Blackveil

  Groundmites.

  “Bloody hell,” Laren muttered, and from the corner of her eye she caught the movement of a manlike figure lumbering among the trees. Manlike, but not human.

  Then she saw another and another ...

  She drew her saber and jabbed her heels into Bluebird’s sides. If winter had been rough on other creatures, it was certainly hard on groundmites. Starvation must have driven them this far into Sacoridia.

  Bluebird kicked up snow as he lunged forward. Laren crouched low over his neck, the hilt of her saber gripped firmly in her gloved hand.

  The groundmites, no longer attempting to conceal themselves, rushed her and Bluebird, waving clubs and primitive hatchets, their cries chilling. As Bluebird charged by them, Laren saw only a blur of their furred and snarling faces. The groundmites flung themselves out of the forest into the path trying to block her way. She cut one down, then another, blood spraying across snow.

  Enough of the creatures scrambled into the path that they obstructed it; others charged in from the sides. Laren spun Bluebird on his haunches only to find the groundmites had cut her off from behind as well. They had effectively tightened the noose around her.

  Her only chance was to fight through and make for Elgin’s cabin, and there they might make a stand.

  She hacked off a clawed hand that reached for Bluebird’s bridle and blocked a descending hatchet. She drove her saber into the groundmite’s neck.

  These groundmites were cloaked in rags and hides, pitiful, really. None appeared to be wearing armor, which improved her chances.

  Bluebird kicked one from behind and she heard a wet sound like a melon being smashed. A club hammered her left thigh and she swept her sword over Bluebird’s neck to slash the groundmite’s face. It mewled in pain and fell away.

  Bluebird plunged at their attackers, kicked and bit them, trying to break free even as he received blows all over. It only enraged him more and he bellowed a challenge before striking down another groundmite with his front hooves.

  Laren was tiring, and she knew Bluebird was, too. If they did not break free soon, they’d be in deep trouble.

  None of the groundmites seemed to be armed with a sharp blade, and just as she was thanking the gods for it, a short sword swept at her from out of nowhere, catching her coat. Chestnuts poured from her slashed pocket.

  She parried a second blow, then hacked into the skull of another groundmite that clubbed at Bluebird’s face. Her saber stuck in bone, and in that moment, the short sword flashed toward her.

  She saw the inevitable. She would fall, and so would Bluebird.

  ARROWS

  As the short sword drove toward Laren, everything slowed. It had happened to her before in battle, this stretching of time, allowing her to absorb minute details. She saw the twitch of the groundmite’s catlike ears, its yellow fangs, and its gaunt form beneath its rags and patchy fur. Yes, it was definitely suffering from starvation.

  She saw the blade, rusted and dirty and notched. She discerned individual snowflakes drifting down between her and the groundmite.

  Even as time stretched, however, she could not free her own sword to block the thrust.

  What a pity, she thought, for there was so much left to do, so much left unresolved. She would not be around to support Zachary as his kingship was tested to its utmost. She would not be there for her Riders when so many of them were young and untried.

  And what about Melry, on the cusp of womanhood? A difficult age. Laren had adopted her when she was found abandoned as a baby in the Rider stables. Now Laren was abandoning her.

  As the sword’s point closed in, hoofbeats that were not Bluebird’s pounded the ground.

  “Red!” Elgin cried.

  Just before the sword impaled Laren, just at the last, possible moment, Bluebird reared.

  The sword missed. It missed and stabbed into her saddle, through leather, into the wooden frame.

  Before Bluebird reached the apex of his rear, arrows whispered by her, skimmed so close she felt the trailing air. White arrows slicing through the flurries on a resolute and deadly course.

  They were not meant for her.

  They were aimed as if to anticipate her movements and Bluebird’s, so perfectly coordinated she wondered if the archers moved through time differently. If everything slowed for them, too.

  The arrows thudded into the groundmites and they fell away. By the time Bluebird’s front hooves touched ground again, none remained standing. Groundmites lay piled around her, bristling with white arrows.

