The Dark Throne, page 17
“Ready for the hunt, lady healer?” he asked, raising one eyebrow and looking pointedly at my new plain blade at my waist and the glint of dagger-hilts at the other side of my hip and in my boot-tops.
I tilted my head. “Even a healer should have blades at the ready. I’m still adept at taking creatures apart, even if my official job right now is to put people back together.”
“Just make sure the two aren’t one and the same,” he replied with a flash in his eye, and I started, hearing Ramel in his voice; but then I wondered whether Ramel had picked up the saying from Finnead, back when he’d been a squire to the fastest-rising young Knight in Queen Mab’s service. I saw that Finnead wore his midnight-dark scarf folded and tied like a shemagh, like I’d tied my own, and the part of my mind that wasn’t blissfully admiring his beauty wondered what experiences he’d had in the mortal world, doing Mab’s bidding as a young Named Knight.
“That’s the plan,” I said after too long a pause for my reply to make much sense, but we both pretended not to notice.
“Speaking of plans,” he said, this time truly picking up the thread of conversation, “Vell just outlined the battle plan. Has she told you?”
I shook my head mutely, content to let him carry the burden of enunciating real words.
“I’ll have the ground force. Gray has the Valkyries. Arcana will be positioned by Vell, and that’s where you’ll be as well, a good distance away from the actual battle.” He looked satisfied at that and I raised an eyebrow, remembering myself enough to feel a slight sting of irritation. “Vell will be working the spells on the wings and whatever other elemental sorcery she deems necessary, so she won’t be very attuned to her immediate surroundings.”
Suddenly my belt-pouch felt heavier. Still listening to Finnead, I slid a few fingers into the pouch surreptitiously. My fingers encountered smooth stone, and from the tingle in my war-markings I knew I now carried the nine smooth dark stones that had been forged from the shards of iron in the Royal Wood. Or perhaps there was only five, because I’d used four to mark the points of the compass on the banks of the Darinwel, and I couldn’t clearly recall gathering them back up after using them to extract the blood-oath of safety from the siren. But I’d find out later. Plenty of time to count stones that I was suddenly carrying again, or perhaps had still been carrying all along, when I wasn’t standing before a handsome dark-haired Knight of the Wild Court.
“Since you’re Arcana’s second,” Finnead continued, “you’ll become the captain of the High Queen’s guard if something happens to the Evermage.”
I nodded. “If the Evermage becomes a crispy critter, I get to be the boss. Got it.” I wrinkled my nose. “Vell agreed to this guard?”
“She understands its necessity,” said Finnead, just as Vell threw in from somewhere behind him in a growl:
“That doesn’t mean I like it!”
“That doesn’t mean she likes it,” said Finnead without skipping a beat, and I smiled again. He blinked. “What’s so amusing?”
“I like this Wild Court Knight,” I said before I could think too much about the words and trip over them. “You’re much more…free.”
Finnead considered the statement for a moment. “I’d point out, Lady Bearer, that you’re not basing this conclusion on very substantial evidence.”
I spread my hands. “It’s not really a conclusion, more of an observation. You seem more…spontaneous. Lighter.”
Finnead raised his eyebrows. “Spontaneous?”
“Well,” I amended, “as far as spontaneity goes, that’s never really been the Unseelie strong suit—”
And I found my words quite suddenly silenced by that eminently kissable mouth, as Finnead, seemingly intent on proving said spontaneity, drew me against his body, one hand about my waist and the other behind my head, fingers wrapped in my braids. Fire rushed through my veins and roared in my ears as Finnead kissed me thoroughly—a passionate kiss, his urgency born of the looming battle and his newfound freedom. His lips tasted like new snow and pine—the direflame, I realized distantly. I surrendered to the whirlwind, pressing myself against him and sliding my arms about his sides, wishing that I wasn’t wearing gauntlets and armor and all manner of ridiculous impediments to feeling his skin upon mine.
After a long moment, I dimly became aware of wolf-whistles and teasing shouts being aimed in our general direction by the other warriors close enough to witness our embrace; I disentangled one arm enough to raise a gauntleted fist with all but one finger folded down primly under my thumb; and the delighted laughter and renewed whistling reassured me that one symbol, at least, remained the same between the two worlds.
