Oath Sworn

Part II

“Spring’s song is the Song of Creation

First bloom, first love, first kiss.

A time for new beginnings

And new revelations.”

from the journal of Scanlin Ross, First Sword in Tyrian, Believer

If the Shirahnyn had survived, he was damned clever.

Twelve parties of seasoned rangers combing the domain produced no reliable intelligence whatsoever. The man had simply vanished into the wilds—or perished in one of the fires that, while contained, had burned for days. Neither scenario gave Aralt any particular comfort as the day of departure dawned.

News of the skyship had spread quickly to neighboring domains. Sniveling Harlyk of Ardorryn called Aralt a liar. Elon of Enarra offered solidarity. The Alwynns offered sanctuary. From Ristaiel of Kevarn, Aralt got a glumly worded I told you so. He answered each cryptically; were messengers to run afoul of the enemy, the boy would be in grave danger. As would they all. The ship’s disappearance gave him minimal pleasure. Had she crashed, her crew might have met their fate at the hands of the Naharasii—a fate equal to that which the Shirahnyn had meted out to the people in Kyrrimar. Swept farther east, even if she regained altitude and some navigational control, the skyship could be anywhere. The chance of relaying communication south depended on additional ships, the location of which had yet to be revealed. No, he felt little more relief than when they had escaped the firestorm on Syth’s Eve. With any luck, Russ would have something to report when they rendezvoused with him in Bethulyn. Aralt had dispatched the scout alone. Intercepted, Russ’s inability to communicate under the best of circumstances might save them all a lot of trouble.

“Syr Tremayne?”

Aralt finished tightening the saddle girth before turning to acknowledge a pensive Deyr Evarr, proverbial hat in hand. Deyr’s mount had been prepped for travel, the worn leather saddle painstakingly cleaned until sunlight glinted off amber creases along the high cantle. Even Deyr’s stocky little dun beast had been curried to a gloss—no small task so early in the northern spring—the creature’s upright mane trimmed neatly along an ample crest, blue-black leg bars and shoulder markings shining like wet ink. Deyr’s intentions seemed clear enough.

Aralt crossed his arms over the chest. Might as well get it over with. “Service to Lian Kynsei, is it?”

Deyr fidgeted for a moment, slapping bridle reins against his thigh. His esri snapped at him, tufted ears twisting in irritation. “Pledge my new blade to ’im, I will. I reckon it be right after what I done.”

More like what he did for you, Aralt thought, resigning himself to the inspection to which Deyr was entitled, even if he were to deny the request. And he had every intention of denying it, military etiquette be damned. That Deyr had re-upped at all had come as a surprise. Whatever awaited the lanky youth at home must have been beyond Aralt’s ken for him to want to remain at Sylvan Keep.

Deyr’s appearance mimicked the rest of the company: close-fitting breeks and tall, well-oiled riding boots. His hair was longer than any man’s in the company, but braided it met regulation, its lightness sharply contrasted by his russet waistjacket. His pale eyes might be more the color of blue-star flowers than mercury, but Aralt still thought he looked like a Shirahnyn; he had no intention of looking between the sheets to find out for sure.

Someone had told Deyr not to wear Tyrian’s colors for this covert campaign. Someone had also lent him a tidy sum for his new image. Aralt glanced at Scanlin and received a two-fingered salute in return. That would make leaving Deyr behind a trifle more difficult, but he was sure he could manage a few seconds of guilt.

“I won’t be no problem no more, sir,” Deyr told him, glancing at Scanlin. “Commander Ross set me straight, ’e has. I’ve…repented.”

“You’ve repented? Do you even know what that means—in light of the way you’re using it? Listen,” Aralt told him pointedly, tapping Tabric’s shoulder until the esri bent one leg and lowered his neck. Aralt grasped a handful of mane and swung up onto his own worn leather saddle. “I don’t care if you've been to kirke twice a day for the last moons’ pass. You’re a liability, soldier, do you ken? You’re already walking a narrow brigg with me. Are you sure you want to take the risk you don’t fall off it before we get to Bethulyn?”

Deyr nodded slowly, his eyes glinting just a tad at the reprimand. He was more serious than Aralt had imagined. Or he thought he was.

“Aye, Commander. I won’t give ye no regrets.”