  Bluebird’s sides heaved and he blew puffs of steam from his nostrils. Elgin sat astride Killdeer some paces ahead of her. Even at this distance she saw how wide his eyes were.

  Taking a breath—had she breathed at all during the attack?—she turned her gaze toward the source of the arrows. There, all in white against the backdrop of snow, stood three Eletians, each holding a longbow.

  Elgin was the first to move, trotting up on Killdeer and glancing sidelong at the Eletians.

  “Red! You all right?”

  “I ... I think so,” Laren replied, stunned just to be alive. Westrion was not ready to deliver her to the heavens this day after all. She nudged Bluebird forward, and once she was clear of the corpses of groundmites and the trampled, crimson snow, she dismounted, staggering when she touched ground. Already the exertion was catching up with her, and she’d be feeling it for days. Her thigh throbbed where she’d been clubbed.

  Not as young as I used to be, she thought, as she often did. She wiped the blood off her saber in the snow and sheathed it.

  Elgin dismounted and led Killdeer over to her. The mare did not look the least bit winded, despite what must have been a hard ride from the cabin.

  Elgin looked Laren over as if to make sure she was all right for himself. “I heard that howling,” he said, “and knew you were in for it. Killdeer was practically busting the wall down to get out.”

  Laren noted he’d ridden out bareback, hadn’t even taken the time to saddle the mare. He wore his old Rider-issued saber, the sheath and belt well oiled. She guessed the blade was in just as fine shape and honed to a razor’s edge.

  “Who are your friends?” he whispered.

  Laren glanced at the Eletians. Two were picking among the dead groundmites, retrieving arrows. A third approached, striding effortlessly through—on?—the snow.

  Laren recognized her flaxen hair, drawn back in braids and adorned with white feathers. Graelalea was her name. She was sister to Jametari, prince of the Eletians.

  “Greetings, Captain,” she said, coming to a halt before Laren and Elgin. “This is an auspicious meeting.”

  Laren swallowed back a surge of hysterical laughter. The words were said as if it were some everyday occurrence, like they’d bumped into one another on market day.

  “Auspicious,” Laren said, “seems an inadequate description. The groundmites—you arrived just in time.”

  “We heard them, knew they were on the hunt. Our paths, you see, run near this place.”

  Laren was too dazed “to see,” but she nodded. “I thank you. You saved my life.”

  “It is well,” Graelalea said. “And now we may proceed to your king.”

  “What?”

  “Our meeting is auspicious for we travel to speak with your king. Our paths have crossed, therefore we shall travel together.”

  Laren closed her mouth when she realized it was hanging open. Elgin’s expression registered awe tinged with wariness.

  Eletians were like that—enchanting, unearthly, the embodiment of magic. It was difficult to know the Eletian mind, for they’d been absent from the world for so long, their ways were alien. And they were dangerous. Laren had no doubt about it. She had only to look at the pile of dead groundmites behind her.

  “My horse,” she said, “is tired. He needs rest and care.”

  Graelalea made a graceful gesture indicating Laren should look at her horse. When she did, she saw the other two Eletians ca
ressing Bluebird’s muscles and applying salve to cuts.

  Graelalea herself set aside her longbow and stepped up to Bluebird. She spoke softly to him in Eletian and ran her hand down his nose, over his eyes, behind his ears. His eyelids drooped and his breathing softened. He lowered his head so that it rested in her hands. Killdeer appeared to watch and listen with interest, her ears pricked up and her gaze alert.

  “He is well enough to continue,” Graelalea said in the common tongue. “We shall travel lightly.” Then, observing Killdeer’s interest, she turned to the mare and petted her. Killdeer curved her neck and loosed a deep sigh at the attention.

  Laren and Elgin exchanged wide-eyed looks.

  “She is an old soul,” Graelalea said of Killdeer, “but with a young heart. She will be your good companion for years more.”

  An amazing transformation rippled across Elgin’s face. The hard lines softened and Laren thought her old chief was going to weep. But he did not. Almost more astonishingly, he bowed to the Eletian.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I have never heard finer words.”

