Steelfated, page 38
After a time, she opened them and pulled herself out of the pool. She stuck her head down the trapdoor to see where everyone else was.
Radyn and Natalia sat in two of the chairs, with a few haphazard stacks of books between them on the table. They were mostly dry histories, but she saw a copy of “Songs of the Southern Highlands: Fables, legends, and histories surrounding the Tuathan Highlands and the lives of the Sky Lords.” She’d read this before, it was a book of children’s fables by a bard named Vida. Vida’s fame and popularity stemmed from three sources.
First, his teacher had been Taliesin, the most legendary bard to have ever come out of the Highlands. Second, he was widely traveled and exceptionally prolific. Third, he was the first bard to have published written works after the Fall, and he was alive at the start of the Third Era. He may have even witnessed the Fall. She’d had a copy of the book as a child, though it was a copy of a copy several times over, and molded into a set of children’s stories as well. This one looked as if it were probably old enough to have been an original, if not THE original. Morgain wrapped her robe around her, and came down the ladder to join them in their research. Glancing through the pile, she quickly realized that none of these books were in the regular library that they had access to. Had the Fey planned that, or was it merely a coincidence?
She sat down, and while the book piqued her interest, she opened another book first.
Two hours later, she dropped the book with a sigh. It was a series of dry ledgers about how much grain and how many stones they’d needed during the construction of Ironlake.
“Well, that one was a waste of time. I should have stayed in the pool.”
“While you read that, I think I found something.” He said. She looked at him curiously.
“What did you find?”
“The story of the Fall of Connacthia.”
“We’ve all heard the stories, Radyn.” She said dryly. He nodded.
“Yes, but this is the complete story, less than thirteen years after it happened. Look at the publication date of this book.” he said excitedly, pointing it out to her. It was the book she had almost picked up when she had approached the table.
The inside of the cover bore the date inscribed and gilded,
(23rd Night’s Rise 12, 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
“Oh, wow. What-” He snatched the book back from her.
“Not here.” He said flatly. “Take it back to the Sidh with us, if you insist on being nostalgic, and read it in the privacy of your own rooms. It’s a children’s tale- it would embarrass the High Council for a grown woman to be seen reading it publicly.” His eyes widened slightly. She took the book from him and quickly folded her clothes around the book. She was determined to read it at her first chance.
26
The Fall of Connacthia
(32nd Spring’s Bounty, 675 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
Morgain did not get a chance to open the book until the day after they found it. She closed her door, sat down and opened it. Planning to leaf quickly through it at first, she realized the book was extremely fragile. Two pages fell out not long after she opened it. After replacing them and taking a cursory glance through the rest of them, she realized that several pages were missing, and others had blocks of text that were too smudged to read. Humidity from the pools maybe? Or was it perhaps sabotage, or an attempt to conceal something. Icy trickles of dread ran down her spine as she considered who might benefit from the destruction of such information. Too many to count, including those who were nominally on her side.
It was also decidedly NOT the book of children’s fables she’d been familiar with, though the stories were the same.
Sighing she started to read anyway. It was the best lead they had.
* * *
(3rd Frost-guard 8417 2nd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times Passing in Talys Rae)
Rain poured down across the Tyn’sol Valley in the heart of the Tuatha Dominance. Hidden within the tunnels that served as “the Winter Roads’’, in the harsh southern peninsula of the Connacthian capital, were six hooded figures. Five of them stood in a circle, with the sixth, an elvish noblewoman named Amon’ceera Rydriana, crouched in the center of them, sketching a rough map on the floor and plotting treason.
Amon’ceera looked up at the five men around her. Though all the men were tall, as were most men from Tuatha, Berrick Cae’ardwyn, Flynn Muirdoch, Kelvyn Halstraad, Martyn Faughn, and Liam Tarethman were as different as they come.
Amon’ceera tapped her chin slowly, her gaze falling on each of the standing men. It had taken a great deal of manoeuvering to get them to this point, and to make them think it had been their own idea. Callen had sown the seeds of his undoing by burning the lords and ladies of the kingdom those years before, and Tuathan’s were tough, and prickly about their honor, but still it had taken her the better part of three decades to convince them all of this scheme of hers. Now, she just had to sell it in such a way that she considered what they were asking her to do, what she had planned on doing anyway, as if she were doing them a favor.
