“He told us you were an old friend,” Estin answered, getting to his knees. His whole body hurt, but he knew attacking this old woman was probably not the best choice. He tried to take a slow breath, but could not inhale much before his aching ribs made him flinch.
“Old friend?” She laughed lightly. Taking a knee in front of him, she asked, “Did you know that he got my sons killed?”
“I didn’t,” Estin admitted.
“Yes, that man’s ridiculous prophecy is self-fulfilling. My sons would be alive if they hadn’t believed in it and followed his suggestions. Well…that may not be entirely fair. Nenophar died following Turess’s advice. Sinelin died because I tried to save Nenophar, but the result is much the same. One action creates the next in the fabric, as it always has.”
“Who are you?” asked Estin, studying her features. She was old, even for an elf, but he knew of no elves who could have lived so long that they knew Turess during his original lifetime. Even with magic, there were no stories of any living more than two hundred years. “Your sons…they died during Turess’s claiming of the nations?”
The woman laughed again and sat down hard on the stone ground. “No, my sons died a few months ago. The pattern of your fate tells me that you had a hand in both of their deaths, though I can see it was not by intent or direct involvement. Your actions led to the formation of the mists, and they are what killed my sons. If you had not caused all of this, Dorralt would have manipulated another. I put no blame on you, Estin. You were a tool that Dorralt used, as so many are these days. As for who I am…call me Mairlee. It is a name I have been fond of since before Turess was born. A dwarven child gave me that name, back when others called me such ridiculous things as ‘destroyer of nations’ and ‘blight of the wilds.’ Mairlee sounds far more pleasant and peaceful, don’t you think?”
Looking toward the cabin in hopes that Turess would show himself, Estin saw only a cloud of dust that lingered after the wall collapsed. Glancing the other way, he could see Feanne shaking with the effort of regaining control over her limbs, but she remained frozen in place. Whatever magic had been used seemed to be keeping her arm and leg muscles locked rigidly.
“Let them go,” Estin pleaded. “We came for help, not to start a fight with you. If you won’t help, please send us on our way. We’ll find another way.”
Grinning, Mairlee patted Estin’s shoulder gently. “Child, had I known your role in all this a few years ago, I would have killed you without hesitation in a half-hearted attempt to change the pattern of others’ lives. Now, knowing that we cannot go back, I find myself far more amenable to your presence. Besides, I can smell Raeln on you. Good boy, that wolf. Is his friend Greth still around? I did enjoy his banter.”
“Greth died in Lantonne. Raeln…I don’t know if he’s still alive.”
Mairlee’s smile faded abruptly. “A shame. At times I forget how easily your threads end, though anymore I feel that I am in no better position within the fabric of our world’s fate. I told myself that hiding out here until I was calm enough to keep from destroying a few cities over my sons’ deaths was wise. If you have come for help, that tells me that you have not managed to turn the tide of the war on your own and likely cannot.”
“Dorralt has armies holding nearly every city we’ve found between here and Lantonne,” Estin confessed, lowering his head, trying not to think about all the death he had seen of late. “His forces number in the hundreds of thousands. We believe he may have called many of them back to Turessi to ensure we cannot stop him.”
Mairlee nodded slowly, staring past Estin at the wall of the valley. She blinked hard and smiled as she said, “Raeln’s thread has not ended yet. We still have time. His thread should intersect yours again. If it doesn’t, I doubt either of you will live long. You were correct in seeking me out. Dorralt has done enough damage to the pattern of fate that I doubt a mortal has the common sense to sort out. I will help, if only to bring fear back to the world for my kind. We will need that if we are to survive another generation with our numbers so badly thinned.”
“Your sons died and your entire kind is threatened? What are you?”
Mairlee smiled again and shrugged. “If the great emperor of nations did not tell you, why should I? I can see what all of you are. Your wife is a were-fox and more who struggles to keep the rage that comes with that blood from consuming her. You were a receptacle for a creature nearly as dark as Dorralt at one time, though now you are haunted by what it left behind. Turess is and always was an idiot who overreaches and hides his weaknesses. If I can see this in all of you, the least you can do is humor me and figure my identity out yourself.”
Feanne abruptly fell forward, her muscles releasing. A second later, a groan from the cabin let Estin know Turess was alive.
“How do you know my name?” Estin asked, though he had far too many questions and that was low among them. He quickly held up a hand to stop Feanne from running at Mairlee, though he kept his eyes on Mairlee.