That remained to be seen. Scanlin lifted an eyebrow in question. Aralt mimicked him, adding a scowl. The thought of reassignment in Bethulyn eased a smile over his face. Scanlin looked worried. When Aralt flashed him a grin, Scanlin cupped his hands to his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh, there would be no regrets. None at all.

Telta grudgingly assigned the late arrival a spot at the rear of their company. By the position of the sun, Aralt judged it was nearly time for their departure. He checked his pocket watch. Precisely on time, the bell tower tolled the morning hour and Lian emerged from the house—as did half the household staff. As Gitom slid a sack of sweet breads into the top of Lian’s knapsack, Susa straightened the new wool jacket she had made for him, a handsome garment with a deep hood and protective cowl layer. She had taken pains to get the colors correct, dark Kynsei blue over cool grey, accented with black and embroidered with stylized fish. A garment fit for a kavistra. And a dead giveaway as to the boy’s clan. Aralt regretted that he might have to confiscate it. She smoothed dark hair away from Lian’s angular face, her hand lingering on his cheek. They stood thus for a moment before Lian reached arms about the woman’s neck. She drew him in like one of her own. He turned to Gitom, extending his hands. The craggy chef drew him into an embrace instead. The twins wailed in protest of his leavetaking. Kateeri kissed him shyly on the cheek. When she began to cry, he reached out to catch her tears, touching his fingers to his lips, in remembrance of the sea. When Perryn and Wynter joined them a moment later, the ritual began all over again. Aralt snapped his timepiece shut and tucked it into a pocket.

“Lian! If you’re quite ready, we’ve a day’s ride to Bethulyn. That’s assuming we leave before the next bell toll.”

The boy collected his esri, and Jools boosted him up. “Only a day? It was longer on foot. In the snow.”

Yes, Aralt supposed. It would have been.

* * *

Bethulyn’s towers were their first glimpse of the city, pinnacles reaching like knotted branches into the lavender sky, arms wrestling with the last of winter’s heavy clouds. Miles of conifers and hardwoods stretched before and behind the travelers, and new blooms dappled rugged hillsides with the red hues of a northern spring. Under the waning day, the forest dozed peacefully, inviting the long hours of sunset that would gild the land before eventide rolled in.

“At night, with the snow falling, the city lights up like a fairytale castle,” Lian remarked from inside his hood. “I heard the kirke bells, and someone sang the Night Song. That was strange…but I suppose someone must.”

In Kyrrimar, Aralt knew, only the kavistra sang the Night Song.

“Have you?” he asked, trying not to crowd the boy, hovering as if Lian were a clumsy child on his first journey. “Sung it, I mean.”

“Someone must.” Lian fell silent again. He had kept his own counsel since Syth’s Eve, eschewing even Scanlin’s company.

The waning afternoon brought with it fatigue, tempers, and Deyr’s inexhaustible supply of raunchy pantomimes. Ruskyn Munro, being absent, became the prime target, and soon half the riding party was laughing at the flawless performance. Deyr had quite perfected Russ’s drawl, accompanied by impressive gymnastics. The poni was less impressed, and Deyr had to dodge hoof spurs more than once as he dangled drunkenly from the saddle.

Just then, he was singing. Aralt wasn’t precisely sure what, but at the rate he was going, he ran the risk of Telta having a hunting “accident.”

“You aren’t laughing,” Lian said, his voice low as they descended from a ridge to the main road.

No, Aralt thought. I’m too busy planning Deyr’s reassignment in Bethulyn. A year manning one of the island lighthouses in Loch Bethu, perhaps. He changed the subject. “He’s lucky Leine Baclan isn’t here. She has even less patience than I do.” Leine would have slapped Deyr’s esri out from under him by then.

“She’s sad,” Lian said. “I don’t know why. I tried to talk to her a few times, but I don’t think she likes me.”

“Leine? I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s a career soldier,” Aralt told him. “She and her son were in service to my predecessor before Teren Glynn led reinforcements here.” She had rarely been given the respect she deserved, competing in a military world dominated by men, as it was in the North. Aralt had witnessed commissions passing over her to less qualified men.

Lian pushed back his hood. “She’s married?”

“Not anymore.”

“And her son?” he asked slowly.

“Lost to the Horror,” Aralt said simply. The elder one, that was. It served no purpose to elaborate.

Deyr was crooning one of Russ’s favorite bawdy songs now. When he got to the part about the seagoing Shirahnyn and the swordfish, Lian ducked his head, hissing through his teeth.

