The Coming Storm (99 page)

Her smile was sweet, and wistful.

For a moment Ailith looked away, then she sighed and nodded. “Not as you love Aerilann, Colath, that I know. Still. I did and do love it. The castle was cold and drafty in winter and too hot in summer but it was home and I miss it. The hills in the summer rolled green and gold and I could see the horses grazing upon them from my rooms. The foals would make me laugh as they scampered across the fields, all long gangly legs as they found their speed. We would swim in the river when the weather was warm. When the winter storms came you could see the snow wash across the hills, softly erasing all you saw. I would draw the shutters and the curtains and curl up in a chair by the fire with a cup of something warm.”

Her breath caught at the enormity of her loss.

“I doubt I can ever go back there again, however this goes. They won’t love me for what I’ve done, no matter the reason.”

She’d gone against her father, or that which resembled him.

The thought of leaving Aerilann never to return again… Never to go home again.

Just the thought of it nearly broke Colath’s heart. He couldn’t bear to imagine it, nor imagine how she could, feeling what he did through the bond between them.

“Time may yet be enough,” he said.

It was unlikely and they both knew it.

She looked at him with that calm gaze, her eyes too wise for such fancy.

“Colath,” she chided, gently. “Don’t offer such false hope to me now.”

“No,” he said, “I shouldn’t. I owe you my honesty if nothing else, though I sought only ease, not deception.”

“I know. It’s all right.”

A door opened, one she hadn’t noticed before and her heart went cold. Bright sunlight speared in the room.

Looking in, the guard nodded. Behind him, more waited.

“It’s time,” the guard said.

Ailith looked at him, and then nodded.

Colath started forward but Ailith touched his arm and shook her head.

“No, Colath,” she said.

Although it wrenched at her heart and she longed to fling herself against him as shelter against the storm of what came next, she couldn’t.

“You’ve done all you should do, all you could do, Colath, true-friend,” she said, although her heart ached and the fear was almost more than she could bear. She raised a hand to his face, a touch she hadn’t dared in the past with others looking on. “In this, you cannot help me. No more. If all goes well, it won’t matter and I’ll always know you brought me this far. But if it goes badly…they’ll mark it and remember. I can’t allow you to be tarred with that brush. It’s not cowardice on your part but wisdom. This I must do alone.”

Their eyes met.

Resolution on her part, that she wouldn’t bring him harm.

After a moment, he nodded.

Ailith looked at him for what might be the last time. “Colath, my friend. You’ve been a true-friend of my heart. Even without the bond, I would have loved you, but with it…thank you, always.”

“And I, you, true-friend,” he said and took her arm in a tight arm clasp. One last time, perhaps.

To never do this again
? It pained him so deeply. If she had been other…

Exile, Eliade had said. Life of some kind, at least. In the borderlands. Alone.

Ailith’s hand tightened on his, looked up again to meet his gaze. “True-friends, always. Watch him for me, Colath.”

Elon
.

His breath caught as he looked down at her. “I will, Ailith.”

Drawing herself up, remembering who she was and who she’d been, Ailith nodded to the guard and stepped past Colath with only a single glance back.

“Remember, Colath, true-friend, I’ll be watching. Always.”

Her words went through him like a knife. Her gift. That she would watch over him and them through the stars in her mind. As she watched over Elon and all of them.

Always.

“Ailith…”

Her blue-gray eyes met his. She smiled.

The Guard surrounded her.

The door closed.

Colath didn’t move.

Elves didn’t weep as men did.

For a moment he envied men the ability. It wasn’t that his people wouldn’t but that they couldn’t. There was no capacity in them for tears. Nor did Elves show their pain and sorrow except to their own kind. Many of their folk, knowing he knew Ailith, had kept their own counsel out of respect for him and a desire to avoid conflict. It pained him to be so separate from his own folk. Here there were few even among his own with whom he could share this. None save Jalila and he couldn’t reach her. For now, for this moment, as with Ailith, he would have to bear it alone.

He wished Elon was here with him and the others with whom they’d fought. Jareth and Jalila. Olend and Itan. Where were they now? Had they heard? Or were they in Marakis and far from this news. They would have understood.

Ailith
.

What now? Go down into the Square and watch the spectacle? Join his fellows, the Hunters and Woodsmen who’d fought alongside them, standing in grim protest with the Guards along the wide balconies? He supposed he should, if only to bear witness to this for her as she had in dreams for he and Elon when Tolan had held them.

Colath left the room without a backward glance.

The First of the Three, the ruling Council of the Kingdoms, watched as Ailith, once of Riverford, walked down the white marble steps from the Council Building with her head held high, her clear, dark-blue eyes looking forward. He wasn’t Daran High King here but the duly elected First, representative of the race of men and the deciding vote if the Three were split. Deciding what was best and necessary for his people and all the people of the Kingdoms, Men, Elves and Dwarves. On each side of him were the others of the Three, Goras of the Dwarves and Eliade of the Elves.