“I saw you once before, Estin,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You were fleeing Lantonne with Feanne, Yoska, Finth, Linn, and the two foxlings. I have very good hearing, dear boy. And before you ask, many of those you wonder about still live. The children are beyond my sight after the mists touched them. I had thought you and your Feanne were also beyond my sight, but you have proven me wrong. That does not happen often. In fact, that bit of surprise is why I will help you. Touching the mists has taken you beyond the pattern’s ability to destroy without effort.”
Getting up slowly, Estin struggled to keep from losing his balance as his muscles shook. Behind Mairlee, Feanne looked little better off, and she gave him a questioning look to see if she should attack. He shook his head as subtly as he could, but Mairlee’s chuckle told him she saw the motion.
“How will we travel back to Turessi to fight Dorralt?” Estin asked, once he saw Turess crawl out of the wreckage of the cabin. “We’re more than a week away by horse. We want this war to be done, if you’re going to help us. Turess thinks we have little time left before the mists begin tearing the world apart.”
“The man is correct. But…are we really so far away?” Mairlee asked, drawing Estin’s eye. A faint sense of nausea washed over him, then faded quickly. “I think you need to work on your sense of direction, wildling.”
Looking up, Estin saw the stars overhead had changed position, as though time had passed. Even the moon was higher than expected. Turning, he looked back up the path they had used to enter the valley and found that while stone walls still lined the sides, no more than fifty feet away he could see open plains covered with snow. “How…?” he asked, staring.
“We will not defeat Dorralt alone, Estin,” Mairlee warned. “He is stronger than I am these days. I simply took us back to Jnodin. Unfortunately, you will not receive my help until the priests of that city join you. It is a requirement I must insist on. I leave such matters to you—I have never been a diplomat. I will, however, stay close in case you need my aid. I will give it, if it is not too much effort.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling at the prospect of something finally going the right direction. “Thank you for anything you’re willing to do to help, Mairlee.”
“I have done little thus far, wildling. Do not assume I will be more help than I have promised. I will help myself and my kind first and foremost.”
Looking down at her, Estin replied, “You may read fate, but I can see people’s intentions. You want to help, and that’s more than we get from most. You want vengeance, and you’ll only get it through us. I can count on you far more than you’ll admit.”
Her smile widening until it looked like a wolf was baring its teeth, Estin wondered if perhaps he had overestimated her willingness to work with them.
“End of Alliances”
With the coming of dawn, Raeln stood on the wind-swept hillside, trying not to shiver. He waited patiently, with snow above his upper ankles, slowly freezing his paws. Had he been walking, he had gotten good at ignoring the pain of snow stuck in the fur between his toes, but standing still made it almost impossible to completely put aside. Stubbornness only got him so far. Another hour without moving around and he would be in danger of having some real harm done to his paws, not that he figured that to be a real risk anymore.
Ceran stood at one side, holding a heavy braided leather cord fastened to manacles locked snugly on his wrists behind his back. Standing on his other side, Orls held a similar cord, which was knotted around Raeln’s neck. From what Raeln understood of the situation, it would be Yiral who executed him, as he was her property and responsibility. The others were there to ensure he did not try to harm Yiral or flee, not that he had any intention of doing so. Resisting now meant he would watch Yoska and Dalania suffer before he died. The clan’s decision to punish him left him with no alternative that he could live with.
Nearly every member of the clan spread across the hillside to Raeln’s left, from child to elderly, accompanied by their deceased ancestors. Though most of the living people looked at him with disgust, they all appeared distraught by the whole situation. A few even cried, something he had never expected from the owners of slaves when one was to be executed. Ceran had apparently noticed his confusion and quietly explained to him that Turessians considered it their responsibility to care for the slave-caste, and the death of a slave meant the clan had let them down in some way. The slaves were seen as ignorant savages, little better than small children. The clan felt they had failed him, and thereby his failings were theirs, reflecting on the clan as a whole.
Opposite the Turessians, all of the slaves were present to watch his death as a lesson to them about obedience. At the front of the group, Dalania and Yoska stood waiting. Dalania was a wreck, fighting tears the whole time Raeln had been waiting, and Yoska’s anger was almost palpable from a hundred feet away. Raeln did what he could to ignore them, lest his resolve break. He certainly did not want to feed into their emotions or let theirs change his mind.
