terrible, in his brown eyes. They were fixed on the figure on the roof. His face was pale and pasty, a mask of grief and sorrow. His fingers fretted at an old, worn piece of rein.

“Is he, Korin?” she asked, carefully.

“Yes, he is. And like not to resemble himself anytime soon, I fear.”

“So do I.”

“Ah,” he said, as he saw the understanding in her eyes.

“Go away, Korin,” she said, softly. Nearly begging.

He smiled wanly. “I can’t, my lady Ailith. I can’t leave these children. My boys and girls. The stablelads and lasses. What would they do, with no mother nor father? Nor you. Can’t leave you, I’ve watched over you all your life. Besides, where would I go? I doubt the King would give me a recommendation if I just disappear.”

Before and since the death of his wife, Korin had acted as Riverford’s orphanage, taking in children whose parents had died or abandoned them. He taught them a trade, a skill, and gave them back to the world.

“I would, in my father’s name. Don’t stay for me, take the children and go.”

“It’s too late.” His eyes went up to the parapets. “As long as we’ve been friends somehow I don’t think he’ll let me leave now.”

No, somehow she didn’t think he would either.

There was a shout from the gates. “Riders.”

Visitors. Another surprise.

Where once such things had been fairly common and unremarked, of late visitors to the castle proper were excessively rare.

Not many would dare to risk Tolan’s arbitrary and uneven judgments in Geric’s name, much less challenge him while the King himself sat brooding on his throne. Those who did often came away chastened at the very least.

Some few had taken the chance of approaching Ailith outside the castle walls, seeking her opinion in the absence of her father’s.

None questioned her father’s withdrawal. Within his borders he was the sole sovereign, his judgment undisputed. Unless there was open revolt, the High King wouldn’t interfere or intervene.

In all their eyes, however, she could see concern, although they didn’t voice that either. They dared not, for in her lay their reassurance that things would return to normal once again, somehow, someday. Their hope was nearly palpable and it lay within reach. The day of her majority.

She wished she were so certain.

Even so, although they hid it, beneath that hope fear and uncertainty ran deep. She couldn’t blame them.

All of Riverford was tense these days – with one set of tensions within the castle walls and an entirely different one without.

It was difficult, then, not to feel a small glimmer of hope now herself, wondering who these visitors might be.

At Caradoc’s command a page ran into the Great Hall to fetch Tolan. The man came out, briefly giving her and Korin one of his bland yet piercing glances.

“Elves, my Lord, and a man,” Caradoc called down, giving Tolan a title to which he had no right.

For which Tolan chided him, properly, if abstractedly. “I am no Lord, Caradoc.”

He glanced over again at Ailith and Korin but she’d already taken Korin’s arm, tilting her head toward his, pretending they were deep in conversation and too far to hear. If he’d heard their words he wouldn’t have liked the conversation much.

“Lock your door at night and don’t answer if someone knocks,” Ailith said softly. “Sleep in the hayrick with the stablehands. Avoid Tolan as much as you can and don’t be alone with him.”

Korin patted her hand. “I’ll have a care. Worry about yourself, Ailith. You sleep in there.”

She smiled thinly. “With my door closed and locked and my chest against it.”

“It’s as well.”

“Ailith,” Tolan called, peremptorily.

It stunned her.

Not my lady. He’d called her by her true name, without her title. Still, she turned.

There could have been no greater indication of her change in status.

“Go to your chambers,” he said. “Stay there.”

That shocked her. Who was he to order her so? How dare he?

Looking up, she could see how he dared. There stood Caradoc on the walls.  Inside was the man who resembled her father. A few days before she might have challenged Tolan, called him for his disrespect and she might have won. That Caradoc would have defended her. Today? A dozen eyes around the courtyard watched. Many were fearful.

Don’t be foolish
, she thought, looking at Tolan’s eyes. There was a warning there.
You’re alone and unarmed. Do as he says. For now
.

He was taking no chances with these visitors.

She went to her room obediently and then to the narrow slit of the window where she could look down on the courtyard.

Watching, she saw them ride in on horses like Smoke, large, well-shaped and fleet but she doubted these would try to eat her hair. These were pure-bred Elven horses. A great black one, a pair of silvery gray ones, another a deep brown. Ridden by Elves, two male, dark and light, a female Elf, and a man.

All four were tall. One was dark-haired, one was fair, the Elven woman was dark of skin and hair and the man had brownish hair. From this angle and height she couldn’t see them well.

They didn’t know their danger.
Would Tolan dare to do to them what he’d done to her father, her mother, and Caradoc
? She didn’t think so. She hoped not. Or she’d be forced to warn them and reveal herself. She’d allow Tolan no more victims.

It was somewhat entertaining to watch Tolan bow and scrape, giving all the appearance of a loyal servant, as he had at the beginning.

Below she heard the doors open, shouts to servants for refreshments. A great deal of fuss, more so than necessary. Her father called greetings as if he were still himself.