“You realize what it is you ask of me, correct?” she said, not needing to affect her sigh. She had worked for this end, yet now that it was here, the price of her plans loomed over her, seeming quite heavy suddenly. The five men nodded.
“Aye, Lady, that we do.” Liam said. “Your ancestral lands shall be returned to you, and the forest-
-exclusive rule of the Rydriana family, and no one from the Caldahorn shall cut or burn them again, under the pain of de-
Amon’ceera sat cross legged for a moment more before she spoke, running a hand through her silver hair.
“That-
-can be arranged. My people will bring the fallen trees to the edge of the forest. Two distinct lines of striftwood trees will be planted a thousand feet apart, with a line of Ironwood trees in the center. The striftwoods are not to be touched. The fallen trees that your people need will be brought between the Northern line of the striftwood and the ironwood. However, anything within this zone can be used by your people as needed. Any man found North or West of the Ironwoods with weapons made of iron shall be killed on sight. An-”
“-saw or axe or blade. Any man found north of the second line of striftwoods will meet a similar fate.” She said. Liam nodded.
“The rest of us pledge our support and undying friendship to the Caldorian’s as well, Lady Amon’ceera.” Kelvyn said. Berrick nodded.
“Aye, the ships of my house shall bring Talys Rae all that she desires through Crysh Vael and Cael Vanyn.” He said. Having gained the answers and oaths she desired from four of the five men, she next turned at last to Flynn. The man nodded, made no promises or oaths, as the others had. He simply said.
“It shall be as agreed, Lady.” Amon’ceera nodded and set her mouth. That was all she was going to get out of the man. Flynn alone had held reservations about joining this endeavor, though most of them revolved around Kelvyn.
The longstanding feud between Halstraad and Muirdoch had not been forgotten, nor had its ferocity died down much in the centuries the families had hated each other. She thought she had a chance, however slim, of mending this feud however.
“So be it. By morning, the Connacht dynasty shall be no more. Go now to the feast, but be wary. Survive the night, and you shall see your ancestral lands returned as well.” She said, “I go now to do what must be done.” Four of the five men turned to leave with stiff, formal bows.
Kelvyn Halstraad was the only one to remain.
“Let me lead you out, Lady Amon’ceera.” He said, offering his hand. The silver haired elf woman looked up at him and smiled wanly.
“No, thank you, Kelvyn. I appreciate the gesture, and I would be happy to walk out with you, but it is best if you don’t touch me. You wear too much iron.” She said Kelvyn withdrew his hand.
“Of course, my apologies, my lady.” He said. She rose and walked beside him for a while in silence.
“Tell me, Lord Kelvyn, how did a man like you end up with a sword of mithril and adamantium? I can see from the shifting patterns in the metal between silver and black. That blade is worth more than the whole of the Tyn’sol Valley.” She said, trying to bait him, to see how honest he truly was. She knew the history of his blade. Every elf child of over five summers knew about this blade and the other twelve of Rey’shar’ak’s masterwork weapons. But did he know she knew? Kelvyn’s mouth twisted slightly in a grimace, betraying his opinion of the blade.
“It is only pure iron which elves cannot touch directly, correct?” he said. Amon’ceera nodded.
“Aye, nearly all the elves use mithril, the wealthier bear adamantium weapons.” She said Kelvyn reached for his belt, undoing the clasp.
“I know the stories that abound about my people, Lord Kelvyn, and not that I do not find you desirable but-” she cut off as the highland lord started, nearly dropping his trousers, and blushed furiously.
“Lady Amon’ceera, you mistake my intentions.” He said flatly, his face still beet red, but otherwise impassive. He pulled his sword and sheath from his belt and handed it to her.
“It’s so light.” She marveled. Her reaction to having the blade in her hand- that at least was not feigned, it was true amazement. This sword had done so much-it was one of only a few objects that were considered being an essential part of the tapestry- each of which was important enough to have their own branch of study. This blade was also the least studied of the lot.
