Rhydderch

When Rhydderch tumbled from the aspen, it was several hundred yards down the road, still within sight of his horse. Brael and Aggie were circling the tree that had taken him, hackles raised, growling at the aspens. Less than an instant could have passed.

Rhydderch, so stunned that he had been accepted by a weigh-line for the first time in almost four hundred years after trying near as many times in the years following his exile, dropped to his knees and giggled.

The trees only take Ganlins, he thought, joy bubbling up from within. Not Vethyles. Ganlins.

Then, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, he touched the closest tree again, fixing the image of the Spyre firmly into his mind.

He stumbled out of the trees at the service entrance closest to the stables, emerging from a lone aspen he hadn’t realized was connected to any others.

Haydn, busy carrying tack back into the stables from where he’d been oiling it in the sun on a log, froze when he saw him. “My lord Rhydderch? I heard you went out to investigate the aspens taking over the north road.”

It’s going to take over a lot more than the road, Rhydderch thought gleefully, remembering the ancient Ganlins’ visions he’d seen of the tree spreading across the entire continent. To his stableboy, he said, “Tara ran off and I can’t find her, and my idiot hounds went after her. Get a group of the boys together and find her before some farmer’s brat takes a liking to her.”

Haydn’s eyes went wide. “Yes, m’lord!” He ducked back into the shadowy service entrance, leaving Rhydderch once more alone.

Rhydderch, grinning, now, slipped back into the tree, this time fixing something ridiculous, like Rheniaph, into his mind.

He stepped out into a mossy land of foggy, eerie silence. Lumps that were at first look boulders proved to be rune-etched walls and tumbled towers. Sliding amongst the ruins were shadows, creatures that weren’t quite of the material world, yet had deadly teeth and claws nonetheless. They slowed in their perpetual wanderings and turned to face him, their luminescent eyes seemingly as startled by Rhydderch’s appearance as he was by theirs…

Hastily, Rhydderch pulled himself back into the aspens, emerging again at Tara’s side.

“Calm,” Rhydderch said, when Aggie and Brael started to growl at him uncertainly. Then he stood there, shaking, trying to process what had just happened to him.

“Well,” he finally said, “this should make it easier to kill a few rats.”

Wulmaer

Wulmaer stood in front of the inn, staring out over the lake as the moonlight rippled across its black surface. His fingers kept finding the bracelet that Nerys Ganlin had woven for them, the night they had been separated by the Aulds three hundred years before.

Wear this to know I’m safe, Nerys’s illiterate scribble had read. It had been obvious someone had helped her, maybe even held her pen for her. But Wulmaer hadn’t cared about the writing. The gift the note had contained—the gift he now wore on his wrist—had restored his sanity.

He touched the braided bracelet again. Though it was made of human hair, it was just as lithe and supple as it was when he had first received it three hundred years ago, when Nerys was an unranked auldling, and Wynfor Ganlin, the bitter wretch, had mobilized the Circle to remove the bond between them.

Wulmaer’s breath shuddered at the memory. Like carving out his own heart.

Only Aulds can take Auldhunds, Wynfor sneered at them through the bars. Never mind the fact that Wulmaer and Nerys had just helped Rhydderch Vethyle kill the Auld of Nefyti and save the Spyre—did they care about that? No. They cared about forcing Nerys to Rank herself, and they thought they could do that by threatening to take Wulmaer away.

You can’t let them Rank you, Wulmaer had told her, though it had tore at his very soul. He had seen her weep the veoh-tears of the ancients. He had seen her create life in that blasted Shirt. He knew the Aulds would kill her if they realized what she was. He also knew that that was exactly why Wynfor was pressing for the Ranking to be done.

Wynfor knew. He had picked up as much from their fight with Thibault, when Thibault had wanted Nerys and her endless ocean of power for himself.

And Wynfor, the jealous, conniving, bitter whoreson, wanted Nerys dead.

But they’ll take you away, Nerys had whimpered. She was clinging to him, huddled in one wing as she often had slept in their desperate struggle to stay one step ahead of Thibault in the wilderness of Bryda. Please don’t let them take you away.

I can’t stop them, Wulmaer had whispered, and it had torn him apart. They’ll kill you.

I don’t care. This coming from Nerys, the girl who had once told him she didn’t need any help, the one who had almost killed him with cloth to make her point…

Wulmaer felt a welling of sadness as he always did, thinking of that night. The first Auldhund—the first true Auldhund-Auld pairing in a thousand years—and the Circle had broken them apart and bespelled Nerys to feel nothing but pain and terror when Wulmaer was within twenty feet of her. And, cruel animal that he was, after the magics had been worked, Wynfor had left the two of them together in a cell, to ‘think’ about their new lot in life, and Wulmaer had been forced to listen to Nerys scream and clamber away from him for hours before Rhydderch arrived.

