The Crow's Cry
- Thread starter Glenburne
- Start date
That night, Anlaida saw the trailing flame of Arran’s candle as he slipped up a side passage on his way to the upper levels, but she ignored it, turning the opposite way. Her superstitious brother had either gone entirely barbarian, or those ballads his mother had sung, the ballads written in the peddler’s small book, had altered something of the Arran she had known. Or did I ever know him?
Her room, golden with uncertain candlelight, beckoned, but a restless spirit seemed to enter her feet, and she passed down the hall, by stairways and up corridors. By Soldor’s study she halted—he had left the door swaying open on its iron hinges, and crumpled papers scattering the floor. Gathering the papers in her hands, she continued on her way. Soldor knew—had been frequently instructed—to carry his trash to the wooden bin inside the water closet, but crumpled missives and ledger sheets often decorated the floor of his study.
She examined the papers in her hands, finding two ledger sheets, the crude inky drawing of a falcon, and an attempted letter. To the excellent Lord Denath of Salenna, greeting. Give my sincerest regards to— The last character was followed by an angry jolt of pen. Soldor hated composition of any kind, and personal missives above all.
Lord Denath, indeed. What below the skies would Soldor want with him? She deposited the papers in the proper container, clearly due for dumping into Bradoth Deep the next day. The tender’s son would come to collect the bin tomorrow morning, removing its contents for his father to burn in their hot place.
Anlaida made rounds of the first floor rooms, scanning them to see if anything was dust-specked or out of place. But Ulma had completed her tasks thoroughly, and Anlaida returned to the second floor rooms in the west wing. Slipping into her own chamber, she laid down on the bed as if to sleep in her clothes. Flame from the wall-candle jerked awkwardly, pulling shadows in every imaginable direction. She rolled to her feet. Even the roof might be preferable to stalking off her sleeplessness up and down the length of her bedchamber.
Anlaida scarcely ever visited the upper levels, generally leaving the servingmaids to do cleaning of them nearly unsupervised. The castle, stone and passaged inside, was cold as a rule, and the upper levels were even colder. She found that the shawl she had wrapped around herself could not block the drafts of air that seemed to breathe through the halls at whim. Clearly, she needed to be more sure that the upper levels were being cleaned more often: while a few cobwebs were rather to be expected, given how seldom the highest castle rooms were used, the accumulation of dirt in nearly every corner was not.
And someone assaulted Arran up here. She attempted to shake the thought from her head, but another followed as swiftly—It’s a small wonder.
Whoever had attacked Arran must have possessed a rather intimate knowledge of this particular castle, and of Arran’s habits in particular. One of the guard that came with Corath and his sisters, perhaps? Left behind, hiding in one of these rooms, watching us—
She scrutinized every shadow as she approached it, nearly jumping at the sound of her own breaths. Torches fastened at intervals to the walls cast a dull yellow light on the flagstones beneath her feet. She found the trap door onto the roof after some fifteen minutes of wandering and launched herself through it into darkness. “Arran?”
A black form separated suddenly from the castle wall. “Anlaida?” Her brother’s voice.
“I believe you made an invitation,” she said, stepping carefully forward.
He laughed aloud. “Aye, and you’re either bored or more trusting than most.”
She flushed in the darkness, smiling. “Bored. About the latter—you know better.”
“True,” he agreed. “’Fraid you’ve chosen a poor night for star watching, though. Even Rhonan has hardly moved tonight, and he—well. I can tell you about them, though.”
She followed him toward the edge of the roof and stood back as he sat easily down on the parapet. “Arran, do you realize how long that drop is?”
He nodded. She could scarcely make out the movement in the darkness.
“You should consider developing a fear of heights. I’m told it’s more valuable than not.”
He laughed at her, and she wondered that his laugh had survived so well.
“Seriously, Arran. You’re scaring me.”
He hopped off the wall , but only to oblige her, she felt sure. He pointed toward the sky. “Look, Anlaida. Mor is the one right above us—the oldest of the stars that shine in the North. He’s quiet tonight, but you can see his face—”
Anlaida squinted and frowned. “Arran, I can see the star you’re talking about is a little mottled, but there’s no face.”
His silence frowned at her.
“I really don’t see anything, Arran.”
“Do you usually have trouble seeing things that are far away?”
“Perhaps—no—I don’t know, Arran!” She shook her head. “But the stars are close up here.”
He blew out a breath. “You really don’t see it.”
“Did you when you were here before?” Anlaida demanded. She looked toward the sky, so fierce in its darkness where star-heat did not fall. The stars hung low over the castle tower, burning gold and white against the heavens.
He shrugged. “I never came up here.”
“Did you ever look out the windows?”
“I—” he faltered, lapsing into quiet. “Yes. And—”
“And?”
“I suppose I saw what you’re seeing now.”
She touched the cold stone parapet, not daring to glance down. “We’re wasting our time here, Arran.”
He shook his head, sitting on the parapet again. “I guess the first time I saw—” He stopped.
Anlaida could nearly feel the heat of the star he had called Mor.
“It was with Ronag,” he said huskily. “He took me to what the maps call Eagle-head Rock the night after I came, and—”
“And?” Anlaida said.
