The Rose of Sarifal (35 page)

Marabaldia heard her, or at least she turned, and gave her such a sweet, sad expression, and shot her such a beam of pure light out of her eye, that Suka couldn’t bear it. With her closed fist she pounded on the head of a marble monkey that guarded the steps out of the chamber.

“Was there a man?” Suka asked, running the comb of her fingers through her pink hair. “Was there a golden elf?” Then she ran up the steps and out into the air.

Soon it would be evening. In the rocky bowl in the mountains, Ffolk slaves were lighting the oil lamps in their alabaster lanterns, hung suspended from iron chains in the hands of stone giants standing at intervals around the rim—dwarfwork, like all of this high perch, hacked out of the mountain by a race now lost, or vanished, or dispersed. In the light of the setting sun, Suka clambered up the steps to the lookout point, a causeway leading to a pinnacle of rock with a view south over Synnoria, or where Synnoria must be, hidden underneath a layer of mist and cloud so thick the red sunlight seemed to reflect from it as if from something solid, the bottom of a copper pot, perhaps.

Once only, at dawn, had the mist split and allowed her to peer down into the valley, steep slopes and enormous trees that, still in shadow, were pricked with lights too diamond-hard to be from fire. The woodlands fell away south, and at their edge Suka could see the lakeshore, and the lake water like another layer of milky cloud, and the crag in the middle with the city on its crest, a murmuring of light, and then the mist had covered everything again.

Suka climbed up onto the parapet. Rurik was there. She had seen his broad back, covered in black, seamed hide and mail, as he bent over the rock to spit. Now he kept his place, his beard jutting out over the abyss, not turning as she sat down cross-legged on the outer edge of the parapet. She felt agitated and despondent at the same time.

“Why are you here?” grunted the captain.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? For the collapse of my hopes? I had a deal with Mindarion. We had a deal.”

Suka wondered if that was going too far. Mindarion also, as she remembered, had been interested in the lost princess of the leShay.

“Together,” continued Rurik, “we could be in Karador in four days. Who would resist us? Men and fomorians, and the knights of Synnoria, of Llewyrr. Ten thousand or more all together—who would resist us? A few hundred eladrin still loyal to the leShay. A few thousand of the drow. They could never face us—we would drive them back into their holes. And then my people would be free.”

How long, Suka asked herself, had he been fighting for this, only to have it fall apart at the last moment? “But …?” she prompted.

“But they won’t take our help.” Rurik scratched angrily at his beard. From this distance Suka could see the rash over his cheeks, and the ingrown hairs along his neck. “Finally, Askepel won’t fight with us, or the fomorians either. Because if he did, he would have to admit we were his equals, that he needed us, and he would rather die. He would rather fail—that’s the strange thing. He would rather ride over the Cambro Ridge, and down through the sacred grove, all of them in their gilded armor, riding their white stallions, the sunset glinting on their lances, all of it. They’d rather ride down to the lakeshore and be cut to pieces by the drow, as if life were a poem or a ballad or a play—the last ride of the Llewyrr. They’d rather do that than succeed. Why is that, do you think?”

Cross-legged on her perch, in the last of the light, Suka reached her cupped hand over the edge of the stone parapet, as if she could drink the cloud below her, or stir it into a whirlpool. Search me, she thought. But in fact she had a theory, which coincided, in part, with what the captain said next.

“It’s because they live too long,” he murmured into his beard. “It puts them three-quarters in love with their own deaths. In the middle of their lives, it’s the only romance they have left. They flirt with it, reach out to kiss it and pull back. The gods only know what it feels like to be them, alive for centuries.” Again he spat over
the side, then stood up straight and shrugged. “Are you coming? I’ll speak to Mindarion once more, or try to. Then at first light I’m for the coast—no one will stop me. You’ll see. They’ll be glad to see me go. It will be a relief to them, even if it costs them their victory. You?”

“I have no choice,” she said, meaning she would follow whatever trace or rumor she could find of Captain Lukas and the rest, to Citadel Umbra now. Perhaps Marabaldia would help her.

