Dhiammara

25 Zithra and Eyrie

Eliizar paced back and forth along the covered porch of the big, single-story wooden house in the clearing, his booted feet striking a hollow rhythm on the planked floor. Though it was still fairly early in the morning, he thought it best to hurry his wife along a little. The Gods only know, he thought, I’ll never understand why women take so long to dress themselves for a big occasion. “Nereni, aren’t you ready yet?” he shouted through her shuttered window. “The ceremony is due to start at noon—that doesn’t leave us much time to get there.”

There was no answer. Eliizar resumed his pacing for a few minutes, then stopped with a sigh. “What in the Reaper’s name is she doing in there?” he muttered irritably.

“Swordmaster—isn’t it about time you were leaving? Everyone will be waiting.”

Jharav hurried through Nereni’s garden and came clattering up the porch steps, mopping his face and panting from the exertion. Since his near-fatal wounding in the Battle of the Forest, which had finished the tyrant Xiang, he had retired from active service as a soldier and had spent the last ten years radiating contentment and good cheer—and growing a notable belly. “It’s a fair distance to the new palace, and—”

“How many times do I have to tell you—it’s not a palace,” Eliizar snapped.

“Well, what else do you want me to call it?” the grizzled warrior retorted, equally as testily. “You are the ruler of the Forest Lands, even though you make us call you Swordmaster instead of King. Your new home is the big stone building where the ruler will be living—in other words, the palace. If you ever get moved into it, that is. Aren’t you ready yet?”

“I am.” Eliizar gestured in disgust at his new finery. “And because of this accursed ridiculous frippery that you and Nereni insisted I wear, I daren’t even sit down in case I stain or wrinkle something. I look like a whore’s trinket box.. ..”

“You look magnificent,” Jharav told him soothingly. “Just like a Id—”

“If you say that word once more, I’m going to run you through with this jeweled butter-spreader that Nereni and the Skyfolk are pleased to call a sword.” Eliizar scowled at Jharav then glared with his one eye at the offending object, all decorated with gems and chased with gold, that hung in the glittering scabbard at his side. “I can promise you, it’ll be a long, slow death,” he added sourly.

“It’s a good thing you talked her out of the embroidered eye-patch.” The grizzled ex-soldier chuckled. “On top of the sword, that would have been too much. You’re nervous, Eliizar, that’s what ails you. Here—” He undipped a silver flask from his belt. “This should cure you—it’s Ustila’s new brewing of mead. You drink some of that and the world will seem a better place. In the meantime, I had better go and fetch Nereni... .”

“No, I’ll go.” Taking a last deep swig from the flask, Eliizar handed it back to his friend. “You go on up to the pa—to the new house, and tell Amahli we’re coming.”

Jharav went off with a cheerful wave, sipping at his own flask, leaving the Swordmaster alone with his reflections, on the porch of the house in which he and Nereni had spent the whole of their new lives, since they had first come to the forest with nothing but their followers and a dream of living in freedom from tyrants and sorcerers alike.

Eliizar was very proud of the community he had founded, and rightfully so.—From its scant beginnings of a few wooden shanties clustered together like fearful children between the gloomy trees, the settlement had grown apace in size, scope, and population. Its founders, the soldiers and household servants of the ill-fated Prince Harihn, had sent a group of experienced warriors sneaking back to the Khazalim capital of Taibeth in search of friends and family to swell the numbers, and as word of the new colony had spread, others, tired of living under the Khazalim yoke, had dared the lethal jeweled desert and come struggling in to join the autonomous forest community. Even a few runaway slaves had managed to make the perilous crossing, and Eliizar, with memories of Anvar, had made them welcome and declared them free and equal with the rest.