Arran’s voice seemed to clog his throat. He coughed several times, awkward with the pain of his memories. “If you come again, then maybe—”
She waited for Arran to finish his sentence, but he pulled away and swung his feet over the edge of the parapet. Anlaida stood still, looking at the faceless stars. Then she turned and slipped toward the door. Her foot caught on a jagged flagstone, scraping. Arran did not move. His face, turned to the light-spotted sky, might have been granite.
Her room, golden with uncertain candlelight, beckoned, but a restless spirit seemed to enter her feet, and she passed down the hall, by stairways and up corridors. By Soldor’s study she halted—he had left the door swaying open on its iron hinges, and crumpled papers scattering the floor. Gathering the papers in her hands, she continued on her way. Soldor knew—had been frequently instructed—to carry his trash to the wooden bin inside the water closet, but crumpled missives and ledger sheets often decorated the floor of his study.
She examined the papers in her hands, finding two ledger sheets, the crude inky drawing of a falcon, and an attempted letter. To the excellent Lord Denath of Salenna, greeting. Give my sincerest regards to— The last character was followed by an angry jolt of pen. Soldor hated composition of any kind, and personal missives above all.
Lord Denath, indeed. What below the skies would Soldor want with him? She deposited the papers in the proper container, clearly due for dumping into Bradoth Deep the next day. The tender’s son would come to collect the bin tomorrow morning, removing its contents for his father to burn in their hot place.
Anlaida made rounds of the first floor rooms, scanning them to see if anything was dust-specked or out of place. But Ulma had completed her tasks thoroughly, and Anlaida returned to the second floor rooms in the west wing. Slipping into her own chamber, she laid down on the bed as if to sleep in her clothes. Flame from the wall-candle jerked awkwardly, pulling shadows in every imaginable direction. She rolled to her feet. Even the roof might be preferable to stalking off her sleeplessness up and down the length of her bedchamber.
Anlaida scarcely ever visited the upper levels, generally leaving the servingmaids to do cleaning of them nearly unsupervised. The castle, stone and passaged inside, was cold as a rule, and the upper levels were even colder. She found that the shawl she had wrapped around herself could not block the drafts of air that seemed to breathe through the halls at whim. Clearly, she needed to be more sure that the upper levels were being cleaned more often: while a few cobwebs were rather to be expected, given how seldom the highest castle rooms were used, the accumulation of dirt in nearly every corner was not.
And someone assaulted Arran up here. She attempted to shake the thought from her head, but another followed as swiftly—It’s a small wonder.
Whoever had attacked Arran must have possessed a rather intimate knowledge of this particular castle, and of Arran’s habits in particular. One of the guard that came with Corath and his sisters, perhaps? Left behind, hiding in one of these rooms, watching us—
She scrutinized every shadow as she approached it, nearly jumping at the sound of her own breaths. Torches fastened at intervals to the walls cast a dull yellow light on the flagstones beneath her feet. She found the trap door onto the roof after some fifteen minutes of wandering and launched herself through it into darkness. “Arran?”
A black form separated suddenly from the castle wall. “Anlaida?” Her brother’s voice.
“I believe you made an invitation,” she said, stepping carefully forward.
He laughed aloud. “Aye, and you’re either bored or more trusting than most.”
She flushed in the darkness, smiling. “Bored. About the latter—you know better.”
“True,” he agreed. “’Fraid you’ve chosen a poor night for star watching, though. Even Rhonan has hardly moved tonight, and he—well. I can tell you about them, though.”
She followed him toward the edge of the roof and stood back as he sat easily down on the parapet. “Arran, do you realize how long that drop is?”
He nodded. She could scarcely make out the movement in the darkness.
“You should consider developing a fear of heights. I’m told it’s more valuable than not.”
He laughed at her, and she wondered that his laugh had survived so well.
“Seriously, Arran. You’re scaring me.”
He hopped off the wall , but only to oblige her, she felt sure. He pointed toward the sky. “Look, Anlaida. Mor is the one right above us—the oldest of the stars that shine in the North. He’s quiet tonight, but you can see his face—”
Anlaida squinted and frowned. “Arran, I can see the star you’re talking about is a little mottled, but there’s no face.”
His silence frowned at her.
“I really don’t see anything, Arran.”
“Do you usually have trouble seeing things that are far away?”
“Perhaps—no—I don’t know, Arran!” She shook her head. “But the stars are close up here.”
He blew out a breath. “You really don’t see it.”
“Did you when you were here before?” Anlaida demanded. She looked toward the sky, so fierce in its darkness where star-heat did not fall. The stars hung low over the castle tower, burning gold and white against the heavens.
He shrugged. “I never came up here.”
“Did you ever look out the windows?”
“I—” he faltered, lapsing into quiet. “Yes. And—”
“And?”
“I suppose I saw what you’re seeing now.”
She touched the cold stone parapet, not daring to glance down. “We’re wasting our time here, Arran.”
He shook his head, sitting on the parapet again. “I guess the first time I saw—” He stopped.
Anlaida could nearly feel the heat of the star he had called Mor.
“It was with Ronag,” he said huskily. “He took me to what the maps call Eagle-head Rock the night after I came, and—”
“And?” Anlaida said.
Arran’s voice seemed to clog his throat. He coughed several times, awkward with the pain of his memories. “If you come again, then maybe—”
She waited for Arran to finish his sentence, but he pulled away and swung his feet over the edge of the parapet. Anlaida stood still, looking at the faceless stars. Then she turned and slipped toward the door. Her foot caught on a jagged flagstone, scraping. Arran did not move. His face, turned to the light-spotted sky, might have been granite.