Between the two groups, a wide path had been left open. At first Raeln had believed it was simply due to the slavers and slave-caste wanting to be separate, but he had learned that the council’s emissaries would be given that space to watch. That was also the reason for the delay.
Now, after so long spent waiting, Raeln could see a group of twenty Turessians on horseback riding in their direction. It was almost time. He doubted there would be much delay once they were standing before the clan.
“How will this be done?” Raeln asked softly, watching the horses move up the rise. “Noose? Axe? Magic?”
“As painlessly as possible,” Ceran said, lowering her head. “Just because your actions warrant death does not mean we will be cruel. You will be given a warm drink that will mask the sensation of Yiral’s magic taking you. The magic will be quick and very final. There will be no suffering.”
“And my remains?”
Ceran glanced up at him with a touch of surprise, but then nodded as she looked over at the undead that stood with the clan. “Nothing like that, I promise you. Your head will be removed to ensure no one animates your corpse, and the two parts of your body will be buried separately with respect. We preserve our kin so that they are not lost when the clan moves. While I will give you what honor I can, your body will not walk with us.”
“Will someone watch out for my friends?” he asked next, trying not to look at either Yoska or Dalania.
“Yiral and I will both care for them. They will be kept as safe as we can manage. I swear on my clan and my ancestors’ blood, with Orls acting as my witness. Our honor as preservers would not allow us to lie to you.”
“Good enough. I’ll hold you to that promise.”
The group of the council’s representatives made their way steadily up the rise, slowing to a trot once they were close enough to see clearly. They all looked at Raeln with loathing that was far from masked, which somewhat surprised him, given the way the majority of Turessians made an effort to hide their thoughts. The way the council’s people carried themselves, they seemed to act as though they were above the other clans, with no need to adhere to the norms of their own people.
Once they were close enough that Raeln could see the lines of their tattoos under their hoods, the whole group hopped off their mounts. They led the animals the rest of the way, forming into a tight line, with two men leading. Every group member was dressed identically, with heavy robes delicately embroidered, and boots and gloves with simple etching that was difficult to make out from a distance. Each step of the way, they stared challengingly at the clansmen around them. When they neared Raeln, all eyes swept across Yiral, Ceran, and Orls. They stopped about ten feet from Raeln, the leading men looking to the preservers at his sides but never directly at him.
“You found another wolf?” one of the men asked, sounding to be on the edge of yelling. His voice wavered with poor control. “What are the odds of two showing up in your clan’s land so quickly? Explain yourselves, preservers.”
“That is not why you were called back,” Yiral countered testily, her wrinkled face giving no hint of anything more than impatience. “We are obeying the order of the council. You were to be summoned if we found wildlings on our lands. Here is a wildling and you were summoned.”
“So you are obeying at last,” said the man in front of Raeln, finally looking up at him. “Kill him and be done with it.”
The ropes on him tightened slightly, and Raeln realized there was a tension not just in those holding him, but in most of the Turessians and even many of the slaves down the hill. Something was not right here. The slaves he could understand, but the masters should not be getting nervous, at least no more so than a slave being executed would bring on them initially. His own fear slowly faded as he wondered what politics were at work here.
“There is a small problem with that,” Ceran explained, sounding distinctly distraught as she moved between Raeln and the councilman. “He has actually met all the terms of punishment our clan requires. The decision of the preservers was to allow him to live. Nearly unanimous, even among Nellic’s brethren. Death is not mandatory for his crimes, merely suggested. The council demands his death, but law does not. We have a conflict of tradition and law. For two thousand years, law had taken precedence over tradition.”
Raeln’s attention snapped to the woman, but she would not look at him. She had misled him about the decisions made, though as he thought back, she had not outright lied. When he looked over at Orls, the preserver winked at him, though his face remained impassive. They were playing some kind of game, with his life in the balance.
“Preserver, do not question the council’s decree.” The man tapped a scroll case at his hip. “Their decrees are binding to all clans.”
“Yes, about that,” Orls said, putting one hand on Raeln’s manacles. “Present your papers from the council. I must insist. Our clan has taken a great much on rumor and statements. It is my right as a preserver to examine all evidence and make a decision from wisdom, not rumor.”