Now, the forest colony numbered three hundred and twenty-nine souls, and its growth was slow but strong. One turning point, Eliizar reflected, had been the long-ago Battle of the Forest. The threat of Xiang had been removed for good by the blade of his former Swordmaster, and in the natural confusion that had followed, a goodly number of folk had managed to escape from Taibeth and join the renegades—until events had settled themselves with the birth of Xiang’s son Quechuan. His mother the Khisihn and Aman, Xiang’s former Vizier, had declared themselves joint regents, and had taken control simply by slaughtering everyone who dared oppose them. Taibeth had been placed under martial law, and the constraints upon the populace had become so tight that the trickle of escapees had dried up almost completely. On the other hand, the new rulers of Taibeth were far too preoccupied with consolidating their own position to trouble themselves about one small independent colony on their borders. Besides, they had Xiang’s example to deter them—and, Eliizar strongly suspected, neither of the two rulers regretted the former Khisu’s demise, and were not entirely ill disposed to those who had brought it about.

The other turning point for the settlement had also been due, indirectly, to the battle, for that was the day that Finch and Petrel, the winged couriers, had decided to throw in their lot with Eliizar and his people, and, in the truest spirit of friendship and mutual cooperation, to found an adjacent Skyfolk colony in the mountains nearby. Not only had the two groups prospered, but together they had reached heights of progress that neither one could have achieved had they been alone.

Eyrie, the winged community, now occupied the nearest peak to Eliizar’s forested valley. Unlike the groundlings, they had started building in stone from the very outset, for, though wood was plentiful on the lower slopes, the weather at that altitude was far too savage in winter for mere timber to withstand. Eliizar had sent quarrymen and masons to assist in the construction, just as the Skyfolk had sent winged teams down into the forest to help with the felling and moving of timber for the homes of their earthbound friends.

Khazalim had helped the Skyfolk with the construction and cultivation of their terraced vineyards on the lowest mountain slopes, and winged scouts had soared over the forest, spotting game for Eliizar’s hunters. As the groundling settlement—named Zithra, which meant “freedom” in the Khazalim tongue—had grown and spread, more of the thick woodland was cleared, and fields began to be tilled. Nereni combed the forest with her band of woman foragers, discovering by trial and error which plants could be cultivated as cures for common ailments, and which were nourishing and good to eat. The Skyfolk hunted and eventually bred and herded the nimble, peak-dwelling goats and sheep, producing not only meat but soft, thick fleeces and skins of peerless quality, which they traded with the Zithrans for vegetables, fruit, and sweet river trout.

Both colonies became industrious and prosperous. Folk, winged and unwinged, tilled crops, hunted or herded beasts, foraged, fished, kept bees or mined metals in the foothills that lay between the two communities. There were dyers, weavers, and tanners; carpenters, potters, and smiths. And all the while, the two communities were growing in size, in comfort—and in friendship.—It was no mean achievement for a man who had started his life as a professional killer, Eliizar reflected. He knew, however, that he would never have managed it all without Nereni—and thinking of Nereni, where was she? He looked up with a guilty start to realize that the sun had crept a little closer to the zenith, and ducked quickly into the house. “Nereni? Nereni! It’s time to go—we’re late. Where in perdition are you, woman?”

She was not in the bedroom, but eventually, Eliizar found her, dressed in her new red gown embroidered with gold thread, and looking like a queen in such glorious finery. She was sitting at the kitchen table, crying her eyes out. He hurried to her side and took her hands. “Why, Nereni—whatever is wrong?”

Nereni looked at him, and broke into a torrent of fresh sobs. “I don’t want to go,” she wailed. “This is our home—I love it. We’ve been so happy here!”

Eliizar sighed. “But Nereni, our new home is so much bigger. You’ve supervised the planning and the building yourself—it’s just as you wanted it. The carpenters and weavers have been busy for months making beautiful new furnishings—because they love you. And someone else needs this house now.” He stood up and held out his hand to her. “Come now, my love—it is always hard to leave the comfort of familiar things, but we’ve done it before, remember? When we left Taibeth with Aurian to come here. And look how well that turned out.”

Nereni managed a watery smile. “Everything you say is true. It’s just that this place contains so many happy memories ...”

“You’ll take the memories with you,” Eliizar said gently. “Nothing can change that—and think of all the wonderful memories yet to be made in our new house.”