Still, Tolan had to be worried.

Ailith waited until the sounds became muted, then slipped down the stairs on bare, silent feet and to the library that adjoined the Great Hall. Carefully, she drew the door open, listening to the sounds from the other room. She looked across the library to be certain the other door was shut. It was.

This was her mother’s sanctum. Here were scrolls and letters, curled maps. Paper was a rare thing throughout the Kingdoms and few could read. Most Elves read their own language but for most men there was little need for writing unless one was a scholar. Which her mother was. Had been. Her father could barely write his own name and so it had fallen to her mother to keep the records. He’d had this built for her.

It had made the Great Hall a little smaller but that hadn’t mattered much so far from the affairs at Court. They entertained rarely; had the larger landowners in for harvest or winter festivals but that was all. Her father wasn’t much – hadn’t been – much of one for idle amusements. For Ailith, the fortunate part was that when they built the library, they hadn’t been able to get all the joints to exactly match. The Great Hall was round and this small room had squared it, cutting off a small section of curve. The shelves and such didn’t adapt well to the curve. If she sat on the floor by the one set of shelves there was a place where she could peer into the other room. A table hid her from view.

Once she’d watched her parents that way, a quiet curious little mouse.

Now she could watch and see, and perhaps warn them.

They were still standing as refreshments were brought in and set upon the table.

One of the visitors dominated the room and it was neither her father nor Tolan. That wouldn’t please Tolan – who had been visibly becoming comfortable, even demanding of deference – and it was clear by his face it didn’t now. That sour-lemon expression on Tolan’s face had intensified. Ailith couldn’t help but smile at that.

No, the one who dominated the room was one of the Elves.

Tall, serious and stern, he wasn’t what men considered handsome but he did hold the eye. He was striking, even arresting, in face and form. He dominated the room with his character, so calm, certain and sure. This was someone used to command and comfortable with it. It was his grave dark eyes, though, so clear, so assured, that caught her attention. They were beautiful.

He had high arched winged eyebrows and a high forehead. A straight nose, firm mouth. His dark hair had been swept back to fall well below his shoulders, caught back on each side in clips as Elves did. It wasn’t just his looks, though, that fascinated her, he was neither particularly handsome nor pretty as men measured such things – no, those honors fell to his companion, the fairer of them – but his confidence held her attention. He was arresting, fascinating and intriguing.

She’d never seen or met anyone like him.

The other Elves stood back, the fair and pretty one to the other’s side. His stance told her much, staying on guard, the other Elf’s good right arm. His paxman.

With her high cheekbones , sharp eyes and brownish coloring, the female Elf was striking, too.

As for the man, he was curious, just for himself but also by his nature. His eyes roamed the room taking in everything he saw. There was something about him that she liked instinctively.

That was a difference about Elves and men, she noticed. Men’s eyes moved constantly. Elves didn’t. Dorovan had been like that, taking in everything but keeping his eyes still.

This man had brownish hair, slightly disheveled, with warm brown eyes. A strong plain face but not distinctive. There was something about him though, something she couldn’t put her finger on…something that marked him as different from most men.

“My Lord Geric,” Tolan said, bowing deeply. “These are the Elves Elon, Colath and Jalila, of Aerilann and the wizard Jareth.”

Three elves and a wizard. No wonder Tolan was bowing and scraping. That explained the curious air about the man – he was a wizard. Among the Elves, there was one name she knew. Elon of Aerilann.  He was the tall dark stern one. Her father had spoken of him often and with great respect, rare for her father. There were few who had earned that level of admiration from him.

Ailith went still as her father said, “Councilor Elon, Tolan – my chatelaine and advisor. Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting you before very briefly some years ago, although there would be no reason for you to remember that.”

If you knew Tolan well enough, the relief he showed at that moment very nearly shouted.

His puppet was performing well. There was just the right amount of respect in his voice.

Geric, her father, had been very impressed with Elon of Aerilann after that one meeting. At the time he’d been prepared not to be.

 “The Lords of Riverford,” he’d told her once with a smile, “are known as an independent lot and rightly so. I mean to keep it that way. We bow to the High King but we do not scrape. And we bow only to him. No other.”

That meeting had been during the early days, when the Alliance was just taking hold.

Ailith had been only a child but she remembered her father speaking of those days to her mother. They’d discussed many such things once.

Her father had been all in favor of the Alliance. Riverford wasn’t a large kingdom but the land was rich and there was the ford for which it was named. That was the key, it was the gateway to the highlands to the north and the King that reigned there and the only safe way across the fast moving river for leagues. Below the town the river widened, diminishing the current enough to ford it before the river cut into the hills and narrowed again into a rough and dangerous torrent. Across that singular ford traveled cattle, sheep and wool, wood, apples and pears. People as well, to trade or be traded to. As a result, every few hundred years or so, one of the neighbors decided they wanted it. Riverford had been overdue for such a conflict before the Agreement had been signed, though peace had reigned for some years.