“Be glad it isn’t Russ singing it. He wouldn’t skip the filthy bits on your account.”

Lian rolled his eyes. “He’s pathetic.”

“Deyr?”

“No, Russ. He definitely doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual.” After a moment, he asked, “Do you suppose that will weigh on my soul?”

“Seems to me like you were willing to follow him into the nether place on Syth’s Eve.” Always a risk, pressing the boy for answers. Lian was as evasive as he was. What a pair they made, dancing around one another half the time. Not an efficient way to communicate at all.

Lian pursed his lips, ducking back into the depths of his hood. The esri pushed on at a quick pace, flicking their tails at the buzz of insects. “I told you before, I didn’t go with him. Why would I? I followed him.”

“Munro may be a sad excuse for a human being much of the time, but he’s a damned good scout and he was sober as a shepherd that night,” Aralt said, twisting in the saddle to release the tension in his back and neck. “He says he didn’t see you.”

“He didn’t.”

“So, what? You followed him to Sylvan, then got into the jail ahead of him, charmed your way past the guards, and set the Shirahnyn free before Russ got there?”

“I didn’t set him free.”

“Then—”

“He was already gone,” Lian said, turning to him. His dark hair was a twisted black mop around his narrow face. He smirked, his upturned little nose twitching. “Russ said it was spooks.”

“And you did nothing to dispel the notion.”

Lian made a rude noise. “As if he’d listen to me. Besides, talking sense into the holes in his brain is beyond my ken.”

Aralt whistled. Harsh, that, but the Creator’s honest truth. He had long since stopped asking why his old friend continued on such a self-destructive path. The man drank to forget things worth forgetting. As long as he remembered what mattered, he would remain in Aralt’s service. On the day he forgot, he would get a boot up his arse.

“You’re a wicked boy at times, Lian Kynsei.”

“I had three years to learn, and a thousand nights to practice.”

Aralt looked at him sharply. Three years, and still he did not speak of it. Clearly, he had been a captive prior to some harrowing, undisclosed escape. Hungry, judging by the cached food. How many untold dangers had he faced? How many cold and lonely nights? Spring had settled in rapidly that year, but drifts of snow twice a man’s height had locked Tyrian in a winter prison until long past the Feast of Light the year before.

Three years. Sweet Creator, where were you?

Lian was looking directly at him. Aralt knew it without even turning.

Running from our nightmares.

They rode on in silence.

* * *

When Deyr eventually ran out of breath, Scanlin hastily produced his whistle, changing the tone of the afternoon with the tune. His grey mare held her course with the rest of the group as he played. Telta sang, her voice sweet. One never would have suspected she could shoot the eye out of a skeer at one hundred paces.

May the blessing of rain be upon you

May your fields e’er be green, e’er be gold

May the joy of the Spirit surround you

Give you peace, give you grace, make you whole.

Sun above, shining warm, shining brightly

Sea below, giving life as foretold

Through the stars sails our hope, our salvation

Comes the day, Saints be praised, we are home.

Sunset bathed the lilac sky, cloaking them in the shadows of Tyrian fir and towering jackcone pine. Brightly plumed game birds strutted in the undergrowth as bushy-tailed skeers darted across the path. A lone, rust-speckled doe stepped from the edge of the wood ahead of them, fan-shaped ears perking up at the sound of their approach. She watched them for a moment, frozen like a statue in the wavering light, her black nose scenting the air. In a heartbeat she was gone. Only the rustle of underbrush betrayed her escape. Deeper in the forest, Aralt noted other creatures, grey as mist, silent as the night, shadowing them. Common wolves and feral dogs were too wary to walk apace with as large a group as theirs, and the majestic kaio, larger and eminently more intelligent, were commonly considered too wise to interfere in the affairs of men. Trapping them was illegal in Tyrian—a mandate that predated him—but their luxurious silver pelts were an expensive commodity on the black market in other domains. More wisps darted through the darkness, like silver thread stitching sweet water maple to birch and ice yew. Seen, then unseen.

Aralt drew rein, easing his mount up for a few strides. Tabric wagged his long neck as he gathered himself on powerful hindquarters and lifted his forelegs. Aralt steadied him. They were all off their game after a long winter.

“We’re being followed,” Kolarin observed.