Nodding, Nereni got to her feet. “I know,” she sighed. “You’re right, of course, Eliizar. Just let me wash my face, and ...” Her words were drowned by the rumble of galloping hooves.

Eliizar laughed. “I know who that will be.”

Instantly Nereni’s tears were forgotten. “Oh no,” she cried in dismay. “It couldn’t be!”

The Swordmaster walked over to the window and looked out. A black horse was hurtling down the dusty road with a small, white-clad figure on its back. The rider jerked the huge animal to an abrupt halt in front of the cabin and slid down from the saddle. “Mother, Father—where are you? Are you never coming?”

“In here, my jewel.” Eliizar knew that a fond smile had spread itself across his face—and he didn’t care in the slightest. This child had been Aurian’s surprise parting gift to himself and Nereni—not the son and heir he had always wanted, the daughter he worshipped and adored.

“Amahli!” Nereni cried, as the slender, dark-haired girl entered the kitchen.

“Oh, you wretched, wretched girl—how could you?” She pounced on her daughter and began to beat the dust from her white embroidered dress, rather more vigorously than necessary, and scolding all the while. “Spawn of a demon—I swear I never mothered you? Did I not tell you, most particularly, not to get dirty today!”

Whatever reply the girl had been about to make was muffled as her mother began to scrub with a damp cloth at the smears on her face. “And there you are, riding around the countryside like a hoyden on that dangerous great beast—how you’ll ever get a husband I don’t know, unless you mend your ways....”

“Nereni,” Eliizar protested mildly, “the child is barely ten years old. She’s young yet to be thinking about husbands.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Eliizar,” Nereni snapped, “The child is your heir—it’s never too soon to start thinking about her future.” She had undone Amahli’s braid with lightning fingers and was yanking a comb through her waist-length hair. Eliizar noticed with fond pride that though the girl scowled and wriggled, she bore her mother’s brisk ministrations without complaint.

“There.” Nereni had rebraided the hair. She turned her daughter around and enfolded her in a hug. “All beautiful again. And mind, Amahli,” she added sternly, “you get one more speck of dust on you and I’ll take a switch to your behind! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mother,” the girl chorused dutifully—then sneaked a twinkling glance up at her father, who winked his one good eye.

“Come along now—we can’t keep the people waiting any longer.” Nereni was all bustle now, disguising, in briskness, her sadness at leaving her home. “I don’t know,” she grumbled, “between the two of you, we’ll never get there at all today.”

“Why of all the ... It was you who wouldn’t leave,” Eliizar roared. “Stop talking then, woman, and get yourself out of that door!” Giving a hand to each of his beloved ladies, he led them from the house toward the horses that waited patiently at the bottom of the garden.

The exiled Queen Raven and her consort waited with Petrel, Finch, and a crowd of other assorted dignitaries on the broad terrace of Eliizar’s new palace, and looked down on the crowds of settlers, winged and unwinged, that thronged the broad lawns below. Aguila nudged his wife. “Smile, my dear one. People are watching.”

“Let them watch,” the winged woman retorted sulkily.

“What do I care? I don’t see why we had to come and watch Eliizar and Nereni show off the trappings of their power and success when we have lost a kingdom!”

Her husband gave her one of those looks that riled her so-—as though he had married some ill-mannered child whose behavior needed to be corrected. “Nereni is your friend,” he said reprovingly. “She has always been like a mother to you, Raven. How can you resent her good fortune?”

Raven rounded on Aguila in a flash of temper. “Don’t be such an oaf! I don’t begrudge Nereni a single bit of her good fortune. What I resent, however, is losing my throne and being betrayed by my miserable, ungrateful subjects....”

“But your subjects here are loyal.” Aguila glanced around quickly to make sure no one had overheard his wife’s outburst. “They have made us most welcome here, and given us a home.”

“They aren’t my subjects—they’re an independent colony ruled by a council,”

Raven said bitterly, “and we exist on their charity.” The scene before her blurred as her eyes filled with angry tears. “What’s wrong with me, Aguila?—I’m such a failure. I held my throne for less than ten years, and now I’m an exile again.”