  There was a hint of a smile on Graelalea’s face. They all stood there as the snow fell down around them in dizzying swirls and the forest darkened.

  “I’ll ... I’ll take care of the corpses in the morning,” Elgin said, as if needing to break the silence. “Whatever the scavengers leave, anyway.”

  Graelalea nodded and turned to Laren. “Captain? Are you ready?”

  “I ... I guess so.”

  “If you mount and ride, we will travel more swiftly.”

  While they were on foot? But Laren did not question the Eletian. She put her foot in the stirrup and mounted Bluebird, grimacing at sore muscles making themselves felt.

  “Sip some of this,” Graelalea said, and she passed Laren a flask.

  Laren took a cautious sip, and then another. She’d tasted its like before when the Eletians last visited Sacor City. It was cool on the tongue, but heartening, and as the liquid passed down her throat it warmed her body. She thought of summer meadows and the golden sunrise on dew-laden grasses. It removed her from winter and loosened aching muscles and joints, restored strength and energy.

  A small amount slaked her thirst and she took one more sip before giving the flask back.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said.

  “A summer cordial of Eletia,” Graelalea replied.

  They bade Elgin farewell and simply walked into the woods. Graelalea led, with Bluebird following, and the other two Eletians ranging alongside or behind. Laren wondered if she were being led into some trap, as Karigan had once been trapped—caught up in spells and a web of dreams. But she did not think so. What reason had they? Just to be sure, she used her special ability and perceived from them no guile, only the truth. Truth and peace. Satisfied, she gave in to trust.

  As night deepened, Graelalea produced a moonstone. Its light was not glaring to the eye, but produced a soft radiance that captured each snowflake that fell around them, flashing like silver glitter. Even with the light, however, Laren could not discern the path Graelalea followed, though the Eletian strode ahead without hesitation, entirely certain of her way.

  It was almost a passage through a dream with no sense of time or place. Her whole world existed within the glow cast by the moonstone—the snow, her horse beneath her, the gray boles of trees they passed by, and Graelalea leading them. Laren felt buoyant, as light and insubstantial as the snowflakes that landed on her hair and eyelashes.

  The Eletians glided through the forest so unhindered that Laren thought this must be one of the ancient paths they used long ago to travel into the land now known as Sacoridia. Graelalea’s brother, the prince, had spoken of them. He said the land recalled them.

  Did the trees bend out of their way and the terrain mold itself to make their footing smooth? Laren almost laughed at the notion, but it was uncanny how she did not have to duck beneath branches and Bluebird did not stumble over uneven ground. There was not a single snag to circumvent their progress or a fallen log to step over.

  A time passed and they stepped out of the woods. The illumination of the moonstone spread around them revealing a snow-covered field. Laren, disoriented by the change, took a few moments to recognize where they were.

  Graelalea suddenly extinguished the moonstone, and when Laren’s eyes adjusted to the absence of its glow, she picked out the flickering of lights in the distance. The gates of Sacor City were not far.

  “Let us continue,” Graelalea said. “We shall speak to your king soon.”

  So mesmerized by the journey had Laren become, that she had forgotten its purpose. She shook herself as if to awaken from a long sleep.

  “What is it you wish to speak to him about?”

  “Kanmorhan Vane,” Graelalea replied.

  Blackveil. This time the shudder was involuntary.

  AN INVITATION

  Once Laren entered the city gates with the Eletians, she sent a guard up the Winding Way to inform the king of their arrival. When they reached the castle, they were ushered into a meeting chamber, which was warmed by blazing hearths at either end; the table was set with an array of refreshments.

  Zachary sat at the head of the table in a smaller version of his throne, Lady Estora to his right. Since autumn, he’d included her in his meetings and audiences, and she took to her role as queen-intended naturally, remaining serene and dignified, but unafraid to speak up when she felt it necessary. Laren thought she’d probably learned well from her mother, the lady of Coutre Province.

  Zachary maintained an air of respect toward her. It was difficult for Laren to ascertain how well they were getting along on a personal level, for he would not confide in her on this matter, but she hoped it was quite well for the sake of their mutual happiness. In a state marriage, however, personal compatibility certainly was not a requirement.

