Arc 4: Chapter 18: In The Court of The Gargoyle Lord

    I woke drenched in cold sweat, gasping.

    No. Stop. Don’t go any further. Turn back, go back to the light.

    What light? Where had I been going?

    I’d been in the forest again. They had been there, waiting for me.

    Rustling sheets drew my attention. I was in the inn room. The window had been shuttered while I’d slept, closed tight and draped with a blanket. Despite the darkness, I knew the sun had risen. I could feel it on the walls.

    Cat was there with me. She shifted, one bare leg caressing my back.

    “Bad dream, big man?”

    I glanced back at her. As I managed to focus, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. With the help of aura, the gloom fell away to reveal a slender, long-limbed form on the bed, a sleepy face half hidden by tangled hair.

    “Did I wake you?” I asked.

    “Been awake a while,” Cat said. “You were having a nightmare.” She fell quiet a moment before admitting, “I heard some of it. Your blood’s still in me.”

    I winced. “I’m sorry.”

    She shook her head, then rose to press herself against my back. She sighed, leaning in. Though cold, her weight made me feel warmer inside. She laced an arm around my neck and I took her hand in mine.

    “They’re just ghosts,” she said. “Just a bunch of sore losers. You’re stronger than them.”

    I wasn’t so sure. Glancing at the curtained window I asked, “What time is it?”

    I felt her shrug. “Late. Probably close to noon.”

    “I should go,” I said, and slipped from Cat’s arm as I started to rise. I had things to do. A mission to prepare for.

    The dhampir wrapped her legs around my waist, holding me back.

    “Am I going to see you again soon?” She asked me.

    I hesitated. “Maybe. Let me figure some things out.”

    She kept me trapped in her legs. I sighed. “Cat...”

    “Sit,” she ordered. Then more sweetly added, “Please?”

    Shaking my head in exasperation, I sat. She leaned against me again, her breasts pressing against my back. Then, with clever, quick fingers, she began to adjust my hair.

    “I like it this way,” she told me. “I can see more of you.”

    “Harder to hide my eyes,” I grumbled. I’d always preferred long hair. It helped hide my blunt features, my scars. It kept the world at more of a distance.

    “Hm.” Cat leaned over my shoulder and turned my chin with her sharp nails. I thought at first she meant to kiss me, but instead I caught a flash of something bright and sharp, before I felt the kiss of cold metal against my skin. I froze.

    “Hold still,” she murmured. “Let me take care of this.”

    She had Shivers in her hand, the banesteel dagger. She began to drag it across my cheek, moving with cautious dexterity. I calmed, realizing what she was doing.

    I let her shave me, a strange and intimate experience even after our night together. Somehow, I felt like I put more trust in her with this than when I’d let her feed on me. The enchanted blade glided across my skin, smooth and pleasantly cool.

    “I don’t mind beards,” Cat muttered, her breath tickling my ear. “But I hate stubble. Best to pick one or the other.”

    When she finished, Cat ran a hand over the smooth planes of my face. The enchanted blade had left nothing behind. Then she pressed her mouth to mine. I didn’t respond at first, but when she didn’t pull away I relaxed. I even returned the kiss, until she brought me to near breathlessness.

    Her eyes were warm when she pulled back, red beginning to speckle into the irises.

    “I meant what I said last night,” Cat whispered, her lashes brushing my cheek. “We can keep doing this. You can’t live on duty, big man. You need to live sometimes. Take it from a dead girl.”

    I considered a minute before replying. “I can’t make any promises.”

    “I get it,” she said, sounding like she meant it. “Offer’s open.” Then, biting her lip she added, “You in a big hurry to get back to that queen of yours?”

    I recognized the invitation. Even after the previous night, I almost accepted it. Almost. But instead I nodded and said, “I have things that need doing.”

    She doesn’t want to be with you, I reminded myself.

    Cat rolled under my arm, turning to straddle me. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” she told me, clasping my face and looking into my eyes despite the painful light in them.

    I grimaced. “That’s cheating.”

    “Heh. Your mind is a lot busier than I expected. You’re so terse all the time, but your thoughts aren’t ever quiet.”

    She pecked me on the cheek, then rolled off my lap to wrap herself in the bedding. By the time I’d dressed and grabbed my equipment, she snored softly. I wondered how long she’d stayed up, even as the daylight and my unquiet mind had wearied her, waiting for me to wake so she could give me some comfort?

    I really didn’t deserve a friend like her. I took a minute to watch her, messy haired and sprawled in the modest bed. A breath escaped my nose as the tight feeling in my chest eased just a bit.

    I’d been angry when she’d refused to be together with me, to choose me. It still hurt, even if I’d understood her reasons. I’d been an idiot, naive as any boy with his first crush. I’d found something good, and I’d gone too far. Even still, part of me wasn’t content with this, knowing that sometime soon she would be teasing and laughing in another man’s arms.