All eyes were on the small figure that descended the steps, guards surrounding her.

Goras made a small noise, a rumble of distaste.

Eliade was silent, her counsel kept close as all Elves did.

The young woman preceded the Guard, walked with strong, sure steps down the stairs from the Council Chambers as if the Guardsmen protected her, and not the other way around. There was no arrogance in her, simply a calm dignity, she was every inch the queen she might one day have been.

The man within the King couldn’t help but admire it and regret the necessity of what was about to happen.

Would she take his offer? he wondered. Or not?

For the betterment of all she should but he wasn’t certain of it. Would the appeal he’d made to her, to protect Elon and Jareth, be enough to sway her? In truth his fellows on the council and the representatives ringed below them knew nothing of his offer. He’d sounded them out, though, and was confident of their wishes. It would go the way he wanted, if only she took his offer.

At least a small part of him wished they could have dressed her better, presented her in a more seemly manner.

She was dressed in basic trews, a simple shirt and a leather vest.

Fighting clothes.

Her belt hung loosely on her hips, bereft of her sword.

No fillet of gold circled her brow to mark her as the daughter and Heir of one of the lesser Kings – which she was and had the right to claim, whatever her father’s perfidy and despite his disownment.

No. The tousled, sun-kissed curls of her hair were bound back with the same plain leather thong she’d worn in battle.

Had she have chosen to be dressed this way? He didn’t know.

Above his head arched the great dome, the clear crystal in its center meant to be a symbol of the light of reason.

Elon’s design, Elven symbolism. The four pillars were ringed around him, symbolic of knowledge, justice, compassion and wisdom, with their runes engraved on them they mocked him.

For a moment Daran resented it.

There was no reason here. Just expediency. A bowing to tradition, customs and taboos. Nothing more. He could almost feel Goras’s rage and anger radiating beside him.

Otherwise the Chamber was an open rotunda, to show that those virtues would be open and revealed to all who stood before it. Elon’s work, his plan.

That mocked him, too.

Her words.
He’s served you well and you repay him like this
?

No, he’d repaid him by sending him away so he wouldn’t have to witness it.

Or try to prevent it.

And to remind the great and mighty Elon of Aerilann above all just who had the real power here, remind him who was High King and First of the Three.

The crowd caught their first glimpse of her as she descended, just before she reached the floor of the Chamber. A sound escaped them that was much like the rush of the waves that glittered below.

Somehow the Elves who’d helped build the chamber had set the dome and curled the wall behind it just so, so that those without could hear every word spoken as clearly as a bell.

The Square was open, too, although awnings could be stretched out above them if the heat were too oppressive or in the rare case of rain. They weren’t unfurled now.

As if she knew her place, she walked steadily to the landing provided, so that she was clearly visible to the Councilors and all in the Square, as intended.

There she stopped, above and beyond the reach of those below and turned to face those who would judge her.

If she was afraid, she gave no sign of it. In that she might have been an Elven.

There was a murmur from those watching, condemnations, a whisper of admiration.

Daran High King, First of the Three, nodded slightly and then glanced at his companions. They returned his gaze, Goras impatient and Eliade calm. Eliade inclined her head slightly.

“Get on with it,” Goras muttered. “Too much ceremony.”

An odd complaint from a Dwarf, whose folk thrived on ceremony and tradition, Laws, Contracts and Exceptions. No matter. He was right, it was time.

“Ailith of Riverford,” Daran called, his voice echoing over the Square.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. Steel-blue, steady, resolute and calm, her face nearly as serene as an Elf’s. Which, if what they had reason to believe was true, she was, at least somewhat. 

“You stand before us to be judged. Who will state the charges?”

There would be no defense, they’d made sure of it.

For a moment there was utter silence, with only the sound of the breeze and the distant rush of surf disturbing it. One could almost hear the expectation build.

“She’s Otherling,” a voice rumbled.

As if that were condemnation enough. Perhaps it was.

Like the arms of a crab, the seats of the members of the lower Council arched out on either side of the Chamber itself. Only one seat  among them was empty. Elon’s.

A Dwarf stood from among them.

Like all of the men of their kind he was large, with massively muscled limbs and chest, grim and dour, his face like rocks hewn roughly from the earth. Though most didn’t know it, within the caverns and mines of the Dwarves, though, it was the women who ruled, oddly enough. The men might represent their outward face but it was the women who had the real power within the clans and who dominated the Lore Masters. They didn’t have the rough visages of their men, nor their harshness but were generally warm and merry.

Not this day, their faces were grim.

Even so, the forms were met, and so it was a Dwarf and not a Wife who stood before them.

“The Council sees Morl of the Dwarves,” Daran said.

Morl nodded once, in acknowledgement only.