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This is so exciting! 
Post more!
Post more!
Beef, 8 weight. Eggs, 5. Flour, 24 wt. Honey, 3 jars (10 wt. each). Anlaida scanned the cook’s list of needs for the week and struggled to think of anything that might have been missed. She was distracted, and had been so since her descent from the roof the previous night.
Certainly the stars had hung closer to earth than she had ever noticed before, but she had seen nothing else unusual in the dark sky. Yet while she had stood uncomfortable under Arran’s eyes, Arran had stood beneath the bright eyes of the stars. True, she had seen no forms in the blazing orbs above them, but Arran clearly had. He was no liar, and his words to her lacked the smoothness she would have expected in a lie, especially in a lie on so wild a subject. She could think of no sensible reason for him to lie about faces in the stars, anyway. And Arran was obviously sane. She could only imagine three possible explanations—that his time with the barbarians had given him a sadly overactive imagination, that he had a rather unusual eye disease, or that he had spoken the truth. Frankly, Anlaida found the third option to be the most plausible.
Whatever Arran had seen, though, she was apparently unable to see, and she had no great desire to watch her brother risking his life on the parapet for the sake of looking at stars she could see from her bedroom window. Red fabric, 14 rods length, she noted below the cook’s thin scrawl. The faded drapes in one of the guest bedrooms had needed replacements for some time, and she hoped that next week she would have the time to measure and sew new ones.
As evening fell, Anlaida rejected the very idea of following Arran up to the roof. Yet something about the previous evening’s venture stood sentry on the nether walls of her mind, and she found herself waiting at her bedroom window, gazing over a shadow-cloaked courtyard to the stars, dimmer from here than on the roof. At least Arran was right in that sky-watching is better done from a higher vantage point.
Guards shifted on the castle wall, restless. Clentos had promised to assign more experienced soldiers to night duty, but even these veterans seemed rather bored, uncertain of exactly what, if anything, Soldor had been so insistent that they watch for. Anlaida doubted sincerely that Arran’s assailant had entered the castle by climbing over the wall in a crow-black midnight. She struggled to find something significant in Arran’s description of the man, but the frank truth was that anyone—bandit, townsman, or servant—could have donned a cloak and come after her half-brother. It was an unusual place to waylay someone, though, she thought, touching the cold stones of the windowsill. Well chosen, certainly, but a place only a man who had been watching Arran for some length of time could have chosen. Not the job of a simple bandit who slipped over the castle wall.
She looked soberly down at the black figures of guards, pacing their boredom on the castle wall. Someone’s being paid well, I think.
Anlaida fingered the fringe on the curtain hanging heavy beside her. One of the other lords might want the gold mines, but they would never hold onto the Northland. Besides, killing Soldor would only put Arran or uncle into place as baron. Uncle….
Soldor, and Uliath before him, was not always on the most cordial of terms with their half-uncle Kalon, but Kalon had once played with a far younger Soldor on his knee. That Kalon would stoop to killing his own blood was unthinkable.
Arran had never liked Kalon, as Anlaida recalled.
Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She blinked and turned her head. Mor hung over the horizon, shedding silver-grey light over the distant plains.
Then he moved.
Mor’s shifting was so slight that if Anlaida had not been staring directly at him, she would never have noticed. She bit her knuckle.
He seemed to curve downwards briefly.
She ducked her head. Her fingers, stained with ink from her day’s work, lay warm on the windowsill. Real.
When she glanced up, Mor hung still on the horizon, a quiet silver light. She slipped into a nightgown and heaved herself into the four-posted bed that remained slightly too high for her. Burrowing beneath the covers, she curled on her side, comfortable at last. Wool tickled her chin. Was he bowing to me? Her stomach shuddered at the thought.
A nightbird called through the window, but Anlaida, smothered in her blankets, did not hear.
Certainly the stars had hung closer to earth than she had ever noticed before, but she had seen nothing else unusual in the dark sky. Yet while she had stood uncomfortable under Arran’s eyes, Arran had stood beneath the bright eyes of the stars. True, she had seen no forms in the blazing orbs above them, but Arran clearly had. He was no liar, and his words to her lacked the smoothness she would have expected in a lie, especially in a lie on so wild a subject. She could think of no sensible reason for him to lie about faces in the stars, anyway. And Arran was obviously sane. She could only imagine three possible explanations—that his time with the barbarians had given him a sadly overactive imagination, that he had a rather unusual eye disease, or that he had spoken the truth. Frankly, Anlaida found the third option to be the most plausible.
Whatever Arran had seen, though, she was apparently unable to see, and she had no great desire to watch her brother risking his life on the parapet for the sake of looking at stars she could see from her bedroom window. Red fabric, 14 rods length, she noted below the cook’s thin scrawl. The faded drapes in one of the guest bedrooms had needed replacements for some time, and she hoped that next week she would have the time to measure and sew new ones.
As evening fell, Anlaida rejected the very idea of following Arran up to the roof. Yet something about the previous evening’s venture stood sentry on the nether walls of her mind, and she found herself waiting at her bedroom window, gazing over a shadow-cloaked courtyard to the stars, dimmer from here than on the roof. At least Arran was right in that sky-watching is better done from a higher vantage point.
