Alliances

Chapter 5

The cemetery outside Gateway lay between two hills, hidden from the lights of town and the traffic on the coast road. The vale was low and boggy, so the graves were built above-ground. Bathed in starlight, they stood like ordered blocks of ice, white and polished. Most were unadorned stone boxes, but a few elaborate mausoleums bore the names of families long important in the province.

Like the nation itself, the cemetery had fallen on hard times. Weeds sprouted around the foundations of the monuments. Grass grew knee high and choked the pathways. Vines girded graves great and humble. Here and there, the stone boxes had collapsed from weather or the attentions of grave robbers. The broken graves were quickly claimed by weeds. Cemeteries were melancholy places in the best of times. The one outside Gateway was a somber testament to the tragedy of a nation.

Standing alone on one of the overgrown paths was a figure draped in a long linen duster. She stepped from the deep shade of an obelisk and starlight washed her pale features in cool radiance. Her face might have graced an elegant statue atop one of the finer monuments. Her astonishing beauty overlaid by deep pain, Alhana Starbreeze was the living embodiment of mourning.

The whir of a nightjar made her start. Then a figure, cloaked and hooded like herself, emerged from the grass-choked side path.

“What word?” she murmured.

The newcomer drew back his cowl, revealing a lean countenance, almond-shaped eyes, and a high, pale forehead. Like Alhana, Samar was a Silvanesti. There was a glint of iron at his throat, a warrior’s gorget.

“Nothing to confirm the rumors, lady, but nothing to disprove them either.”

The line of her jaw hardened. Every day she lingered in this land was dangerous and expensive. Danger she could bear, but there was little she could do to lessen the drain on her slender purse.

She asked no more questions, preferring to hear Samar’s full report when they rejoined their party. They mounted their waiting horses and, with Alhana in the lead, left the deserted cemetery.

Samar followed three steps behind, as he felt was proper. Long acquaintance allowed him to recognize his lady’s disappointment. Hope had buoyed her for a while, and she’d had precious little of it lately, but she was coming to realize the folly of the dream she chased.

Her only child, on whom she’d placed her hopes for the future of the elf nation, had been taken from her. No hero’s death, nor even a worthy one, had been granted Silvanoshei. He had died a dupe, killed by the woman he loved, the false prophet of a dark deity. Porthios, the husband Alhana had married for duty but come to love, was gone as well, killed in the same war that had claimed their son. Blasted from the sky by a dragon’s fiery breath, his had been a magnificent end for a warrior and a king. The crime, Samar thought, was that Alhana could not accept that her husband was dead. His griffon’s incinerated body had been found, but its rider never was. From that slim hope, Alhana had built the fantasy that her husband might still live.

Their homeland was despoiled, their people scattered, but she would not give up the search. A resurrected husband might be too much of a miracle, but at the very least she intended to find his remains and see him properly interred. However, Alhana had not come to the long-unused cemetery to find Porthios’s grave. Rumors had reached, even her in exile, of a mysterious leader who was forging the few remaining elves of Qualinesti into a rebellion. The old cemetery served as a private place to wait while Samar ventured into Gateway to gather what information he could about the budding revolt and its mastermind. Silent as a ghost, Alhana walked among the forgotten dead, waiting for word of her lost husband.

They’d been on the mainland just two days. Before that, Alhana and her small company of loyal followers had dwelt on the island of Schallsea, tolerated but not celebrated. She could have retreated to the forest of her own country. There were still hidden vales where a careful inhabitant could live with little risk of discovery. But with Silvanesti, Qualinesti, and Kagonesti slaughtered, enslaved in their own countries, or exiled to alien lands, Alhana would not seek sylvan peace for herself. For a longtime, she wandered the lands of the New Sea until weariness and impending poverty brought her to a halt on Schallsea. From there she kept up her search, sending out agents to investigate hearsay and interviewing travelers who’d come from the former elf homelands.

It was more than rumors of a masked rebel that brought Alhana back to the mainland. Anyone could don a mask, for any number of reasons. But the Kagonesti who followed the rebel called him “Great Lord,” a title usually reserved for the Speaker or his heir.