“She’s Otherling. Make no mistake about that. As such, she’s an abomination. The blood of our races wasn’t meant to mingle, it defiles the purity of each. More, it’s brought madness, blood and death in its wake. Not a single Otherling in memory has been born who hasn’t gone mad. Is that not true? And, going mad, hasn’t wreaked havoc and bloodshed on all in their path. Is that not true? Do you all not know the histories, the stories? Were you not raised with those tales, heard at your mother’s knee? Tales to make one shiver, to quail and curb the hearts of small children. Yet true. We know it well, we Dwarves. We know it, we’ve seen it.”

“Some of us remember those dark days. Amarok. In his rage and madness he sundered the roof of the Cavern of Mayhew and killed nearly a hundred of our people. Men, women and children and he not yet old enough to hold an axe. With magic. Not the magic of our Lore Masters, nor that of wizards, nor even that of Elves. Wild magic. The Lore Masters among us couldn’t fathom its like nor could the wizards. Despite all our traditions, despite all the tales, some among us couldn’t see the danger, couldn’t see the horror that he would bring down upon us. Despite all counsel, some still pleaded for mercy. How did he repay that kindness? With murder and death. Those in the caverns at least had a merciful end. For those trapped in the corridors beyond there was only slow suffocation and the crush of stone as the mountain trembled. For all the Lore Masters could manage, for all the power in our axes and picks, only a few survived among us, who are the masters of stone. And he was yet a boy.”

“Aye,” called a voice from the crowd. “And what of Caleah and Palan?”

“Yes,” Morl rumbled, “Yes. What of them? Caleah. How many died?”

“Her whole family,” a voice cried out.

“And more,” another said, “when the fire she called swept outward and burned through half the hills before the wizards and Elves put it out. How many died? Eh? Many?”

The Elves of the Council stood stoic and silent.

“Aye. Such is the legacy of Otherlings. And Palan, who called up a great wave from the sea and washed away an entire village.”

Ailith listened.

It was of little use to tell them she was none of those people. She wasn’t Caleah, Palan, Amarok or any of the others. They knew nothing of Taran of Marakis, who Talesin had known. And Olend, Itan.

Even if Talesin were to tell them, they wouldn’t listen, they wouldn’t hear.

This wasn’t about reason, it was about fear, fear of that wizard from the desert. Fear of Mornith.

Him they couldn’t touch. But they could touch her.

She’d raised the dragon.

Ailith watched the faces of those around her.

The uncharacteristic solemnity of the women of the Dwarves.

Some among those who watched in the crowd had been on the battlefield that day and among those she could see sympathy and some anger. They were few.

Most of these people had been besieged here, had watched from the safety of the ramparts and towers and prayed to be spared. They’d seen loved ones return wounded and dead. The enemy hadn’t been among the dead. Instead, Mornith had escaped, had vanished moments before his doom. No one had been able reach him in time to prevent it, not even Elon. There had been no place for them to vent their fear and rage.

Now they were presented with another threat. Another unknown.

Herself.

To one side stood the wizards, though Jareth wasn’t among them.

It was an effort for her not to bite her lip, not to wish for just one friendly face. She dared not glance up at the galleries above to spy Colath looking down. She didn’t need to look up to know he was there. He was like a bright golden light among the stars in her mind. It wouldn’t do him any good for someone to see her look to him.

Among the wizards she had no friends save Jareth. The wizards couldn’t fathom her magic, save for its limitations, perhaps. Avila was Master of the Collegiate of Wizards and she knew the lore well enough. The one thing she didn’t know was how to master it or control it. She hadn’t tried. She feared it, it was there in her eyes. Ailith could see it.

Catching that look from the girl, Avila throttled back her fury and frustration. She’d set a trap and caught the wrong quarry. She’d meant to discredit Jareth and that damned Elon. Now she would lose all that incredible power. It was a bitter pill to swallow and she hadn’t swallowed it well.

If she couldn’t have it, though, she’d made absolutely certain no other would. Not Daran and certainly not Elon of Aerilann. She’d made very certain of that.

She smiled a little to herself in satisfaction.

Ailith looked away from that cold glance.

The Elves were of little consolation to her either.

Some among them knew her. Some knew what she’d done. The warriors, the Hunters and Woodsmen, both Men and Elves alike, all the ones who’d fought beside her. She’d grown somewhat adept at reading the small signs and hints of what went on behind Elven eyes and she caught a glimmering of compassion from a few.

Only a few.

There were more than a few who believed the mixing of blood, the creation of Halflings among the lesser races of Dwarves and Men was an abomination. To them, Dwarves were only a step beneath them, a useful group of artisans and miners and valued for those skills. Men were a markedly lesser race, as shown by their chancy concept of honor and lack of magic save for the small number of wizards among them. More clearly so for the brevity of their life that that was more than compensated by their rampant fertility and aggressiveness. After a long history of men invading Elven lands, with the attendant violence and bloodshed, a very few among them thought Men should have been wiped out long before their numbers had grown so large. It was sometimes the loudest voices that were heard the clearest.

One of those Elves stood. A woman.