Guards shifted on the castle wall, restless. Clentos had promised to assign more experienced soldiers to night duty, but even these veterans seemed rather bored, uncertain of exactly what, if anything, Soldor had been so insistent that they watch for. Anlaida doubted sincerely that Arran’s assailant had entered the castle by climbing over the wall in a crow-black midnight. She struggled to find something significant in Arran’s description of the man, but the frank truth was that anyone—bandit, townsman, or servant—could have donned a cloak and come after her half-brother. It was an unusual place to waylay someone, though, she thought, touching the cold stones of the windowsill. Well chosen, certainly, but a place only a man who had been watching Arran for some length of time could have chosen. Not the job of a simple bandit who slipped over the castle wall.
She looked soberly down at the black figures of guards, pacing their boredom on the castle wall. Someone’s being paid well, I think.
Anlaida fingered the fringe on the curtain hanging heavy beside her. One of the other lords might want the gold mines, but they would never hold onto the Northland. Besides, killing Soldor would only put Arran or uncle into place as baron. Uncle….
Soldor, and Uliath before him, was not always on the most cordial of terms with their half-uncle Kalon, but Kalon had once played with a far younger Soldor on his knee. That Kalon would stoop to killing his own blood was unthinkable.
Arran had never liked Kalon, as Anlaida recalled.
Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She blinked and turned her head. Mor hung over the horizon, shedding silver-grey light over the distant plains.
Then he moved.
Mor’s shifting was so slight that if Anlaida had not been staring directly at him, she would never have noticed. She bit her knuckle.
He seemed to curve downwards briefly.
She ducked her head. Her fingers, stained with ink from her day’s work, lay warm on the windowsill. Real.
When she glanced up, Mor hung still on the horizon, a quiet silver light. She slipped into a nightgown and heaved herself into the four-posted bed that remained slightly too high for her. Burrowing beneath the covers, she curled on her side, comfortable at last. Wool tickled her chin. Was he bowing to me? Her stomach shuddered at the thought.
A nightbird called through the window, but Anlaida, smothered in her blankets, did not hear.
This is getting really exciting! Thanks for the update- I can't wait to read more!
The voice whispered into his core, rising and then slipping into silence. But Arran could feel its presence burning hot against his chest, and the stars flamed in the dark plains above him. Lossyr still danced to the memory of words, her golden tresses flying toward Ardall. Nyn-aer, Arran thought. You came at last.
He swung his feet from his seat on the parapet, hoping that Ronag was somewhere safe in the nether Tablelands, watching this same sky. The castle wall dropped away from him, stretching down into the darkness of the courtyard.
“Do the stars ever—flash—when you go up to the roof?” Anlaida had hesitantly asked him at dinner.
“Sometimes. Depends on what they’re saying.”
“Can you see them—flash—from the windows?”
“Not as much.”
Wind brushed his cheek. Anlaida wanted so much, but, in the same stroke, she feared too much to hold it. Anlaida.
Lossyr slowly retreated to her place. Ardall reached his red-gold hand to her, and they stood together, twin spheres of light in a bowl of sky. The dance of night was ending. Arran moved to swing his legs back onto the roof.
He barely heard the clack of boot on flagstone, but the sudden desperate blazing of Anaroc caused him to whirl toward the faint sound.
A figure stood there, shrouded by the shadow of the roof. Arran could see little of his form except to know that the man wore no cloak. But still Arran knew.
It’s reckoning day. “You said two weeks.”
“You wore out your time without help. Can you poison him, gone, warned, and carrying the beans in his pocket?” The man leaped forward, viciousness in the move.
Arran frantically cast a glance at the trap door, but it lay directly behind the man. He jumped off the parapet, wishing for a weapon. He’ll gut me here and leave me bleed to death.
But the man carried no blade as he rushed forward. Arran stood still, flinging himself down at the last possible moment. The man stumbled, off balance, while Arran scrambled toward the trap door.
His assailant recovered too quickly and blocked Arran’s path, grabbing him by the shirt. Arran fought back, stamping at the man’s booted feet and slamming both fists into his stomach. Shock jolted up his healing right arm, but pain was irrelevant now. He attempted to rake his nails at his assailant’s eyes. The man slammed a fist into his jaw.
Arran kicked at the man’s knee; the man stumbled briefly, and Arran struggled to twist away. His enemy gave a growl of pain and then lunged at Arran again, driving him backward, toward the parapet.
Arran, do you realize how long that drop is?
He gasped and slammed his fists into the man’s gut again, hoping desperately that his fears were wrong. Bellowing, the assailant continued to drive forward.
You should consider developing a fear of heights. I’m told it’s more valuable than not.
With a twisting of his legs, Arran managed to knock both of them to the flagstones, himself on top. His hands clutched at the assailant’s throat. If he could hold on until the man became unconscious, then—
Five sweating, straining seconds burned between them. Desperate now, the man clawed at Arran’s face. Arran jerked with the pain, and in that moment the man grabbed at Arran’s right arm, violently pulling it up and then slamming it down against the paving stones.
The pain cracked through his body as a snapping sound stung his ears. His left hand lay limp on his assailant’s throat, and then he was being dragged upright again. Arran struggled vainly, his right arm useless at his side.
A cry of agony split the night, and it took Arran several seconds to realize that it had come from his assailant. The man dropped him to the stones, whirling to face some new threat.