Aguila took her hand and squeezed it hard. “We live in treacherous times, my love—momentous days when great changes, for good or ill, are happening in the world, and in the fabric of folks’ lives. For many generations before you came along, your ancestors lived out their lives in peace and plenty—and where is the skill in that? You can’t say whether, as rulers, they were any better or worse than you, for they had never been tested.” He looked down at her and smiled. “Besides, our story isn’t over yet, my little queen. We’ll win the throne back one day—if not for ourselves, then for our children.” He glanced to one side, where their three-year-old son and their daughter of a scant two moons were being cared for by their nursemaids.

Grateful, Raven returned the pressure of his hand. “Aguila, what would I do without you? All the time I was Queen, Elster gave me priceless advice—but when she told me to marry you, it was the best day’s work she ever did.”

“Elster was wise,” Aguila said, and Raven could hear the weight of sorrow behind his words. “I owe her all my happiness. Would that she had lived to see her namesake.”

“She died that night to save us.” The winged woman closed her eyes, remembering the old physician’s sacrifice. On the night that Skua had planned to slaughter Raven and her family, he had encircled the Queen’s Tower with guards who were loyal to himself and replaced the servitors with his own people, thus effectively sealing off the Royal Household from all aid.—Somehow—Raven never had discovered how—Elster had discovered the plot, and, once night had fallen, had managed to fly through the cordon of winged guards that surrounded the tower.

Once they had been warned, Raven and Aguila had been able to take their son Lanneret and escape on foot, with Elster, through the corridors and aerial walkways of the palace. Skua had concentrated most of his forces in the air, and the guards they met within the building could either be dodged, or dealt with by Aguila. Only when they finally took to the air at last, from a little-used exit on the lower slopes of the pinnacle, was their escape discovered. The fugitives could not fly as swiftly as they would have wished:

Aguila was carrying Lanneret, at three years old a sturdy burden, and Raven was hampered by her unborn child, not due yet for another cycle of the moon.—Their foes were gaining on them with every moment—until Elster had stolen Aguila’s sword right out of his scabbard, and doubled back to hurl herself at her beloved Raven’s pursuers. Though the Queen had not seen Elster die, it had sounded from her death screams as though they had hacked her to pieces. Raven still woke in the night hearing those harrowing shrieks—she knew they would haunt her for the rest of her days—but Elster, through her courage and self-sacrifice, had bought the Royal Household just enough time to make their escape.

At that time, there had been no chance to mourn Elster’s loss. It took the fugitives several hungry, fear-filled days to reach Eyrie, flying mostly by night and dodging the patrols that hunted for them. Once they had reached Incondor’s Tower, however, the pursuit had ceased, and they were able to make faster time, despite their having been weakened by hunger and cold. Before the welcome silhouette of the colony even came into view, Raven’s labour pains started. Somehow, she managed to keep herself flying long enough to struggle to safety—and early the following morning, her long wished-for girl child finally made her appearance.

The Queen would never forget the first time she held her daughter. The stubby little wings, that had been crushed firmly down against her back during the birth, were beginning to stretch and unfurl. Raven looked at them—and her breath caught in her throat. Though the feathers were still damp and crumpled, the black wings had the same exquisite fan-pattern of white feathers that had made the healer’s pinions so distinctive. In her mind, she seemed to hear that loved, familiar old voice one last time: “How will I be remembered if you don’t have a little princess to name after me ?”

Raven hugged little Elster tightly, and laughed through her tears. “How in the name of Yinze did you manage that?” she said.

“Here they come.” Aguila’s voice brought the exiled Queen out of the past with a jolt. Turning to the nurse, she took her precious child into her arms, her eyes misty with love and memories. The crowd, Skyfolk and groundling alike, erupted into cheers, and Raven tore her attention away from Elster to see Eliizar and Nereni coming up the steps of the terrace, followed by their daughter.