“Indeed.” Aralt swept the tree line with his gaze, alert to anything that wasn’t blooming with spring. There. And there. Something—be it wildcats, wolves, or even kaio—watching from the shadows. The sooner they were to Bethulyn, the better. Beyond the canopy, clouds descended over the blushed horizon, squeezing the colors of the setting sun into red and lavender tendrils across the sky. A bulldeer bolted across their path next, waving his spiral horns at them before darting back into the wood.

In its place, eyes as green as marathis peered from the finely chiseled face of a silver kaio sitting between two narrow birch trees. Agitated as they already were, the esri stamped and snorted. Keyva slid to an abrupt halt, puffing loudly, curling his upper lip back to expose ivory incisors. He rocked back on powerful hindquarters and tucked his forelegs against his chest, showing every bit the quality and training of an esri of his caliber as he executed three athletic hops. The ease with which he performed put half the esri in the domain to shame. Lian gripped his mane for support. Even Tabric lowered his head at the intruder. Bursts of breath like steam engines punctuated the air. Aralt steadied him, one hand tight on the reins, the other flat against the rippling muscles on the esri’s neck. The kaio’s posture spoke of imminent flight as well, yet something held her attention. Or someone.

“Lian,” Aralt said slowly as the boy inexplicably slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Sirram, “what are you doing?”

“Listening.”

Sirram mac Kenna bit his lower lip. “To a kaio?”

“Shh. I’m trying to…. She says…we’re in danger. She says…they want…blood. Our blood will do.”

Aralt exchanged glances with his ranking Swords. It was high time Lian’s would-be assassins showed their faces. He was doubly glad for the number of warriors in their party, but with night falling they were clearly at a disadvantage. The j’thirrin, the Soulless, were one with the night.

“She says?” Young Sirram’s puzzlement was almost comical. “I don’t hear—”

“That’s because you’re only listening with your ears,” Lian told him kindly, “and it isn’t really what she said as what she knows.”

“Syr Tremayne, how does he know what she—?”

“Hush, Sirram,” Kolarin hissed at him. “Don’t make me regret asking for you to accompany us.”

A superstitious rumble went through the ranks when the kaio stepped forward. She was twice the size of the largest timber wolf Aralt had ever seen, with paws the size of tea saucers. Her luxurious silver and black coat shimmered in the dappled light falling through the leaves, and her face was black as the night.

“Sirram,” Aralt addressed the younger mac Kenna, “impress me with your skills as a ranger trainee. How far are we from Bethulyn?”

“Um…uh…half a league, I reckon.”

“Back in formation, everyone,” Aralt said, giving his company needed direction. Their shuffling into position ended abruptly at the sound of a distant wail. Aralt’s shoulders stiffened. The silent tension of the day had taken voice, and not the voice he had expected. No, not at all.

“Oh.” Lian frowned. “They're closer than I thought. Kaio don’t think like other people.”

Other people? Aralt wanted to know.

Well, they think they’re people.

“Sweet mother-o’-pickled-herring—”

Aralt waved Deyr to silence, straining to hear over the cacophony of disgruntled esri. Belatedly he sensed the swift approach of what could only be described as unsatisfied hunger.

“Manti,” Aralt breathed. He could smell them now, and the scent made him grimace. As tall as a hunting cat but whip-thin, a pair of slitherdogs could easily run down a bulldeer. Or—he looked down at Keyva pawing the ground impatiently—a small esri.

“Merciful Sea Lords,” Telta groaned, nocking an arrow in her bow. She stroked red and grey feathers. “I hate those things.”

A sentiment shared by them all.

“They’ll have found little prey this early in the season,” Kolarin pointed out.

“Great,” Telta groaned again, “so they’re hungry trouble.”

“Back into formation,” Aralt repeated. “Close ranks. Lian, get back on your esri!”

“They know we need help,” the boy said. More green eyes peered from the forest. “They always know.”

The she-kaio padded in a circle thrice around her tribe before darting back into the forest, disappearing like mist over night-blooms. The pride swarmed after her, a sleek, shining army going into battle. Aralt watched them go, Lian’s words burning deeply. They always know.

So do you, Aralt. Why don’t you remember?

Aralt’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He listened, listened, grasping to hear what the kaio heard, to know what she knew. The scent of approaching death filled his senses. Blood pounded in her ears, in his ears, in…. He shook his head to clear it. A distant wail pierced the quiet evening. With manti speed, they wouldn’t be distant for long.