Arran, lying on his side, saw the hem of a skirt through the man’s legs. Anlaida. Sky-father— He threw his left arm around the assailant’s ankles just as Anlaida flung herself at his upper body. The man tilted over the parapet, grappling helplessly at the wall, and Arran lost his grip on the man’s legs.
The scream tore through them both, searing through their stomachs and echoing in the darkness. And then it ended.
Anlaida stared over the parapet, stunned. Arran struggled into a sitting position, clutching his fractured arm against his chest. “Anlaida—”
She dropped to her knees beside him. “Are you all right?”
“Broke my arm again. But I’m alive.” He sucked in a slow breath. “How—how—”
She took his right arm in her hands, gently feeling along it. He swallowed the pain as best he could.
“I saw Mor flash through my window, and I wanted—” But she shook her head. “If I hadn’t looked last night—”
She did not finish her sentence, instead helping him struggle to his feet. “We’ve got to tell Clentos. They’ll need to find the body once daylight comes. And I’d best send a rider after Tolar—you need a physician again.”
Arran laughed suddenly. There was nothing funny about the moment, nothing humorous about the way Anlaida had phrased her words. But relief flowed through him like cool water down a dry throat, and he could not hold back his laughter. It occurred to him that he was alive.
He swung his feet from his seat on the parapet, hoping that Ronag was somewhere safe in the nether Tablelands, watching this same sky. The castle wall dropped away from him, stretching down into the darkness of the courtyard.
“Do the stars ever—flash—when you go up to the roof?” Anlaida had hesitantly asked him at dinner.
“Sometimes. Depends on what they’re saying.”
“Can you see them—flash—from the windows?”
“Not as much.”
Wind brushed his cheek. Anlaida wanted so much, but, in the same stroke, she feared too much to hold it. Anlaida.
Lossyr slowly retreated to her place. Ardall reached his red-gold hand to her, and they stood together, twin spheres of light in a bowl of sky. The dance of night was ending. Arran moved to swing his legs back onto the roof.
He barely heard the clack of boot on flagstone, but the sudden desperate blazing of Anaroc caused him to whirl toward the faint sound.
A figure stood there, shrouded by the shadow of the roof. Arran could see little of his form except to know that the man wore no cloak. But still Arran knew.
It’s reckoning day. “You said two weeks.”
“You wore out your time without help. Can you poison him, gone, warned, and carrying the beans in his pocket?” The man leaped forward, viciousness in the move.
Arran frantically cast a glance at the trap door, but it lay directly behind the man. He jumped off the parapet, wishing for a weapon. He’ll gut me here and leave me bleed to death.
But the man carried no blade as he rushed forward. Arran stood still, flinging himself down at the last possible moment. The man stumbled, off balance, while Arran scrambled toward the trap door.
His assailant recovered too quickly and blocked Arran’s path, grabbing him by the shirt. Arran fought back, stamping at the man’s booted feet and slamming both fists into his stomach. Shock jolted up his healing right arm, but pain was irrelevant now. He attempted to rake his nails at his assailant’s eyes. The man slammed a fist into his jaw.
Arran kicked at the man’s knee; the man stumbled briefly, and Arran struggled to twist away. His enemy gave a growl of pain and then lunged at Arran again, driving him backward, toward the parapet.
Arran, do you realize how long that drop is?
He gasped and slammed his fists into the man’s gut again, hoping desperately that his fears were wrong. Bellowing, the assailant continued to drive forward.
You should consider developing a fear of heights. I’m told it’s more valuable than not.
With a twisting of his legs, Arran managed to knock both of them to the flagstones, himself on top. His hands clutched at the assailant’s throat. If he could hold on until the man became unconscious, then—
Five sweating, straining seconds burned between them. Desperate now, the man clawed at Arran’s face. Arran jerked with the pain, and in that moment the man grabbed at Arran’s right arm, violently pulling it up and then slamming it down against the paving stones.
The pain cracked through his body as a snapping sound stung his ears. His left hand lay limp on his assailant’s throat, and then he was being dragged upright again. Arran struggled vainly, his right arm useless at his side.
A cry of agony split the night, and it took Arran several seconds to realize that it had come from his assailant. The man dropped him to the stones, whirling to face some new threat.
Arran, lying on his side, saw the hem of a skirt through the man’s legs. Anlaida. Sky-father— He threw his left arm around the assailant’s ankles just as Anlaida flung herself at his upper body. The man tilted over the parapet, grappling helplessly at the wall, and Arran lost his grip on the man’s legs.
The scream tore through them both, searing through their stomachs and echoing in the darkness. And then it ended.
Anlaida stared over the parapet, stunned. Arran struggled into a sitting position, clutching his fractured arm against his chest. “Anlaida—”
She dropped to her knees beside him. “Are you all right?”
“Broke my arm again. But I’m alive.” He sucked in a slow breath. “How—how—”
She took his right arm in her hands, gently feeling along it. He swallowed the pain as best he could.
“I saw Mor flash through my window, and I wanted—” But she shook her head. “If I hadn’t looked last night—”
She did not finish her sentence, instead helping him struggle to his feet. “We’ve got to tell Clentos. They’ll need to find the body once daylight comes. And I’d best send a rider after Tolar—you need a physician again.”