Amahli was so excited about the new house—she couldn’t wait to live here. It had been built down near the eastern end of the great forested valley, where the major river, the Vi-vax—Uncle Jharav had jokingly named it after his favorite horse, and the name had stuck—poured out of the vale in a succession of rapids and cascades. In this place the northern side of the valley climbed in a gentle series of terraces, part rock and partly clad in grass and clumps of rowan, aspen, and birch that turned to larch and pine toward the heights.—The house was built high on the slope, with terraced gardens that stretched right down to the river. It was built of the blue-grey local stone, and, because so many people, both Khazalim and Skyfolk, had contributed to the design, it had sprouted flat roofs, sloped roofs, turrets, porches, terraces, windows that were arched, squared, pointed, or jutting out in spacious bays.—Though it was new, it looked as though it had been growing out of the hillside for centuries, changing and developing all the time.

As her parents neared the top of the steps, Amahli turned her attention from the house itself to the group of dignitaries assembled on the terrace. On such a grand occasion, it wouldn’t do to forget her manners. She saw Queen Raven and her consort, Lord Aguila, and their two small children. On the other side of the steps were Finch and Petrel, the founders of the Skyfolk colony, who, like Eliizar, had refused to accept any titles. Amahli was glad to see that they had brought their families with them: Petrel’s mate, Firecrest, and their son Tiercel—who, at the age of fifteen, could remember living in Aerillia—and Finch’s mate, Ouzel, and their daughter Oriole, who was the same age as Amahli, and her best friend.

Jharav also stood at the top of the steps, a huge smile on his face. At his side was his wife, Ustila—a quiet girl much younger than he. Amahli knew, from grownup talk that she certainly shouldn’t have been overhearing, that following Xiang’s attack on the settlement, Ustila had refused to let any man come near her for more than two years. It had caused a great deal of surprise, therefore, when she had wedded Jharav following the death of his first wife, whom he had brought out from Taibeth in the colony’s early days. Amahli liked Ustila—she was gentle and kind. She was glad that the girl had found happiness with dear old Jharav.

The retired warrior bowed low. “My dear old friends,” he began, “allow me to be the first to welcome you to your new home.” He drew a deep breath. “Who would have thought, when first we met as foes in the Tower of Incondor, that we would one day stand here, having achieved so much ...”

Oh no, Amahli thought. Once Uncle Jharav began in this vein, he could go on without a pause for hours. But as the daughter of the colony’s leader, she had been brought up to deal with such dull formal occasions. Composing her features into an attentive expression, she fixed her eyes to the front and let her mind begin to roam.

There was no end to it. Once Jharav had finished, Petrel began to speak.—Amahli sighed, and exchanged a long-suffering look with Oriole. It was too much to ask to keep staring in front of her—the girl’s mind was already wandering and now her eyes began to follow. She was just gazing up at the pointed turret that contained her room, and wondering what it would be like to wake up every morning and look out of that window at the river, when her attention was caught by a movement in the adjacent sky. At first she thought it was just a wisp of grey cloud coming out of the north; then she realized that it was traveling against the other clouds, counter to the wind. What in the world could it be? A gigantic flock of birds, perhaps? Yet what were those tiny flashes of bright light in their midst? She squinted up into the bright sky, trying to get a better view.

Suddenly a sharp jab in the ribs made the girl gasp. “What are you doing?”

Nereni hissed. “Pay attention!” Then her eyes widened as she followed the direction of Amahli’s gaze up into the sky. “The Reaper save us!” she gasped.

“Eliizar! Jharav! Beware—we’re under attack!”

And then the Skyfolk came screaming down from above, the light flashing on their swords and spears, and their faces masked in sinister black.

Pandemonium erupted. The crowd in the gardens broke and ran screaming for cover, leaving a swath of trampled bodies behind. Nereni grabbed Amahli’s hand and dragged her across the terrace toward the house, dodging through a confusion of running figures, while arrows came hissing down around them like a black and deadly rain. From the corner of her eye Amahli saw that Ustila was running with them, and that Eliizar and Jharav had drawn their swords and were flanking the women in a brave but futile attempt to protect them.