The twenty Turessians from the council all tensed, many reaching for the weapons strapped to their horses, but as one the whole clan and many of the slaves drew weapons, summoned magical lightning that clung to their arms, or both. Freezing, the council’s people slowly raised their hands in surrender.
“This is betrayal, you know that,” warned the lead Turessian, taking the scroll tube from his belt gingerly and passing it to Ceran. A muscle in his cheek twitched as Ceran graciously took the scroll from him.
“Only if we disobey the orders of the council all the clans chose. Strange that our clan’s representative has not visited in some time,” Ceran replied, smiling as she popped the case open. “Strange indeed, wouldn’t you say, Yiral?”
Yiral answered quickly, smirking. “He was my son’s second wife’s cousin, and I thought he would never leave the clanhold. We thought we would have to tie him to a rock at the temple to keep him there. I expected a letter, at the least. Months without even seeing him seemed odd.”
Taking out the contents of the scroll tube, Ceran unrolled a half-dozen parchments and held them up for Orls to see. They read quickly, paging through the different sheets before rolling them back up and shoving them into the tube. Raeln could make out nothing from the flowing script.
“These are clearly signed as being from the scribe of the council,” Ceran announced, loud enough that all could hear. None of the tension faded from either side. “Most were dated within the last few weeks. There is no doubt that it bears her seal.”
The spokesman of the council relaxed immediately, holding out a hand for the scroll tube. “Then we return to where we started, preserver. Kill the beast.”
Ceran motioned toward the crowd to calm them, and Yiral moved to stand in front of Raeln, her back to the council’s representatives. Once Yiral was in position, Ceran took the rope tied to Raeln from her.
“This is your decision, preserver,” Ceran told Yiral, pulling on Raeln’s ropes. He reluctantly dropped to his knees. “Do we do this? I have seen the orders myself, signed by the same scribe who has signed every decree for the last two years.”
Yiral studied Raeln briefly before turning her attention back to Ceran. “We must. All of the documents we have seen were as expected. There can be no doubt. We will do as we discussed.”
Ceran and Orls put their hands on Raeln’s shoulders to keep him from standing, and one of the slaves brought Yiral a steaming cup. One of the orcs, Raeln noted with a touch of surprise, noticing the wide-eyed anger on the faces of the council’s people. Raeln had almost forgotten orcs were under the same decree of death as he was. From what he could see, they were going to wait until he was dead to address the topic of the orcs.
The cup was lowered to Raeln’s mouth, its steam warming his nose. There was nothing unpleasant in the scent, though there were herbs he did not recognize.
“Drink it and do not fight,” Yiral said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This will be painless for you. Do not fight anything that happens. Nothing at all.”
Glancing past Yiral to where the slaves stood, Raeln could see Dalania had turned away and buried her face on Yoska’s shoulder. Yoska continued to watch with unbridled anger. There would be death soon, if Yoska had his way. For some reason, the slaves still held their weapons ready to fight the council.
Steeling himself for what he had to do, Raeln dipped his mouth into the cup, lapping up the warm water as best he could. Drinking from a cup was difficult enough, but doing so with his head down required him to drink like an animal—somehow fitting, given he was about to die like one.
He truly understood Estin clearly for the first time in that moment. He had endured so much pain, so many near-death escapes, and put up with it all to do what he thought was right by his family. Raeln’s family was dead and gone. All he had left was doing what was right, and that meant going through this. It would hurt Yoska and Dalania, but they could heal once it was over.
Within seconds after he had swallowed the first mouthful, its warmth spread quickly through his limbs and made Raeln’s head spin. He was not even sure he could stand if he tried, and when he tried to move his fingers, toes, and tail, he could barely tell if they responded. The end of every limb was numb, and that sensation was rapidly spreading. The few times he had ever tried alcohol, the sensation had been similar, though not nearly as extreme or as quick. Despite knowing he was about to die, Raeln’s first thought was whether Yoska would have wanted to try the drink.
Yiral lowered the cup from Raeln’s mouth and handed it to one of the council’s men, who scowled at being forced to help her, though he did take the cup. Ignoring him completely, Yiral opened her hand, and a long blade of red flame appeared. Raeln had seen a similar weapon once before, and Liris had very nearly killed him with it. Somehow it made him feel better to see the weapon before Yiral killed him. He had always been sure to face his foes, and having the person executing him look him in the eye before doing it eased most of his fears.
“Are you ready, Raeln?” Yiral asked, moving to his side.