Arran laughed suddenly. There was nothing funny about the moment, nothing humorous about the way Anlaida had phrased her words. But relief flowed through him like cool water down a dry throat, and he could not hold back his laughter. It occurred to him that he was alive.
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That was EXCITING! I'm starting to really like Arran as a character.
A rose-tinged sky illuminated the body, twisted and broken, lying crumpled against the inside of the castle wall. Anlaida grimaced as Clentos pulled aside the cloak to reveal the blood-smeared body of Arran’s attacker. Red glimmered on the dark rings of a mail shirt.
“By Destiny—” Clentos spat. “Hadoth, that sneaking—”
Anlaida felt the yellow dawn on her face. “You mean that—”
Clentos threw his hand toward the body in anger too fierce for words. “He’s been in the Guard for six years. Small wonder there was no sign of an intruder. Small wonder that he went for Arran. Hadoth knew the exact dynamics of your family, the exact layout of the upper levels.”
“Not the exact dynamics, I think,” Anlaida said. “Or he’d never have tried involving Arran.”
Clentos acknowledged her words. “Hadoth had no reason to kill Soldor. No motive. He’s served under Soldor for several years, and I’ve never heard him complain about his employment.”
“Then you suggest—” Anlaida pulled her wrap closer against the morning air.
“I’m not certain what I suggest,” Clentos said. “But Hadoth loved a good game of chance. Had a gamer’s instincts and love for gold. Gold—that might explain it all.”
“You think someone hired him as a killer.”
“I have suspicions,” Clentos said, studying the broken form at their feet.
A certain sickness plucked at Anlaida’s stomach. “This isn’t over, then.”
Clentos met her gaze grimly. “Quite possibly not.”
Anlaida turned away and retreated inside. She slipped up the steps and into Arran’s chamber. Her brother lay asleep, dulled to pain through some sedative the doctor had given him. She sat softly in the chair beside his bed. His jaw was swollen where Hadoth had hit him, and red fingernail marks tore along his left cheek. Tolar had splinted the arm and strapped it across Arran’s chest so that he wouldn’t injure it even more.
Ah, Soldor, what a time you’ve missed, Anlaida thought ruefully. She played her fingers at the edge of Arran’s coverlet, clenched them, and dropped her hand back into her lap.
But if Hadoth had indeed been bought for money, then there was a distinct possibility that the vengeful employer might not be cowed by the loss of his man. In that case, Soldor might be able to experience much more. She shuddered. Hadoth’s belongings would be searched, of course, but she frankly doubted they would contain anything of great worth. The man had lived in a barracks; had he kept incriminating items in his things, anyone might have stumbled across them.
Arran stirred. She stilled, hoping not to wake him. Vengeance or greed? She wondered. Arran being Second Heir, either could be the cause. A man as yet without face or name had nearly been the death of them both. She struggled in vain to block memories of the rooftop struggle from her mind. I just killed a man. Her first time. By Virtue—or the stars, I don’t know—may it be the last.
Her brother had killed before in battle. Anlaida had not. If I hadn’t, I’d have let him die. Never could I— The man's scream echoed down the back of her mind. Oh, Arran.
Arran kicked at his blankets and awakened. Blinking, he found her eyes. “They find him?”
“It was a guardsman,” she answered gravely.
Her brother bit his lip as the full import of her statement grew in his mind. “Who?”
“Hadoth.”
He seemed to recognize the name.
“Arran, sleep.”
Willingly, he closed his eyes.
Arran, Arran. Almost unknowingly, she stroked the hair back from his forehead.
“Ouch.”
She withdrew her hand. “Arran, go to sleep.”
In a moment, she heard his even breathing and knew that her will had been obeyed. You know he’s pretty well beaten if he’s compliant, she considered wryly.
She stood to leave. I hope Soldor will return soon. I’m tired of being the oldest. She gently massaged her lower back. Arran really needs a new bedspread. I wonder…. So thinking, she slipped out of the room.
“By Destiny—” Clentos spat. “Hadoth, that sneaking—”
Anlaida felt the yellow dawn on her face. “You mean that—”
Clentos threw his hand toward the body in anger too fierce for words. “He’s been in the Guard for six years. Small wonder there was no sign of an intruder. Small wonder that he went for Arran. Hadoth knew the exact dynamics of your family, the exact layout of the upper levels.”
“Not the exact dynamics, I think,” Anlaida said. “Or he’d never have tried involving Arran.”
Clentos acknowledged her words. “Hadoth had no reason to kill Soldor. No motive. He’s served under Soldor for several years, and I’ve never heard him complain about his employment.”
“Then you suggest—” Anlaida pulled her wrap closer against the morning air.
“I’m not certain what I suggest,” Clentos said. “But Hadoth loved a good game of chance. Had a gamer’s instincts and love for gold. Gold—that might explain it all.”
“You think someone hired him as a killer.”
“I have suspicions,” Clentos said, studying the broken form at their feet.
A certain sickness plucked at Anlaida’s stomach. “This isn’t over, then.”
Clentos met her gaze grimly. “Quite possibly not.”
Anlaida turned away and retreated inside. She slipped up the steps and into Arran’s chamber. Her brother lay asleep, dulled to pain through some sedative the doctor had given him. She sat softly in the chair beside his bed. His jaw was swollen where Hadoth had hit him, and red fingernail marks tore along his left cheek. Tolar had splinted the arm and strapped it across Arran’s chest so that he wouldn’t injure it even more.