Amahli felt herself buffeted by a blast of air as Finch and Petrel took off almost simultaneously. Almost immediately she was drenched and half-blinded by a hot and stinking downpour, and a ball of mangled flesh and bloody feathers that was almost unrecognizable as Finch hit the flagstones right in front of her. Amahli screamed, and took her hands away from her face sticky and glistening with the blood of her friend’s father; her father’s friend.—Where was her mother? Amahli looked around wildly, but Nereni had vanished.—Eliizar and Jharav were nowhere to be seen. The terrace was covered with fighting figures, winged and unwinged, and further skirmishes were being waged in the air above her head, raining down great gouts of blood—and worse. The air shook beneath the burden of curses, groans, and screams.

Through a break in the crowd, Amahli saw her friend Oriole kneeling over the body of Finch, one fist pushed into her mouth and her eyes wide and blank with shock, oblivious of the proximity of flashing swords from a confrontation that was being fought right over her head. Amahli grasped at the chance to submerge her own terror in some purposeful deed. Dodging through the melee, she ran to her friend, dropping down on all fours and ducking beneath the lethal blades of tile settler and his winged assailant. Grabbing Oriole’s hand, she tried to pull her friend away. “Ori, come on! You can’t stay there—you’ll be killed!”

Oriole looked at her, wild-eyed, without the faintest trace of recognition.

“No!” she shrieked. “Leave me alone!” Hands extended into claws, she lunged at Amahli—and ran right into the gleaming arc of a descending sword. Blood fountained up from her neck as her head lolled drunkenly to one side. To the stricken Amahli, it seemed to take her friend’s body forever to crumple and hit the ground. Her vision seemed to be darkening at the edges. Blessedly, the hideous world was receding, speeding away from her and growing smaller as it went....

The cracking blow across her face was hard enough to take her breath away and rock her head back on her shoulders. Dazed, she looked up into the white face of Tiercel. “Don’t faint now, you idiot,” he yelled. Only when she felt the wrenching pain in her shoulder did she realize that he was trying to haul her along by one arm while he brandished a sword in his other hand with more enthusiasm than skill. Looking up, she realized that the fight had moved a short distance away from her. Suddenly desperate to put the scenes of horror behind her, Amahli scrambled unsteadily to her feet and let him tow her toward the house.

They had almost reached the safety of the building when there was a whine of wings overhead and a shadow swept across the girl’s vision. She felt a hand pluck at her shoulder, and cried out in fear. Tiercel whirled, his face set with determination and thrust his sword upward. There was a strident shriek of pain, the hand fell away, and a body thudded down almost on top of Amahli. The Skyfolk warrior had been a young woman—with her long, dark hair and dark eyes she could have been Amahli’s older sister. For an instant Tiercel stood staring at the body, frozen with shock and horror. This time, it was Amahli’s turn to pull him away from the gory scene. Then they were running again, the dripping sword in Tiercel’s hand leaving a bloody trail behind them.—The fighting was thick around the door—a small knot of defenders was holding the entrance against a dozen or so Sky-folk. Tiercel dodged round the side of the house, tugging Amahli after him, and broke a window. He laid his cloak over the pieces of shattered crystal in the bottom of the frame and the two of them scrambled inside. From the rooms above them came the sound of more splintering crystal. Tiercel’s grip tightened around her fingers. “Is there anywhere we can hide?” he shouted at Amahli.

“Yes—the cellar. This way.”

Amahli knew every inch of the house. At a run, she led Tiercel to the rear, where the cellar door with its flight of long, dark steps led downward from the kitchen. They had no light—they simply had to scramble down the stone steps as best they might, pulling the door shut behind them. The cellars seemed to go back a long way. Amahli held tightly to Tiercel with one hand and felt her way along the wall with the other, trying to remember the way the vaults were laid out. At last she round what she was looking for—a narrow alcove that extended back beneath the stairs themselves. “In here—quick.”

It was a tight squeeze. They huddled there, pressed together, scarcely daring to breathe while they listened to the screams and sounds of destruction coming from above. After a time, the thumping and crashing died away, and everything went horribly silent. After a moment, Tiercel found his voice. “Maybe it’s safe ...” He got no further. From the house above, the crackle of fire swelled into a roar.