  Absent from the chamber, Laren was pleased to note, was Lord Richmont Spane, Estora’s cousin and self-appointed counselor. Laren tired of him constantly whispering into Estora’s ear like a spider perched on her shoulder. And there was that smug smile of his, as if he were on a level with the king himself.

  With Estora to be queen, Clan Coutre was in ascendance, and Spane was in a greater position of influence than ever. While his maneuvering for power irritated Laren, it was not unexpected; for what other reason did the aristocracy exist if not to seek greater authority and position over others?

  To Zachary’s left sat the Eletians, with Graelalea sitting between her two companions. Laren remembered Telagioth from the Eletians’ previous visit—how could she forget his clear, cerulean blue eyes? The other Eletian was introduced as Lhean, his hair pale gold like the cool winter sun. The Eletians outshone everyone else in the room, including Estora, who was considered the great beauty of the land. Laren had to drag her gaze from them.

  The king’s other two primary advisors—Colin Dovekey and Castellan Sperren—also joined them. Footmen moved unobtrusively from person to person with ewers of wine and filed seamlessly out of the chamber when they finished. Only one of the king’s Weapons stayed with them, silent and statuelike, his black uniform allowing him to fade into the shadows of the corner he stood in.

  The Eletians remained stoic while Laren spoke of their encounter in the woods and the demise of the band of groundmites.

  When she finished, Zachary put his hand to his temple and bowed to the Eletians. “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said, “for I’d be lost without the captain.” There was a tremor in his voice and Laren warmed with affection for him.

  “We are pleased to have been of aid,” Graelalea said. “Our meeting, however, was not entirely chance. We were on our way here to speak to you, at the behest of my brother, Ari-matiel Jametari.”

  “I see,” Zachary said, “and what did he—”

  At that moment, the chamber door opened and Lord Spane burst in. “Many pardons for being late,” he said, giving Zachary a perfunctory bow. “I just heard we ha
ve guests.”

  Laren bridled her annoyance at the intrusion.

  “I am Lord Richmont Spane,” he announced to the Eletians. “Counselor to Lady Estora. I look after the interests of Coutre Province.”

  Graelalea nodded in return.

  An awkward few moments passed as an extra chair was brought in and Spane insinuated himself at Estora’s right hand, forcing Colin to move over. If Spane was the least bit impressed by the Eletians, he did not show it, and if Zachary was at all perturbed by the interruption, he hid it well.

  When everyone was settled, Zachary started again. “What did your brother wish for you to speak to me about?”

  “My brother,” Graelalea replied, “wishes to inform you of his intention to go ahead with sending an expedition into Kanmorhan Vane.”

  Already Spane was leaning toward Estora to whisper something to her.

  “I thought it likely he would,” Zachary said softly. “He seemed determined to proceed when we spoke in the fall.”

  Graelalea did not respond. Laren remembered how she protested to her brother when he mentioned the idea to Zachary. It would be, she said, a fatal mission into a land that was a sad corpse of what it once was. The expedition would be led, Jametari said, by his sister. When Laren looked upon Graelalea now, she saw no fear in her. Only calm.

  “When will you go?” Zachary asked.

  “When day balances with night,” Graelalea said, “and no sooner. The equinox. We dare not enter the forest while night still dominates.”

  “I don’t understand,” Spane said, his voice abrasive against the somber mood. “Why would anyone go into that evil place?”

  Laren supposed it was a fair question, since he was not present to hear Jametari’s reasoning, and Zachary had not discussed it with anyone beyond his immediate advisors.

  “Blackveil was once Argenthyne,” Graelalea said, “and it is our prince’s desire that we see what may remain of it that is good.”

  “Argenthyne!” Spane said in incredulity. “Why that’s a child’s tale ...” He trailed off when Graelalea leveled her gaze at him. Maybe, as he looked into her eyes, eyes that had witnessed the passage of centuries, he recognized whom and what he addressed. He blinked rapidly and looked away.