Ah, Soldor, what a time you’ve missed, Anlaida thought ruefully. She played her fingers at the edge of Arran’s coverlet, clenched them, and dropped her hand back into her lap.
But if Hadoth had indeed been bought for money, then there was a distinct possibility that the vengeful employer might not be cowed by the loss of his man. In that case, Soldor might be able to experience much more. She shuddered. Hadoth’s belongings would be searched, of course, but she frankly doubted they would contain anything of great worth. The man had lived in a barracks; had he kept incriminating items in his things, anyone might have stumbled across them.
Arran stirred. She stilled, hoping not to wake him. Vengeance or greed? She wondered. Arran being Second Heir, either could be the cause. A man as yet without face or name had nearly been the death of them both. She struggled in vain to block memories of the rooftop struggle from her mind. I just killed a man. Her first time. By Virtue—or the stars, I don’t know—may it be the last.
Her brother had killed before in battle. Anlaida had not. If I hadn’t, I’d have let him die. Never could I— The man's scream echoed down the back of her mind. Oh, Arran.
Arran kicked at his blankets and awakened. Blinking, he found her eyes. “They find him?”
“It was a guardsman,” she answered gravely.
Her brother bit his lip as the full import of her statement grew in his mind. “Who?”
“Hadoth.”
He seemed to recognize the name.
“Arran, sleep.”
Willingly, he closed his eyes.
Arran, Arran. Almost unknowingly, she stroked the hair back from his forehead.
“Ouch.”
She withdrew her hand. “Arran, go to sleep.”
In a moment, she heard his even breathing and knew that her will had been obeyed. You know he’s pretty well beaten if he’s compliant, she considered wryly.
She stood to leave. I hope Soldor will return soon. I’m tired of being the oldest. She gently massaged her lower back. Arran really needs a new bedspread. I wonder…. So thinking, she slipped out of the room.
This part made me laugh.
Keep up the good work!
Arran leaned against the low part of the roof, broken arm resting atop his knees. Pain medication partially dulled the pain that shot through the bone whenever he moved too quickly, but the physical remnants of the struggle two nights earlier had convinced him that he perhaps was not safest while swinging his legs over the edge of the parapet.
Anaroc, the star of warning, lay calmly in the southern sky. Although Arran had purposed to keep a careful watch on that star in particular, not wanting a repeat of the previous night, Anaroc continued to gleam peacefully. The sky seemed at rest tonight.
He hummed a verse from one of his mother’s songs under his breath. Star-people fade and die, Aurah Adair. Lost is their battle-cry, Aurah Adair. But when their souls take flight, dark skies flash full with light. Death cannot rule the night, Aurah Adair.
A soft thunk broke the stillness as Anlaida climbed through the trap door onto the roof. She stood, a graceful black shape against the light-spotted sky.
Arran nodded a greeting, but refrained from speech.
She haltingly lowered herself onto the stones beside him. “Arran,” she said.
He waited, loath to break the sky’s quietude.
“Are you mad?”
He understood. “The man died, Anlaida.”
“And if he was hired?”
“Then it’s doubtful another man would copy his methods, since attempting to knock me off a roof failed pretty miserably.”
She pulled her knees against her chest as if for warmth. “I don’t understand how you could come up here again.”
He noticed that she appeared oddly small, even bundled in a cloak. “Anlaida, I’m sorry.”
She shivered, but did not respond.
“You dreamed about it,” he said.
“Yes.” Her voice had grown quiet. “I killed a man—”
“Because I couldn’t kill him first,” Arran responded bluntly. “Because he wanted to kill your half-brother with your brother as the goal.”
“I never wanted—” She slipped into silence, watching the sky.
He wondered what she saw there. Peace, he hoped.
“Why does coming here matter so much to you? I can’t see the parapet without thinking that you might have—”
“If you’ll notice, I’m not very near it tonight,” he said gently.
“But why come back? The stars are beautiful, but the parapet—”
Arran laid a hand on her arm. “It will pass.”
She waited.
“The stars are beautiful,” he murmured. “But not enough. It’s him that keeps me—“
She pulled upright. “Nyn-aer,” she said.
Arran continued, his voice a tumble of awkward fragments. “He speaks—sometimes—and—and—” He looked toward Mor, the old one. “I’ve heard him angry,” Arran said softly. “Furious with the evil. And I’ve heard him weep—enough to break your heart, and the world with it. But—once—”
Anlaida turned her face toward the stars.
“I heard him laugh, Anlaida. Laugh, like thunder, and freer than anyone in my life—thought he would bowl over the universe—but no—” Arran suddenly felt that his cheeks were wet. “The only one he managed to bowl over was me.”
“You—” She stopped.
“It’s all right.” He stood awkwardly, using his good arm for balance against the low roof.
She rose, quiet. “Is he why you stayed?”
Something quivered in his chest. He knew the color of Ronag’s beard, his eyes, but the Watcher’s exact features eluded him. The hoarse voice of a moor crow— “The greatest of all reasons. But there were others.”
“Didn’t they know whose son you were?”
Arran nodded. “They don’t reckon those things the way we do. A man stands on his own merits.”
Anlaida pulled her arms to her chest, crossing them against the night coolness. “You were hardly a man. You’re not one now.”