Samar argued that that was not enough reason for her to risk entering occupied Qualinesti. Kagonesti were truthful people but much given to mysticism and symbolism. Their Great Lord could be nearly anyone. Alhana’s chamberlain, the venerable Chathendor, agreed with Samar. Alhana did not. She intended to go to Qualinesti. Whatever they felt about her quest, and despite her abdication of the throne, she would always be their queen. They and a few hundred Silvanesti warriors accompanied her across the sea.

The terrain east of Gateway was rolling grassland, long cleared of all but the smallest saplings and bushes. Alhana and Samar crested a low rise and reined up. The view showed nothing but a starlit meadow. In answer to Samar’s low whistle, the hillsides seemed to come alive. From every low swale and scrap of cover rose elves, their green- and brown-clad forms shaded to black by the darkness.

One elf moved to greet the newcomers. Even among a long-lived race, Chathendor was very old, more than twice Alhana’s age. Perhaps because he’d lived so long, he was the only truly fearless person Alhana knew. He’d once told her that at his age, death wasn’t a terrifying abstraction to be avoided at all costs, but a patient visitor, awaiting its inevitable invitation. Bare of hood, his pale, curly hair was pearlescent in the starlight.

“What word?” he whispered, unknowingly echoing Alhana’s question to Samar.

Both of them dismounted and Samar reported. “For weeks a band of Kagonesti, led by a masked elf, has been harrying the small Nerakan fort of Alderhelm, killing off mercenaries by twos and threes. Word reached Gateway that a Dark Knight sent to the fort to put an end to the troubles was herself attacked, and her entire command spirited away overnight.”

“A kender’s tale!” Chathendor scoffed.

“Evidently not. The knight dispatched a report to the Order’s citadel in Frenost. The courier was kept occupied at an inn called The Saddle Horn, halfway between Frenost and Haven, while the contents of his bag were copied. The news reached Haven ahead of him and beat him to Gateway too.”

“Was there a description, Samar?” Alhana asked, caring little how the news had come.

“Masked, covered head to toe by ragged robes, but well spoken, with the diction and vocabulary of a high-born Qualinesti.”

“A Qualinesti,” she echoed, her voice little more than a sigh. Perhaps her quest was not a fool’s errand after all.

She controlled her emotions, reminding herself it was a slender thread. A “high-born” Qualinesti could be a courtier or a former officer of the royal army who had donned a hood to confound the bandits. And yet—something in her heart would not let that particular rumor go. She had suffered so many disappointments. For half a year she had stalked a supposed Porthios around the cities of Crusher’s Bay, always one step behind, until finally catching up with him in a Walmish gaming house. The impostor passing himself off as her husband was no more than a quarter elf, a glib liar who’d managed to convince dozens of gullible folk he was the lost ruler of Qualinesti. It was merely a confidence game, a way for him to gull his way to an easy life. Caught, he confessed all. Alhana forgave him. Unbeknownst to her, Samar had not. When his sorrowing queen was out of sight, Samar made certain the impostor would ply his trade no longer, except as food for the fish of Crusher’s Bay.

“We must go to Alderhelm,” she announced.

Alhana’s lieutenants protested. Bad enough she had come as far as she had, but entering occupied Qualinesti was unthinkably hazardous. Should Captain Samuval get his hands on the former queen of Silvanesti, she would surely die. There was no one left to ransom her.

Their arguments fell on deaf ears, Alhana silenced them with a sharp word. She had to know the truth for herself. She was tired of waiting in safety while others risked their lives to find out for her.

She thanked them both, telling Samar to prepare the troops and sending her chamberlain with him. She needed solitude, time to think.

She rode in the direction of the ruined cemetery but didn’t go far. Samar would be frantic if she went out of sight. Reining up, she pushed back her hood and untied the scarf that concealed her upswept ears and bound up her hair. The night-black sheaf fell to the middle of her back. She looked up at the starry sky.