I drew back after what seemed like both an eternity and an instant, my arms still about Finnead. He gazed down at me with that quintessentially male satisfaction gleaming in his eyes from the depths of that savage war paint; and I rolled my eyes at him.
“My dear Lady Bearer,” he said, the edges of his voice subtly ragged, “please keep in mind that I am now a Knight of the Wild Court, and as such, have license to as much spontaneity as I deem fit.” He punctuated his statement with a fast-as-thought kiss to the tender part of my neck just below my ear.
I tried to look nonchalant, knew I failed miserably, and said anyway, “That’s not really a conclusion, just more of an observation at this point.” I let myself grin a little. “I’ll need more…substantial evidence.”
Finnead chuckled just as Vell appeared, eyes flashing fiercely and hands on her hips.
“If you two are done mooning about like twitter-pated snowcats,” she said, the wicked spark in her eye betraying her amusement, “we have a dragon-hunt to conduct.”
“As you command, O High Queen,” replied Finnead, disentangling his fingers from my braids.
Vell pointed at him sternly. “I just let you have a very passionate moment with the Lady Bearer here—”
“Oh, you let him?” I said with a snort.
“—But I will not let you sass me. Go gather your warriors and make your preparations.” Vell folded her arms over her chest, scowling, the Crown gleaming on her brow. I couldn’t tell if she was joking, and Finnead bowed soberly to her before striding away, his faehal trotting obediently after him.
Vell kept her scowl firmly in place, watching until the warriors of the ground force surrounded Finnead, obscuring him from view; and then her sour look faded and she glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “Well, that took too long by half.”
A surprised laugh burst from me. “Oh, you were just waiting for us to have a ‘passionate moment’?” I made air-quotes with my fingers around Vell’s words, grinning.
“Last night before the battle and all, I wasn’t so sure that you weren’t having more than a moment with Luca,” Vell replied. “I don’t think Finnead was so very sure either. There was enough of that sort of thing going about camp…which is entirely appropriate, if you ask me.”
I snorted again. “That’s ridiculous.”
Vell shrugged and grinned, her teeth gleaming even in the dingy gray light. “Not so very ridiculous, Tess. You have a habit of underestimating both your own power and your own beauty.” She laughed in devilish delight. “Ah, look, that makes you blush more than kissing my handsome dark-haired Knight in broad daylight!”
I swatted at her shoulder half-heartedly. “I was doing alright until you came along!”
“In any case, come on then. I have to make you properly battle-ready.”
“What does that mean? Shouldn’t I be…preparing something?” I protested as Vell seized my arm and dragged me toward her roan faehal.
“What do you have to prepare?” she demanded. “You have the stones in your belt-pouch, and that’s all you’ll need as far as I can tell. Leave the other warriors to their work for a moment and let me have some fun.”
“You say that like you’ve been deprived lately,” I grumbled as she released my arm and sat on her haunches, rummaging through her packs where they’d been stacked neatly on the ground. I took her cue and unloaded Nehalim, stacking my provisions next to those of the High Queen.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t be complaining,” Vell said as she made a triumphant noise, seizing a small silver canister from her pack. “I am getting to run my very own dragon-hunt.” The silver case was about as long as my hand, and nearly as wide. Vell expertly flipped a hidden catch and the case sprang open, revealing what looked to me at first glance like an artist’s palette of paints. Cleverly crafted little dishes held an assortment of colors, from bright cobalt blue to golden yellow and a searing scarlet. “Sit,” commanded Vell, and I folded my legs, settling in front of her in the dun-colored, ash-flecked dirt. “I should’ve done this before the direflame, but it won’t hurt its effectiveness,” she assured me, extending two fingers over the paint-case and eyeing the colors with consideration. “Close your eyes.”