    Should I resent her for that? I wondered.

    I decided to make the choice not to.

    I walked to the bed and leaned down, reaching out to touch her lightly. Cat shifted, smiling sleepily and murmuring without waking up. I brushed her hair from her eye and tucked it behind one of her tapered ears. I pulled out the sheathed elven dagger, leaving it on the bed near her hand.

    “The Sidhe don’t give gifts lightly,” I whispered to her, knowing she probably didn’t hear me. “Best keep this close.”

    I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek before leaving.

    The streets of Garihelm seemed oddly subdued, compared to the festive atmosphere from the night before. There were fewer commonfolk out on the streets, and the guards had a wary edge to them. Though the morning had been bright, a gray pallor had crawled over the sky in the early afternoon.

    I made my way toward the palace, feeling a nameless foreboding. The Fulgurkeep rose black and solid over the bay on its lonely island, the arches of its three bridges guiding me on.

    As I walked, a shadow detached itself from a narrow alley and matched my pace. I didn’t slow, or so much as throw a glance at the dark haired figure at my side. I did speak, however.

    “I thought you went back to the keep,” I said.

    Emma didn’t say anything for a long while as we walked. A troupe of mounted guardsmen went by us, all riding the barbed cockatrices popular among Reynish soldiery.

    “Last time we separated,” Emma said after a time, her voice surprisingly calm, “you spent weeks in an Inquisition dungeon. I took time to cool my head, then I kept an eye on you. Or, I had Qoth help keep an eye on you.”

    When she’d slipped out of the alley, she’d been hiding herself with glamour. More briarfae magic learned from Nath, I suspected. She’d been watching my back.

    Grunting I said, “Anything interesting happen?”

    She shrugged. “We headed off at least one group of men who were tailing you. Priorguard in plainclothes, I think. Other than that, I took the time to enjoy the festival.”

    I felt her amber eyes watching me sidelong. “So. You were with Catrin all night. And all morning.”

    No use denying it. “Yeah.”

    “Hm. And you look rested. Your hair is tidier than I’ve probably ever seen it. You shaved, too.”

    I blew out a breath through my nose. “Also true.”

    Markham Forger.

    He was not the tallest man in the room, or the thinnest. He had a stocky build, more solid than regal and just shy of stout. His hair had gone prematurely gray and thinned from his pate, and he couldn’t be called handsome. He dressed in dark chainmail not dissimilar from my lost armor, festooned with medals, his right arm encased in filigreed gold fashioned to match his crown. As the Church’s own knight-captain, he dressed for war.

    Yet, he didn’t wear his imperial splendor in his garments like the dark queen at his side. He exuded it in his manner, in his very presence in the room. On his iron throne, a piece of almost brutalist design, he seemed a part of the architecture itself. Unyielding stone, fire-tempered, stern. A Gargoyle Lord.

    The man who’d delivered my sentence of excommunication. I sunk further back into the shadows.

    Two figures stood in the middle of the court, facing the throne. These had the floor, and I focused on them once I’d managed to tear my eyes from the Emperor and Empress. One was an aged man with the look of an ambassador of some kind, in a fur-lined robe which trailed nearly to the floor and a clean shaven head juxtaposed by a proud beard. Next to him stood a young woman with hair dark as Rosanna’s. She wore ornate but functional armor beneath a white cloak sewn with the symbol of Graill, a broken peak spilling golden blood into a lake.

    The Emperor’s gravelly voice filled the cavern, carried by the acoustics of clever architecture and the subtle weight of aura. “We understand your concerns, Lady Snoe?. We assure you, the Azure Round is not unaware of this threat.”

    Snoe? of House Farram, The Princess of Graill, sniffed at the Emperor’s words. She half turned, keeping her eyes on the throne but bodily facing the courtiers, a none-too-subtle sign she addressed them as much as the high king. She was a full faced young woman of perhaps twenty-five, who seemed well used to wearing armor. Her plate had been fashioned of pale silvered steel, and she wore the hide of an angry-eyed, spiral horned hare the size of a wolf over one shoulder — a wolpertinger.

    “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not think the Round does understand.” The Haresbane Knight flashed a chipped-tooth smile, looking in that moment more like a scrappy peasant girl than a princess, yet her breathy voice held a hard edge. “While your city is enjoying the fruits of continental trade, throwing festivals and tournaments, my people are still fighting a war the rest of you seem to believe long over.”

    “We are not blind to the threat of Elfgrave,” the Lord-Steward intoned. Standing near seven feet in height and made into a looming shadow alongside the throne by his corpulent physique, the royal advisor had a fleshy face and boyish bowl-cut which had the unfortunate effect of making him look like an enormous, crag-browed child. His basso voice, as far from a child’s as one could imagine, filled the court like the hum of a pipe organ.