“Forged by Reysh’ar’ak himself, at the first meeting of humans and elves after the Great Fall, at the dawn of the Second Era. This blade is over eight thousand years old, and has taken no rust, and needed no whetstone since it was forged.”
“The patron of house Halstraad, Gareth, traded everything he had for it: his house, his lands, and even his people. With this blade, he broke away from the rest of the refugees from the North, bringing with him only a few of his most trusted friends, and forged his own kingdom, which came to be known as Vynteria.”
“His betrayal of his first home and his reneging of his promise to pay Reysh’ar’ak back in full, however, led its maker to curse the blade. Bearing it is… quite the burden. I’ll not go into the details now. It can only be borne by a Halstraad. Even if the line were to break completely, which I am not entirely sure is possible, the blade itself may ensure that someone of my bloodline will always be around to bear it. The blade passes to true-born sons foremost, but if there are none to be had, it will pass to a true-born daughter, and then on to bastard children if need be.”
“But I am bearing the blade right now.” Amon’ceera said, looking at him skeptically. Kelvyn smiled wryly.
“There is a difference between holding the blade and bearing it. Try to draw it, just- be warned-, do not hold it for long.” He said. Amon’ceera looked at him quizzically and pulled the blade from its sheath. She got the blade only part way out of its sheath before the curse became apparent.
As soon as she pulled on the hilt, a white-hot searing pain struck her like a thunderbolt. It burned her palm where she held the blade and caused every muscle in her body to spasm and cramp. She cried out, forcing herself to keep her mouth open so she didn’t bite her tongue, and dropped it. The blade cleared its sheath as it fell and bounced off the stone floor with a ringing clang. Kelvyn knelt and retrieved it, looking almost reverently at the blade as he rose, cradling it like a child. He replaced the blade in its sheath and returned it to his belt.
“Mythal Cavara.” Amon’ceera cursed. Her hand was red and shiny from the heat, the skin blistering and crack already. Kelvyn gave a forlorn smile.
“Apologies, my lady.” He said with a bow of his head. “No one ever believes the tale that the sword can’t be drawn by any but the ruler of the Halstraad.” He said. “ I once saw my father—”
“You are not the man your forebears were, Kelvyn Halstraad.” She said. He looked at her, and raised his left hand, and scratched his chin.
“No.” he agreed.
“You would not trade your people for a blade.” She said again. Kelvyn agreed. “Let me see the sword one more time.” She said. As Kelvyn unbuckled the blade, she saw him stare at it in wonder.
“I am not my ancestors.” He said. “Yet I cannot deny the allure of this blade.”
Amon’ceera had to agree.
Amon’ceera ran her fingers across the hilt of the sword. Suddenly, she knew how to implement the ultimate piece of her plan in a way that Callen could not sense.
“Amoh Styn ca’rah avak du’il.” She whispered slowly. She reached up and pulled the two diamonds from the end of the falcon’s wings. She pricked her finger on the point of the diamond, and shuddered slightly as she saw the drop of blood get sucked inside the gemstone, leaving a small dark red spot in its center. “Quickly, give me your dagger.” She said to Kelvyn. To his credit, the man reacted quickly, handing her the ornately carved dagger his wife had given him on the day they were wed. Amon’ceera pressed the diamonds to the hilt, where they flared briefly.
“Mythal Cavara.” She said, “Everything about that sword burns.” She handed the dagger back to him.
“Give this to Callen tonight as a gift, and perhaps it will keep you alive.” She said, “Tell him it is called Syk’ar’ath.” He looked at her curiously.
“Vengeance?” he said. She blinked in surprise.
“Aye, you know a bit of high elvish then?” She asked. He gave a slight nod.
“My great grandmother was half-elvish. Lady Kanda Halstraad, wife of Lord Robert Halstraad. She died just before I was a man grown. It was for her that the striftwood in the center of our arboretum was planted. It reminded her of home.” Amon’ceera looked at him and nodded in approval.
“The burden of that blade has be-”
“-he blistering hand and reluctance to be borne by any but a Halstraad remains.” Kelvyn tilted his head, then drew the sword. A look of wonder crossed his face.
“Thank you.” He breathed. The pair re-emerged into the grey light of the Tuathan day. The rain had changed to a wet, heavy snow, but the ground still held enough heat to melt it when it landed. Kelvyn set his jaw grimly. Winter was not far off now.