I wondered if she was going to give me the dark mask-like paint that adorned her Three. But I closed my eyes before I saw her fingers dip into a hue, and I sat obediently still as I felt Vell’s fingers traveling confidently over my skin. I tried to visualize the pattern, holding the feel of each stroke in my head; but Vell kept retouching lines, and I lost track. Finally, her fingers gripped my chin and she turned my head from side to side, examining her work. I opened one eye enough to squint at her. She shook her head.
“Your ridiculous expression ruins the effect a bit, but you look fierce,” she said with a hint of self-satisfaction in her voice.
“No war paint for you?” I retorted, resisting the urge to purloin the silver case and look at my reflection.
“I use a different kind of paint,” she said.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“You’re not meant to know what it means. But you’ll see, later, the White Wolf willing.” Vell touched the pearly white marks on the side of her throat with two fingers at the invocation.
A shrill whistle pierced the low hum surrounding the warriors’ preparations. I stood quickly, dusting off my breeches. My hands traveled over the Sword’s strap across my chest, the belt about my waist, and the sheaths in my boot-tops. For a moment I wished that I’d had time to practice stringing a bow again.
“You’re no more than a passing shot,” murmured Vell, making me look sharply at her; but her golden eyes focused on something I could not see. Beryk slid under her outstretched hands, ears pricked, lupine gaze following that of the vyldretning. Vell’s fingers curled into Beryk’s fur, and after a few breaths she knelt, pressing her forehead against his midnight-dark nose as I’d seen her do countless times. She cupped Beryk’s magnificent head with her hands, thumbs tracing the delicate outline of his alert ears; the black wolf gazed solemnly into her eyes and she began to speak in a low voice in the Northern tongue. I looked away, feeling as though I was trespassing. The Sword vibrated a low warning in its sheath, just soon enough that I didn’t jump when Arcana spoke from behind me in her toneless voice.
“I am told you are to be my second.”
I turned, met the flat lifeless eyes of the Evermage—the Morrigan—and said, as steadily as I could, “Yes.”
“This is not a traditional arrangement. If you were truly my second, I would be able to draw on your power.” A strange scarlet glow flickered in the back of Arcana’s throat as she spoke, glimpsed only as her lips moved.
“There’s better chance of me putting a collar on that dragon and calling it my pet,” I said acidly. The Caedbranr’s chuckle shivered in the air about me.
Arcana laughed her strange, gurgling sound of amusement. It sounded like a choking man’s dying breath, a wheeze and gasp not heard on this side of life. I forced myself not to shudder, keeping my gaze focused on her blank beautiful face with its strip of scarlet war paint. When I let myself truly look at Arcana’s face, I saw the eerie resemblance to Vell, which only added to the Evermage’s eeriness.
“You do not trust me,” said Arcana.
“No,” I replied honestly.
Arcana stretched her girlish lips into a chilling parody of a smile. “Perhaps you are more clever than I first thought.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
Arcana laughed again, and this time I wasn’t able to suppress my shudder. “We shall, brightly burning Bearer. We shall indeed see.”
The Caedbranr remained silent but I felt its power coiling behind my breastbone, poised to strike. But Arcana gave a strange stiff little bow and turned her body, the gray light glimmering on her silver breastplate.
Beryk bounded past me, his tail held jauntily high; and a short distance away I saw the tawny flash of Kianryk, and a silver streak that must have been Rialla as they joined Beryk, loping away over the dun-colored hills. I wondered what Vell had whispered to Beryk.
“With me, Tess,” said Vell quietly, more sober now as she reluctantly tore her gaze from the black wolf fading into the distance. She swung up onto her faehal and I followed suit, mounting Nehalim. We rode to the crest of the next hill. A hot wind suddenly stirred the dust about Nehalim’s hooves, and he tossed his head. I glanced at Vell, sitting upright and picturesque as a sculpture, a marble carving of a Viking goddess dressed for war.
“It comes,” she said with a gleaming grin.