Arran looked toward the parapet, black against the black sky. “With the People, I was a man a year ago. It doesn’t matter, really. There’s men aplenty, but not many good ones. That’s what Ronag said then.”
“Ronag.” She tasted the name on her tongue. “Who is he?”
“He took me in. His wife and four children were taken by the North Wind the year before. He was lonely, and I was alone. I guess he was a foster-father of sorts, although I never called him that.”
“Taken by what?”
“Ah—” He felt his face burn, though shadowed by the darkness. “The North Wind—it’s an idiom, of a sort—”
“For death?”
“For winter, and cold, and the passing of things. Yes.”
“They all know of him? and them?” She nodded toward the sky.
“Of him. But not all watch, and some watch more than others.”
Eliane flashed suddenly, streaking gold across the night as she caught Lossyr by the arms and whirled her in a dance. Anlaida stared, fascinated.
He knew that she saw. “They’re playing.”
“Like children who never knew a wrong.”
“No,” he said. “Not innocence. Holiness.”
“Ronag told you this?” She tilted her head back to gaze at the flashing of lights above them.
He smiled. “Every word.”
Anaroc, the star of warning, lay calmly in the southern sky. Although Arran had purposed to keep a careful watch on that star in particular, not wanting a repeat of the previous night, Anaroc continued to gleam peacefully. The sky seemed at rest tonight.
He hummed a verse from one of his mother’s songs under his breath. Star-people fade and die, Aurah Adair. Lost is their battle-cry, Aurah Adair. But when their souls take flight, dark skies flash full with light. Death cannot rule the night, Aurah Adair.
A soft thunk broke the stillness as Anlaida climbed through the trap door onto the roof. She stood, a graceful black shape against the light-spotted sky.
Arran nodded a greeting, but refrained from speech.
She haltingly lowered herself onto the stones beside him. “Arran,” she said.
He waited, loath to break the sky’s quietude.
“Are you mad?”
He understood. “The man died, Anlaida.”
“And if he was hired?”
“Then it’s doubtful another man would copy his methods, since attempting to knock me off a roof failed pretty miserably.”
She pulled her knees against her chest as if for warmth. “I don’t understand how you could come up here again.”
He noticed that she appeared oddly small, even bundled in a cloak. “Anlaida, I’m sorry.”
She shivered, but did not respond.
“You dreamed about it,” he said.
“Yes.” Her voice had grown quiet. “I killed a man—”
“Because I couldn’t kill him first,” Arran responded bluntly. “Because he wanted to kill your half-brother with your brother as the goal.”
“I never wanted—” She slipped into silence, watching the sky.
He wondered what she saw there. Peace, he hoped.
“Why does coming here matter so much to you? I can’t see the parapet without thinking that you might have—”
“If you’ll notice, I’m not very near it tonight,” he said gently.
“But why come back? The stars are beautiful, but the parapet—”
Arran laid a hand on her arm. “It will pass.”
She waited.
“The stars are beautiful,” he murmured. “But not enough. It’s him that keeps me—“
She pulled upright. “Nyn-aer,” she said.
Arran continued, his voice a tumble of awkward fragments. “He speaks—sometimes—and—and—” He looked toward Mor, the old one. “I’ve heard him angry,” Arran said softly. “Furious with the evil. And I’ve heard him weep—enough to break your heart, and the world with it. But—once—”
Anlaida turned her face toward the stars.
“I heard him laugh, Anlaida. Laugh, like thunder, and freer than anyone in my life—thought he would bowl over the universe—but no—” Arran suddenly felt that his cheeks were wet. “The only one he managed to bowl over was me.”
“You—” She stopped.
“It’s all right.” He stood awkwardly, using his good arm for balance against the low roof.
She rose, quiet. “Is he why you stayed?”
Something quivered in his chest. He knew the color of Ronag’s beard, his eyes, but the Watcher’s exact features eluded him. The hoarse voice of a moor crow— “The greatest of all reasons. But there were others.”
“Didn’t they know whose son you were?”
Arran nodded. “They don’t reckon those things the way we do. A man stands on his own merits.”
Anlaida pulled her arms to her chest, crossing them against the night coolness. “You were hardly a man. You’re not one now.”
Arran looked toward the parapet, black against the black sky. “With the People, I was a man a year ago. It doesn’t matter, really. There’s men aplenty, but not many good ones. That’s what Ronag said then.”
“Ronag.” She tasted the name on her tongue. “Who is he?”
“He took me in. His wife and four children were taken by the North Wind the year before. He was lonely, and I was alone. I guess he was a foster-father of sorts, although I never called him that.”
“Taken by what?”
“Ah—” He felt his face burn, though shadowed by the darkness. “The North Wind—it’s an idiom, of a sort—”
“For death?”
“For winter, and cold, and the passing of things. Yes.”
“They all know of him? and them?” She nodded toward the sky.
“Of him. But not all watch, and some watch more than others.”
Eliane flashed suddenly, streaking gold across the night as she caught Lossyr by the arms and whirled her in a dance. Anlaida stared, fascinated.
He knew that she saw. “They’re playing.”
“Like children who never knew a wrong.”
“No,” he said. “Not innocence. Holiness.”
“Ronag told you this?” She tilted her head back to gaze at the flashing of lights above them.
He smiled. “Every word.”
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Zella
New member
I like that.
I love this scene! I can't wait to read more...