Was it truly possible Porthios lived, or was she endlessly deceiving herself? More than a mask and courtly diction were needed to bring her husband back to life, but his body had never been found. If anyone could survive dragonfire, it would be Porthios. There was another, much harder question she did not like to contemplate: If he had survived, why had he left her to grieve his death and their son’s death all alone?

Her solitude ended too soon. Samar and Chathendor rode up to report their people were ready to move. However much he might protest her course, Samar was the truest friend she’d ever had. Chathendor, with the bluntness granted by extreme age, was both wise and inventive. He saw angles others did not. More than once he’d saved her from ruin, just by his wits. Armed with her two champions, and her own resolve, Alhana was not afraid to enter Qualinesti.

Breetan Everride shivered. The sun was not yet up, but the sky, clear as a mountain lake, shaded from indigo in the west to azure in the east. A south wind carried the cold breath of Icewall, and she pulled her mantle close around her neck. She stood in a long, narrow courtyard hard by the outer wall of the Black Hall. The Hall was the seat of Lord Egil Liveskill, who was responsible for the peace and security in the Southward, as the Dark Knights designated the former elf kingdom of Qualinesti.

She had reached the Hall the evening before. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was escorted directly to Lord Liveskill’s audience chamber. Liveskill sat at a great oval table, its obsidian surface covered with books, parchments, and sheaves of reports. The master of the Black Hall worked late nearly every night.

Liveskill’s blond hair was still trimmed close, but since she’d last seen him he’d grown a short beard, confined to his square chin. He seemed paler than she remembered, but perhaps that was due to the combination of candlelight and the contrast of his dark blue tunic. Liveskill had once received a prophecy that he was in danger from fire, so no modern lamps were permitted within the Hall. How numerous racks of candles were safer than oil lamps, Breetan couldn’t imagine, but they were certainly warmer. Breetan was sweating heavily in her armor.

“I hear strange tidings,” he said before even looking at the document she held out to him. “You bring word of an insurrection in the Southward.”

She wasn’t surprised the news had preceded her; the Black Hail had spies in every town and village. Liveskill took her reports. Documents that had taken her a day and a half to write, he read through in moments, then sat back in his chair. His expression was unreadable.

“Why?” he finally said. “Why would this masked rebel leave you alive to send word of his deeds to the Order? Why deliberately attract our attention?”

Before she could reply, he answered his own question. “This is a diversion. He wants us to scour the Alderhelm forest for him while he strikes at his true target. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

His quick insight left her struggling to catch up. “My lord, I cannot believe he commands more than a few dozen foresters. It’s one thing to harry a small outpost, quite another to think he could threaten the Order. The difficulties of counting the Kagonesti are well known, but our census estimates the total number in the Southward at three to four thousand. Even if he could command them all, that’s hardly sufficient to bring down our fortresses.”

He did not reply. Breetan sweated harder. Her failure against the masked rebel was galling, and the Order seldom forgave failure. She decided a bit of boldness was required.

“My lord, allow me to redeem myself. Give me a company and I will—”

“No.”

His flat denial sent a shiver of doubt through her. Liveskill’s distant gaze focused on her, and she steeled herself for whatever would come.

“The failure was yours alone. Alone you will redeem it.”

Faint hope stirred. Perhaps her only choices were not disgrace or death.

Unfortunately he told her nothing more, only dismissed her, saying he would call for her at sunrise. His majordomo, Denius Dukayne, escorted her to a sumptuous bedchamber, where a fine repast awaited. Was this a last meal for the condemned or simple courtesy for a fellow knight and member of the Black Hall?

She fortified herself with food, wine, and the uncommon luxury of a comfortable bed.

Sunrise was still half an hour away when Dukayne tapped at her door, but she was ready and waiting for him. He conducted her to the courtyard of the Black Hall, where Liveskill awaited her.

With him were two artisans in short tunics, baggy breeches, and ankle-high boots. Liveskill introduced them. The elder, with white hair and a wispy beard, was Gonthar, master bowyer. The other, nearer Breetan’s age and clean shaven, was Gonthar’s journeyman, Waymark.