“Farewell, Kelvyn Halstraad.” She said, “And best of luck to you.”
“Farewell, Amon’ceera Rydriana, and thank you.” The woman nodded her head slightly.
Kelvyn mounted his horse and rode southwest towards Taer Briechlin, a half day’s ride. Amon’ceera, still shaken, filled with dread for what was coming, and not entirely paying attention to what she was doing, muttered a spell under her breath, pulling on the strings of energy that connected all things, living and nonliving, known as the Tapestry, and stepped through the fold she made, and she was standing, five hundred miles to the north, to the Cohldharron Heights.
Unbeknownst to Amon’ceera, the energy used to transport her had been taken from a young woman, the w- -who was bearing their first child. Her spell stole away the young woman’s life ener- -pull the child out. To her relief, the child drew breath.
Amon’ceera was greeted by the bounding hug of her young daughter, Noetasiara, who was twenty years old. Her steward Velthas Carr’al’tyn stood in the corner and gave her a nod.
“Ma’jevria!” the young girl, who was similar in maturity to a fourteen-year-old human girl, said excitedly. Amon’ceera kissed her on the top of her head.
“So much like your father.” She said into Noetasiara’s wavy black hair. Amon’ceera’s husband Cer’os had been killed shortly before Noetasiara had been born- cut down by a traitor to the crown, a traitor who had been paid off by the Connacht and their agents. He had defended King Darion to the last.
“It is done?” Velthas asked. Amon’ceera nodded.
“Aye. The Connacht will be no more by dawn.” She said. Velthas set his jaw grimly and left the room.
Amon’ceera sighed. Velthas was half her age, but he was already far wiser than she would ever claim to be. She supposed his name fit him well, as it meant “born ancient.”
All elvish names were given in the High tongue, by the noble tree in the heart of each elvish settlement’s grove. Each of the Heart-trees, usually a striftwood, were bound to the land, and to the original Heart-tree in Talys Rae. All elves could speak the names, which was not true of some words in the high tongue. Though only the Sylvara had any inkling of what the names meant. She turned to her daughter and gave her a kiss on the brow, and pulled her to her chest, hiding her face from the young girl.
Not for the first time, concern over what Noetasiara’s name meant crossed her face. Ironheart. She did not know what it meant, or how she felt about it. She spent the rest of the afternoon entertaining her daughter’s every whim.
Late that night, listening to the rain fall against the roof, a soothing and gentle hush- like the rain on the leaves of the forest, Amon’ceera sat on her daughter’s bed, lost in thought.
“I will see to her.” Velthas said solemnly. Amon’ceera looked over at him from where she reclined on the bed, with Noetasiara’s head in her lap, running her fingers through the thick black cascade of her daughter’s hair.
“I know, you will Velthas. Take her to Talys Rae, for a time, at least for a century. Let her grow and play with the princes.” She said, “‘Ere long she won’t even miss me.”
“You don’t believe that.” Velthas said. Amon’ceera looked at him, her eyes shining.
“I have to believe that. It’s all that I have left. I have planned so long for this, and now that the moment is here, I think myself a coward. I do not want to do this thing, I am terrified of doing this thing. What if it goes wrong? What if there are more far-reaching consequences? Do I truly have to pay this price? These are the thoughts that eat away at me, and spoiled much of the last afternoon that I am to spend with my daughter. I cannot describe to you how much I do not want to do this, how much I hate to do this-but it must be done. Callen Connacht has set his eyes on Talys Rae and her splendor. Talys Rae has never fallen, but Taer Briechlin- both before the Connacht and after their arrival- has ever been our guardian. No one can assault Talys Rae by land. The only viable option would be to do so by the Ty’rael River. Taer Briechlin controls the Ty’rael from its source, though it would be dangerous to put ships in anywhere in the Highlands. The Tyn’sol Valley is the only place the river is calm enough to put in from the South of the Morryinmere Mountains. With only the minimum destruction of our forest along the river, that which they would need to make their cook fires-I think Callen could reach Talys Rae in a fortnight and five days, if he sails straight down the Ty’rael.”