    “There are watches on every pass surrounding the dell, and regular auguries made by countless clericons. Are you implying the Azure Round has been lax in this, Princess?”

    “I imply nothing,” Snoe? Farram shot back, lifting a short, thick eyebrow. “My lord father was tasked with keeping a watch over the old capital, and there has not been so much as a single season in which we have not battled woed or some other evil crawled out of the Ignited Lands.”

    “You have been provided troops,” the Steward said, lifting one heavy brow. The motion barely revealed the small, bright eye beneath. “Food, medicine, clerics, and other necessities all by the good grace of the Accorded Realms. What more would you ask of our confederation, Princess?”

    The armored noblewoman’s expression darkened. “My father’s belief is that the darkness in Elfgrave will continue to fester, like a cancered wound, until whatever sickness brewing in it erupts beyond the eastern valleys. What we desire is action.”

    She took a step closer to the dais, her armor audibly clinking in the cavernous silence of the audience chamber. Sweeping her pale cloak back, she placed a hand to her breastplate. “We ask that the Ardent Bough be reformed. If the realms send their knights, we can clean the infestation from Seydis once and for all.”

    A murmur filled the court. Emma shifted at my side, listening intently. Across the floor, I noted Siriks Sontae leaning forward, his youthful features fixed with interest.

    The Steward let out an almost guttural scoff. “Our confederation is still in the process of recovering from one devastating war, and you would ask us to begin another?”

    Once again, Princess Snoe? sniffed. I couldn’t tell if it was a show of disdain, like Emma’s tsk’s, or a nervous tic. “It seems to me,” she said slowly, her eyes still on the throne, “that the Accord has power aplenty. I have seen it today, in this city. I have heard tell of new products from the west, of armor and weaponry crafted by alchemists. Many new knights have come of age, with hundreds of them here for the tournament. I do not see a nation incapable of showing strength.”

    It was Rosanna who responded to this, her voice pitched to show respect to the foreign heiress, her tone reasonable. “We have strength, Princess, but what you ask would cost many lives.”

    “And it would cost,” the Steward added. His almost impossibly deep voice made the final word echo in the chamber. “Our trade with Bantes and its sister nations has aided in the land’s recovery, but do not think they will be so intent on maintaining those relations if we squander them on hasty crusades against foes we have already cowed.”

    Through this debate, the Emperor remained silent. Rosanna’s bright green eyes watched the Graillwoman patiently, thoughtful. Ghostly murmurs drifted among the courtiers as private conversations took place on the side.

    “Cowed?” Snoe? Farram asked, blinking in disbelief at the towering councilor. “You believe the Gorelion is cowed?”

    A hush fell over the court. The Emperor’s head tilted, his thoughtful manner shifting immediately into a hard focus. Beyond him, his royal champion stood impassively, a steel statue. Rosanna’s lips formed a thinner line, and even the Steward went silent.

    A tightness formed in my chest. I remembered mad laughter echoing over the burning streets of Elfhome, when it still had that name. I remembered Yith’s gleeful words.

    The Gorelion has sworn to slay you.

    “Shall I say it?” Snoe? spat, baring her teeth.

    More silence. Rosanna glanced at her husband, a hint of concern cracking the glass of her imperial mien.

    “Ager Roth.”

    The Princess of Graill spoke into that silence, naming the demon who’d led the sack of the Golden Country. The hush which had fallen over the imperial court took on a breathless quality. The shadows seemed to darken near the edges of the room — I felt it, as the household spirits which clung to the Fulgurkeep’s ancient stone shivered at the sound of the dread name.

    “Blasphemy,” one of the clericons who hovered near the dais said, glaring at the princess.

    “Blasphemy?” Snoe?’s voice held disbelief, and a slow-smoldering rage. “Blasphemy is allowing that creature to squat in this, the sanctuary claimed for us by God Herself. Blasphemy is allowing him to linger in the very city in which She once held court over this land.”

    The princess began to pace back and forth, working herself into a fervor. The small bells hanging on braided threads over the mantle of her cloak voiced a silver tune with each motion, like whispering Wil-O’ Wisps. “That beast was the Cambion’s mentor. Our own scripture tells us he was there the day Blessed Onsolem fell. The Gorelion shed Heaven’s own blood, and now he is here, within reach of our swords!”

    She whirled, her cloak and bells swinging, and held up a closed fist to the Emperor and Empress. “It is heresy that we have waited this long to finish this war!” She snarled.

    At my side, Emma muttered. “Not that I’m one for zealots normally, but I kind of like her. She has some fire.”

    I didn’t reply, caught up trying to quell the unwanted rage boiling in my aura. The sacred fire in me had not enjoyed hearing even part of the demon lord’s true name.

    Rosanna’s voice emerged from her painted lips cold and low. “You overstep yourself, Princess, to accuse my lord-husband of heresy in his own court.”