Rurik shrugged. “Or else they will do nothing at all,” he said, still talking about the knights of Synnoria. He was no longer interested in her. She looked out over the surface of the clouds.

South and east, about a mile away, a winged shadow made its turn, a bird, she thought. It skimmed toward them like a skipping stone, diving sometimes into the first layer of the clouds. As it approached, Suka wondered vaguely if perhaps it was much larger than a bird, much farther away. Her mind was on other things. It wasn’t until she heard a sharp profanity from Rurik that she turned and saw the creature had shot up from underneath the clouds and now hovered above them, a wyvern—pale belly, whiplike tail, night wings, long snatching jaws. It drove them back along the narrow causeway into the deserted stone piazza. Everyone was at supper in the great hall, where the Ffolk slaves were playing music. Incongruously, Suka heard a piece of it, a little wisp of delicate cadences, just as the beast rose to dive at them again. On the exposed stones of the courtyard, flickering with lantern light, they were
sitting ducks. The wyvern, neck outstretched, rounded a stone column and dived toward them, screaming its harsh, airless cry.

“This way,” said Rurik. A narrow gate led to the side, and a stone staircase covered with moss and crumbling with age. It was different from the shaped blocks of the dwarf ramparts; shoddy, broken steps that nevertheless led quickly down, first through an almost vertical cascade of granite boulders, then through a landscape of clinging vines and rhododendron trees, their pink flowers wet with mist, which soon drenched Suka as she labored down, pausing finally under the knotted trunks of the cloud forest, while the baffled reptile screamed overhead.

“What is this place?” breathed Suka, though she knew. The mist beaded on her skin. The air smelled sweet, a cloying fragrance. Fireflies the size of Suka’s fist blundered through the canopy, each one followed by a trail of glowing mirror-moths. “Oh—shit.”

“Just the border,” Rurik whispered. They stood in the middle of the leaf-meal path, which wound away southward into the thicker woods. “We’re here for a minute, and then we’ll climb back up,” he said, as if for someone else’s benefit—it was too late. Three eladrin stepped out of the trees, blocking their way back. They were dressed in silver caps and silver-scale armor, and they carried swords. The long, straight blades glowed in the shadow.

“Slaves,” said one, his voice melodious, and full of gentle melancholy. “I am Lord Talos-claere. You have
come into the land of Synnoria. Who is your master? Does he follow you? Or has he gone ahead?”

“We came by accident,” murmured Rurik. “We’ll be going now, if you stand aside.”

“Alas,” said Talos–claere, his voice genuinely sorrowful. “I cannot allow it. Our land is tainted now. These things take but a moment, a single misstep to insult and corrupt the spirits of this wood. As you walked under the sacred trees, we heard them crying out. How can you make amends? It is not possible. Not for such as you. Not through words or deeds. I am so sorry. It is not possible.”

Captain Rurik stood, feet spread, grinding his teeth from side to side, a murderous expression on his face. The livid scar bisected his lips. “How, then?”

He should tell them who he was, Suka thought. He should say he is Mindarion’s friend, in negotiation with Lord Askepel, that all this was a misunderstanding. But then she realized he had no desire to make excuses for himself.

“My lords,” he said, “from what you say, and from your stern demeanor, I can only assume my life is forfeit, because as you say my foul breath has polluted this holy air, and my disgusting footsteps have polluted this sacred ground, just as surely as if I had defecated onto Corellon Larethian’s shining hair, or pissed into his open mouth, or wiped my arse upon his beard. If we have inadvertently strayed across your border a few yards so as to save our worthless lives—it is no excuse. Whatever I must give, I give it gladly. Perhaps my blood
will offer some small recompense.” He held out his empty hands.

Talos-claere blinked. “The speech of your people is vulgar and uncouth,” he said. “What’s done is done. The harmony of this forest, the fabric of this threatened space you have both touched and marred. I honor you for your self-sacrifice, but I fear it will not accomplish what we hope.” He stepped forward, his handsome face empty of expression, and if he were capable of hearing any irony or sarcasm in Rurik’s words, he showed no sign. Just as soon try to decipher the jokes of a dog, or a frog on a lily pad, Suka imagined, though even a child could tell when a dog was growling or might spring, or that Captain Rurik, frustrated over the failure of his hopes, was going to kill them if he could, these strange, apologetic, contemptuous, glittering fey.