But their forced separation—and the fact that they had actually done it, cementing a bond following the Old Laws—had changed everything. When Rhydderch Vethyle had arrived on the Auldhund Block and seen what they had done, he had freed every single slave there, in one night. The drake showed me the Old Laws, Rhydderch had said. He told me of what the Auldhunds were before those words were twisted. And I firmly believe that a man reaps what he sows. As the Keeper of the Block, Rhydderch had the ability to summon them all—from every bedroom, table, cell, and quarters—and every single Auldhund in the Spyre had gained their freedom that night. He’d given them a speech, told them to stay together, and to never bow their necks again for anyone ever again, for within their veins flowed the blood of Aulds.

But all Wulmaer could remember that night was Nerys Ganlin huddled in terror in a corner of her cell, whimpering at the sight of her own Auldhund. Every time he had reached out to comfort her, to try and tell her it was just their spell, that he loved her, she had sobbed in fear and agony. The one time he had dared to touch her, a puddle of urine had spread out beneath her on the floor and she had passed out.

Seeing that, Wulmaer had let Rhydderch wrap him in a blanket and lead him from the Spyre with the rest of the freed Auldhunds. The normally bustling halls and staircases up out of the darkness had been totally empty, the Aulds’ fear palpable, the masters suddenly faced with the freedom of their ‘beasts.’ It had been a quiet walk, filled with nothing but the sounds of talons, scales, and hooves on stone. Wulmaer had simply put one foot in front of the other, not seeing anything but his own inner pain, knowing that behind him, well out of sight, another group carried Nerys Ganlin, taking her to Ganlin Hall.

Wulmaer just kept walking, taking the road south, having no goal in mind. A good number of his freed companions had followed Wulmaer to the ancient, run-down monastery at Bryda’s northern edge, the last building overlooking the ruins of Ariod, where he had simply collapsed amidst the weathered stone and cried.

Once the Aulds cut them apart, Wulmaer felt as if they had cut out his organs and left them to crack in the sun. He’d spent years staring into nothingness in the monastery as his fellows worked around him, restoring it, creating the Citadel from the very stone of Old Ariod.

Then Rhydderch Vethyle had arrived one afternoon, with a letter in his hand.

To Wulmaer, it had read. The Auld had offered it to him, saying it was from a friend, but it had been the smell of her that had finally roused Wulmaer from his sense of loss and despair. His eyes had focused for the first time, and he’d gingerly taken the letter in his fingers.

Wear this to know I’m safe, Nerys had written. And when he tilted the envelope, a woven bracelet of dark Ganlin hair had spilled out. Wulmaer had felt the magic in it, then, so strong it made his fingers tingle.

Whatever you do, don’t break it, Rhydderch had told him. Better let me tie it on, just in case.

And, because Wulmaer’s fingers were strong and clumsy, he allowed the Auld to do it.

And no sooner had the bracelet tightened around his wrist than Wulmaer had felt her. As solidly as before, as if she had put her very spirit into the weave. It had filled that void that had been within him ever since the Circle had broken them apart, and it had allowed him to cry for the first time since it had happened, right on Rhydderch’s shoulder, wings wrapped around him as a brother.

Wulmaer often felt himself touching the bracelet when he wasn’t thinking because, oddly, Nerys Ganlin was still alive.

He felt her through the bracelet, just as strong as ever. There had been moments when she’d had accidents and hurt herself—or, in one case, had been poisoned by Wynfor but couldn’t prove it—that Wulmaer had felt it through the bracelet as if it had been done to him. But aside from a brief flash of pain two days before they started receiving reports of Ganlin deaths, he had felt nothing amiss. Just…peace.

Peace…and urgency.

He needed to get to the Spyre. He needed to find Rhydderch Vethyle and figure out what was going on before the Spyre finally ripped itself apart.

Allowing his fingers to linger a couple more moments, Wulmaer finally sighed and let his hand drop.

Memories of another life. He couldn’t go back to her. The Aulds had made sure of that, and though he knew Rhydderch would help him if he asked, Rhydderch wasn’t as strong as the Circle of Aulds had been together, when they wove their magic as one to ensure they stayed apart. The only one who might have done it was Rees Ganlin, and Wulmaer knew beyond a doubt that he, Wynfor, and Agathe would have been the first three targets of any coup, representing the vast majority of Ganlin power in only three individuals.

Still, his heart ached. Though it had been three centuries, he still craved that feeling of wholeness, that thrill of togetherness he felt standing beside her. Part of him wanted to go straight to Ganlin Hall, to hell with the Spyre, and make sure Nerys really was alive.

But he knew she was alive, and he also knew that his next few days could determine the lives or deaths of every Auldhund in the Spyre, and while Wulmaer could give two shits about the Aulds, he cared about those of his comrades who had dedicated their lives to service, even knowing they didn’t have to.

Someday, he thought wistfully, I will come find you and we will finish what we started. Then, trying to ignore the pain, Wulmaer turned and went back inside the inn.