    The younger woman’s face, already pale, lost some of its color. “I did not—”

    She took a breath and bowed to the throne, causing her braided black hair to veil her face. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I sometimes lose hold of my passions, especially where the safety of mine own homeland is concerned.”

    Into the ensuing silence, the Emperor finally broke his own. “We understand, Princess, and sympathize with your zeal. King Kyne’s service has not gone unnoticed by the Azure Round, nor by this court. Understand, however, that Elfgrave is not the only threat faced by the realms. With western trade comes other, more unwelcome eyes from beyond our lands. You are aware, aren’t you, that only a bare handful of nights past, a beast of Edaea landed in these very streets out of a storm, before being subdued by a group of knights here for my tournament?”

    The Princess nodded slowly, her expression still steely with discontent. “I have heard of this, Your Grace.”

    The Emperor nodded, his blunt features dense iron to the young woman’s quicksilver. “To commit the Accord’s armies to a crusade, for that is what your lord father asks, will require a unanimous agreement by both the lords of the Azure Round and by the Clericon College, who must sanctify any such endeavor. Additionally, it would leave us defenseless against further incursions from Edaea, or by other threats here closer to home.”

    Snoe?’s head tilted. “You refer to the remaining Recusant Lords? To Talsyn?”

    “Ah.” Markham Forger settled back into his throne, his demeanor relaxing somewhat. “On that, there is perhaps some happier news. We have been in talks with Hasur Vyke and his allies, with optimistic results.”

    The Graillman princess’s eyes narrowed. “Optimistic results? What could we desire of heretics and traitors, other than their unconditional surrender?”

    At that, the Lord Steward lifted a hand and gestured. Two individuals detached themselves from the group of dark-cloaked figures, stepping out into the center of the audience hall before stopping a short distance away from Snoe? Farram and her advisor. The old man next to the princess whispered something in her ear, the look on his face tight with caution.

    One of the two cloaked figures reached up to remove their hood, revealing a sallow faced young man only a bit older than Siriks and perhaps a year or three younger than Snoe?. I suspected this because I knew who it must be, but the man’s face looked prematurely aged, dotted with pockmarks, the pale blue eyes set deep and heavily shadowed, the effect subtly manic.

    He had dark hair, a dusty brown close to black, and a lanky, long-armed build beneath the cloak. A swordsman’s build. He stood with a slight hunch, his tangled hair falling down past his shoulders. He swept his ghoulish eyes over the court, something very like a sneer twitching at the corner of his lip.

    I knew him. I’d never seen him before, but I knew who it must be. And I had to resist the urge to rush to my queen’s side, to draw a weapon, to go on full guard.

    The Emperor’s voice echoed out over the court. “We introduce to the court the Prince Calerus of House Vyke, heir to the throne of Talsyn, and his sister, the Princess Hyperia Vyke. They are here as ambassadors on behalf of King Hasur, and in the prince’s case to participate in my tournament, I believe.”

    Voices rippled across the court, many of them alarmed. Siriks Sontae looked positively gleeful then — I could see him standing on the balls of his feet, talking animatedly to his fellows. Ser Jocelyn looked on impassively, though I noted he’d grown very still. Faisa Dance swept her fan up to her lips, though I caught the frown before she hid it.

    Rosanna’s hand tightened against the curling arm of her ebon-and-silver throne, her kohl-dotted eyes narrowing.

    Calerus Vyke dipped his head in a sketchy half bow to the Emperor. “That is correct, Your Grace.” His voice, like the rest of him, didn’t seem young. It was scratchy and hoarse, with barely a trace of a highborn accent.

    The Princess of Graill’s face flushed with rage. “You invited them here? Into this, the heart of our Accord? After everything that realm of butchers has done?”

    “Our father would like to extend his heartfelt gratitude at this offer of amnesty,” the other princess, Hyperia Vyke, said smoothly, ignoring the Farram girl. Unlike her brother, her voice was sweet and courteously pitched. She doffed her own cowl, revealing an unassuming, mildly pretty face which shared color with her brother’s but little else, save perhaps a kindred thinness of the lips and cheeks.

    And I knew her. I knew them both. I’d heard Hyperia’s sickly-sweet gush. I’d seen them both sat side by side, in almost the same outfits. I recognized their build, their mannerisms, from the prince’s predatory slouch to his sister’s floating grace. I just hadn’t recognized them for who they were at the time.

    Every detail in that faraway room had been imprinted into my memory, burned into my aura. Disguised or no, I saw them for what they were.

    “Alken?” Emma asked quietly. She’d noticed the sudden intensity of my glare, my clenched fist. “What is it?”

    The cowled twins in Orson’s dining hall. It was them. I felt certain.

    “Those two were at Caelfall,” I said so only Emma could hear. “They’re part of the Council of Cael.”