As a chill wind swirled around inside the sheer black stone walls, Gonthar handed Breetan the velvet-wrapped package he held. It proved to be a large, elaborately made crossbow. Despite her uncertainty over her situation, she was intrigued. Liveskill knew the crossbow was her favored weapon.

Although large, it was remarkably light. The black ironwood stock had been inletted deeply along its length, hollowing it and making it far lighter than it appeared. There was no arrow trough. The bowstring was buried in the stock, not lying atop it. At the front of the stock was a square opening for inserting the bolt blunt end first. Odder still was the tube attached to the upper right edge of the stock. It was brass, carefully blackened except for the knurled rings at one end. In place of the customary trigger bar, a round hole had been bored midway through the wrist of the stock. Within was set an ivory trigger. The weapon was light enough for her to hold in one hand, her arm at full extension. No doubt it had been designed to be loosed that way, if need be.

At the far end of the courtyard, a hundred yards away, a very small white target was tacked to a pile of sandbags. The target was stark against the black wall.

Waymark lowered the front of the bow to the ground. He pressed a button and a plate opened. Breetan had been mistaken about the method of loading the weapon. The bolt was not loaded butt first into the front of the stock, but point first into the hidden opening. Waymark inserted three short bolts, then closed the hinged butt plate. Rather than a single shot, he would have three before needing to reload.

He cocked the bow by means of an iron lever, inlaid in the bottom front of the stock. The buried bowstring bent the steel limbs of the bow and locked over the trigger nut with an audible snap. With no more sound than the soft snap of the waxed bowstring over the trigger nut, the crossbow spat its black missile at the distant target.

Waymark handed the bow to Breetan and retrieved the target. The disk of paper was no wider than her palm, but the bolt’s keen point had neatly pierced its center.

Lord Liveskill, who had been watching Breetan rather than the demonstration, said, “You try.”

After cocking the bow, Breetan put the weapon to her shoulder. The dark tunnel of the sighting tube made the fresh white target stand out like a beacon. Her bolt hit low on the target, tearing the sandbags. Not bad for a first shot with an unfamiliar weapon.

Liveskill sent the craftsmen away. When they were gone, he told Breetan the crossbow was hers. She knew there was more to come. The master of the Black Hall did not bestow gifts.

“Go to the Southward, find the masked leader of the elves, and kill him,” he said with uncharacteristic bluntness. “In the arsenal is a leather-bound case. It contains various bolts for the weapon. Each has a special use.”

The kind she and Waymark had used was called a whisper bolt, which flew silently over its effective range of two hundred yards. There were also lightning bolts that could penetrate an inch of steel armor plate at a hundred yards. Fire bolts were loaded with an incendiary paste that ignited three seconds after being loosed. Dragon tooth bolts had gilded heads coated with poison.

“Use the dragon tooth bolts only when you have the rebel in sight. A scratch will cause certain death in a day. A deeper wound, and the victim may last an hour. Bury the bolt in his flesh, and he will be dead before his head hits the ground. You leave today.”

“And my support?”

“None. Hire what porters or guides you need. Kill them when you’re done with them. Understand?”

She did. Left unsaid but understood by both of them was that Breetan must succeed or die.

He departed, leaving Breetan alone in the vast courtyard. Wind swirled hair in her face. She’d been given a second chance. She would not fail. Her honor as an Everride was at stake, as much as her life.

Neither especially gifted as a fighter nor valiant in the accepted knightly sense, Breetan had long ago realized she would never come close to matching her famous father’s deeds. She was determined to make her own mark, so she had chosen another path, away from battlefield glory. Lord Burnond had disapproved of his only daughter’s decision to join Liveskill’s order. Long retired to his estate near Lemish, he lived like any successful elder warlord, chasing bandits, banqueting on the anniversaries of his victories, hunting, and training men-at-arms. Concealed daggers and poisoned cups might sometimes be necessary, he said, but a true warrior did not seek them out. He likened the Black Hall to a tombstone, and branded it no fit home for honor. Breetan had braved his censure and taken her own path. If it lay in the shadow of a tombstone, so be it.

Beneath the lightening sky, she shouldered the new crossbow and put the third and last whisper bolt into the exact center of the target.