Chapter 13
Gray stood before her two dozen Valkyrie, the gray light striking their breastplates, reflecting incandescently onto their mounts and the ground, a pale echo of the bright auras of the Glasidhe warriors hovering overhead. The Valkyrie stood by their faehal, and the faehal wore gleaming harnesses, the beautifully crafted wings suspended on either side of their bodies. At some unheard command, the Valkyrie moved into a circle around us, moving gracefully but keeping a good distance from one another, watching the wings on either side of their mounts. The faehal stepped with delicate poise, their ears swiveling, liquid eyes watching their riders and Vell. They seemed to understand the momentous event coalescing around them.
“Time to learn how to fly,” said Farin into my ear, her wings twitching with excitement.
“I’m staying firmly on the ground, thanks,” I murmured in reply.
Vell held a long ivory wand—that was the word my mind supplied, though this object was somewhere between a staff and a rod, almost as thick as my fist and as long as my shin. Luca and Chael stood behind Vell, Arcana watching unblinkingly from a few paces away. Finnead was absent, already with his ground forces, formed in a wedge of riders spread from the base of the hill; I stood just behind Arcana, a position that gave me a good angle to keep the Morrigan in my peripheral view, even as I watched Vell.
“Her father was herravaldyr, but her mother was volta, and her mother’s mother before her,” whispered Farin.
“How do you seem to know everything about everybody?” I asked quietly, watching Vell draw complex symbols into the dirt with the wand. Staff, I decided, was a better word. “And what’s a volta?”
“People tend to forget about us,” replied Farin. “Learning much about others, that is one of the benefits of being small and forgotten, sometimes.” She hummed thoughtfully. “The voltur are the Northern seers and diviners. Women with great power. The Courts called them the North-witches.” She lowered her voice. “Some say even the Sidhe Queens feared them.”
I blinked and wondered again at the tangled web of fate; Vell truly embodied her people’s power, the daughter of both a king and a mage. Had she decided not to tell me about her heritage because it opened the wounds of her past? Or had she never expected to call forth the power of her volta blood, as she had never expected to be fully herravaldyr, leading others of her kind?
As Vell finished drawing her inscription, the hot wind blew over us again, kicking up a whirl of dust, but her symbols remained untouched. Vell murmured an incantation, so low that I couldn’t make out the words. But I could hear the melodious rhythm of her voice and saw the sureness in her hands as she drew another line of symbols, the design foreign yet somehow undeniably powerful. The scent of pine and snow rose from her like steam as she reached out a hand, and Luca offered a silver bowl; she scooped a handful of pale powder from the silver bowl and poured it from the bottom of her fist over the inscription, still murmuring her song-like incantation. The pale powder sizzled as it hit the ground; for a moment it covered the dirt like gleaming snow, and then some invisible force drew it into the lines of the carved glyphs, every single gleaming grain pulled into the inscrutable letters. The inscription emanated its own light, like gently pulsing lines of starlight laid into the dirt of the hilltop.
In one hand Vell held her white staff, but in her other she now held a dagger, though I hadn’t seen her draw it; and I pressed my lips together, knowing what was probably going to happen next— and not liking it. Farin patted my ear as though to allay my uneasiness.
“Not much needed, I don’t think,” she whispered. A hush fell over the hilltop as Vell drew the dagger over the white skin of her bare forearm. Dark blood welled up slowly, stark against her pale skin. She dripped her blood over the inscription, stepped back and licked the dagger clean, wolf-like as her tongue lapped at the dark drops. A breeze lapped at the edges of the circle, cool and different than the wind forewarning the dragon’s approach. Chael offered his silver bowl, amethyst eye inscrutable as Vell mixed her blood into the bowl’s contents. She continued her incantation, almost hymn-like now, her voice rising in a haunting and fierce melody. The cool breeze twisted through Vell’s voice as she dipped her staff into the silver bowl, Chael following one step behind her in a choreographed movement that reminded me of an altar-boy following a priest during Mass. Vell walked the circle of the Valkyrie, her voice rising into a high and undulating song as she marked each warrior’s breastplate and each of the faehal’s wings with her ivory staff. The Valkyrie watched, some through eyes half-lidded in hazy anticipation of the rush of battle, some with the spark of blood lust already surfacing in their beautiful faces. All looked beatific as Vell marked them, radiant with the prospect of cleaving the skies on their newly winged mounts.