As guests of the council, they had had to give up their weapons at the door. But Suka, as was her custom, had retained several small knives that she kept secreted around her body. One of these, now, she grasped behind her back.

“Your blood will pollute our glade the more,” continued Talos-claere. “If you had come properly with your master, under his protection, then perhaps I could have overlooked your crime. But come. It is nothing. I only mean to mark you, to cut my mark into your cheek, so all men might recognize what you have done. Then I will lead you to the signal oak to send a message to your lord, so as to reclaim his errant property. He also
will be punished, because of the freedom he has granted you. What is his name?”

He had sheathed his sword, but had his own knife out, a long, slender, curving blade. He beckoned with his other hand, and his fingernails also, Suka noticed, were long and curved. He had no chance. He pointed south along the leaf-meal path, and Suka imagined a place of ritual punishment among the smooth silver trunks of the aspens, their leaves trembling in sympathy, although she felt no wind. She imagined a glade among the trees, and wildflowers winking in the soft grass, and a spring of fresh, laughing water, coiling over an ancient block of stone that was itself carved with runes of (doubtless) mystic but inscrutable significance—he had no chance. Rurik also had kept a hidden blade, and as he passed the eladrin lord he gave a little cry, and stumbled against him. Horrified by his polluting touch, Talos-claere pulled back. A shadow of suspicion clouded his beautiful face, and he looked down to see the knife inserted upward through the scales of his armor and pressed in to the hilt. Puzzled, he turned away, his hand drifting downward as if to stem the trickle of his golden blood. In the meantime Rurik had seized hold of his sword and dragged it from its scabbard, and when the second lord—slowly, delicately—moved to confront him, Rurik stabbed him through the groin then dragged the blade upward into his belly. The third, Suka cut down from behind.

They left the lords subsiding there, expressions of astonishment disturbing their faces as they sank to their
knees. They found the path upward, and Rurik threw the smoking sword among the rocks. “It hurts,” he said in explanation as they climbed up through the mist of the cloud forest. “Some kind of an electric charge.” Then they stood panting, out of breath. “Ah, that feels good,” he said. “I had forgotten. I hate killing a man, but the fey, it’s like stealing from the rich.” His eyes glittered with excitement, and Suka watched a flush appear along his weathered cheeks. “You’ve taken all they were and all they’ll be. A hundred thousand days apiece—as much as an entire company of men. Time’s wasted—I’ve changed my plans. I’m gone tonight. Give them my regrets,” he said, as they clambered up through the boulders to the gate.

Above the clouds the sky was dark, the sun had set, the wyvern had flown away. The lamps burned bright in their suspended lanterns. Suka saw no need to remind the captain she was also a fey, and would still be able to bear children when his bones were ash. “Are you coming with me?” he asked, wiping the blood from his hands. “I’m for the coast. Me and my crew. We’ll ride through the night.”

She shook her head.

“That’s good. Suit yourself. There’ll be some consequences here. Blame me.”

She intended to, if it came to that. She shrugged, and shook her head. He turned, then stiff-walked over the open stones, still rubbing his hands.

Night had fallen, and there were stars. Hunching her shoulders against the chill, hands in her pockets, Suka
found again the entrance to the council hall. Torchlight cascaded through the open door. She paused at the cloakroom, washed her hands and face in the stone basin, and peered into the glass. She poked her tongue out at herself, flexed the dog’s head tattoo, and scraped her teeth against the silver stud. She relieved herself in one of the stone stalls, left the cloakroom, and walked down the steps of the hall to where the dignitaries were still milling around, Marabaldia and Prince Ughoth among them. Hands in her pockets, pretending a casualness she didn’t feel, the gnome sidled up to her stone seat, and peered up at her broad, beaming face. “What’s going on?”

“I have news of your friends at Citadel Umbra,” Marabaldia told her. “I mean the man I saw with you at Caer Corwell, when they locked you up.”

Suka breathed deep. “That’s good,” she said. “But I don’t want to talk about it now.”

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