ARROWS
As the short sword drove toward Laren, everything
slowed. It had happened to her before in battle, this stretching of
time, allowing her to absorb minute details. She saw the twitch of
the groundmite’s catlike ears, its yellow fangs, and its gaunt form
beneath its rags and patchy fur. Yes, it was definitely suffering
from starvation.
She saw the blade,
rusted and dirty and notched. She discerned individual snowflakes
drifting down between her and the groundmite.
Even as time
stretched, however, she could not free her own sword to block the
thrust.
What a pity, she
thought, for there was so much left to do, so much left unresolved.
She would not be around to support Zachary as his kingship was
tested to its utmost. She would not be there for her Riders when so
many of them were young and untried.
And what about
Melry, on the cusp of womanhood? A difficult age. Laren had adopted
her when she was found abandoned as a baby in the Rider stables.
Now Laren was abandoning her.
As the sword’s point
closed in, hoofbeats that were not Bluebird’s pounded the
ground.
“Red!” Elgin cried.
Just before the
sword impaled Laren, just at the last, possible moment, Bluebird
reared.
The sword missed. It
missed and stabbed into her saddle, through leather, into the
wooden frame.
Before Bluebird
reached the apex of his rear, arrows whispered by her, skimmed so
close she felt the trailing air. White arrows slicing through the
flurries on a resolute and deadly course.
They were not meant
for her.
They were aimed as
if to anticipate her movements and Bluebird’s, so perfectly
coordinated she wondered if the archers moved through time
differently. If everything slowed for them, too.
The arrows thudded
into the groundmites and they fell away. By the time Bluebird’s
front hooves touched ground again, none remained standing.
Groundmites lay piled around her, bristling with white
arrows.
Bluebird’s sides
heaved and he blew puffs of steam from his nostrils. Elgin sat
astride Killdeer some paces ahead of her. Even at this distance she
saw how wide his eyes were.
Taking a breath—had
she breathed at all during the attack?—she turned her gaze toward
the source of the arrows. There, all in white against the backdrop
of snow, stood three Eletians, each holding a longbow.
Elgin was the first
to move, trotting up on Killdeer and glancing sidelong at the
Eletians.
“Red! You all
right?”
“I ... I think so,”
Laren replied, stunned just to be alive. Westrion was not ready to
deliver her to the heavens this day after all. She nudged Bluebird
forward, and once she was clear of the corpses of groundmites and
the trampled, crimson snow, she dismounted, staggering when she
touched ground. Already the exertion was catching up with her, and
she’d be feeling it for days. Her thigh throbbed where she’d been
clubbed.
Not as young as I used to be, she thought, as she
often did. She wiped the blood off her saber in the snow and
sheathed it.
Elgin dismounted and
led Killdeer over to her. The mare did not look the least bit
winded, despite what must have been a hard ride from the
cabin.
Elgin looked Laren
over as if to make sure she was all right for himself. “I heard
that howling,” he said, “and knew you were in for it. Killdeer was
practically busting the wall down to get out.”
Laren noted he’d
ridden out bareback, hadn’t even taken the time to saddle the mare.
He wore his old Rider-issued saber, the sheath and belt well oiled.
She guessed the blade was in just as fine shape and honed to a
razor’s edge.
“Who are your
friends?” he whispered.
Laren glanced at the
Eletians. Two were picking among the dead groundmites, retrieving
arrows. A third approached, striding effortlessly through—on?—the
snow.
Laren recognized her
flaxen hair, drawn back in braids and adorned with white feathers.
Graelalea was her name. She was sister to Jametari, prince of the
Eletians.
“Greetings,
Captain,” she said, coming to a halt before Laren and Elgin. “This
is an auspicious meeting.”
Laren swallowed back
a surge of hysterical laughter. The words were said as if it were
some everyday occurrence, like they’d bumped into one another on
market day.
“Auspicious,” Laren
said, “seems an inadequate description. The groundmites—you arrived
just in time.”
“We heard them, knew
they were on the hunt. Our paths, you see, run near this
place.”
Laren was too dazed
“to see,” but she nodded. “I thank you. You saved my
life.”
“It is well,”
Graelalea said. “And now we may proceed to your king.”
“What?”
“Our meeting is
auspicious for we travel to speak with your king. Our paths have
crossed, therefore we shall travel together.”
Laren closed her
mouth when she realized it was hanging open. Elgin’s expression
registered awe tinged with wariness.
Eletians were like
that—enchanting, unearthly, the embodiment of magic. It was difficult to know the Eletian mind,
for they’d been absent from the world for so long, their ways were
alien. And they were dangerous. Laren had no doubt about it. She
had only to look at the pile of dead groundmites behind
her.
“My horse,” she
said, “is tired. He needs rest and care.”
Graelalea made a
graceful gesture indicating Laren should look at her horse. When
she did, she saw the other two Eletians caressing Bluebird’s
muscles and applying salve to cuts.
Graelalea herself
set aside her longbow and stepped up to Bluebird. She spoke softly
to him in Eletian and ran her hand down his nose, over his eyes,
behind his ears. His eyelids drooped and his breathing softened. He
lowered his head so that it rested in her hands. Killdeer appeared
to watch and listen with interest, her ears pricked up and her gaze
alert.
“He is well enough
to continue,” Graelalea said in the common tongue. “We shall travel
lightly.” Then, observing Killdeer’s interest, she turned to the
mare and petted her. Killdeer curved her neck and loosed a deep
sigh at the attention.
Laren and Elgin
exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“She is an old
soul,” Graelalea said of Killdeer, “but with a young heart. She
will be your good companion for years more.”
An amazing
transformation rippled across Elgin’s face. The hard lines softened
and Laren thought her old chief was going to weep. But he did not.
Almost more astonishingly, he bowed to the Eletian.
“Thank you,” he
said. “I have never heard finer words.”
There was a hint of
a smile on Graelalea’s face. They all stood there as the snow fell
down around them in dizzying swirls and the forest
darkened.
“I’ll ... I’ll take
care of the corpses in the morning,” Elgin said, as if needing to
break the silence. “Whatever the scavengers leave,
anyway.”
Graelalea nodded and
turned to Laren. “Captain? Are you ready?”
“I ... I guess
so.”
“If you mount and
ride, we will travel more swiftly.”
While they were on
foot? But Laren did not question the Eletian. She put her foot in
the stirrup and mounted Bluebird, grimacing at sore muscles making
themselves felt.
“Sip some of this,”
Graelalea said, and she passed Laren a flask.
Laren took a
cautious sip, and then another. She’d tasted its like before when
the Eletians last visited Sacor City. It was cool on the tongue,
but heartening, and as the liquid passed down her throat it warmed
her body. She thought of summer meadows and the golden sunrise on
dew-laden grasses. It removed her from winter and loosened aching
muscles and joints, restored strength and energy.
A small amount
slaked her thirst and she took one more sip before giving the flask
back.
“It’s wonderful,”
she said.
“A summer cordial of
Eletia,” Graelalea replied.
They bade Elgin
farewell and simply walked into the woods. Graelalea led, with
Bluebird following, and the other two Eletians ranging alongside or
behind. Laren wondered if she were being led into some trap, as
Karigan had once been trapped—caught up in spells and a web of
dreams. But she did not think so. What reason had they? Just to be
sure, she used her special ability and perceived from them no
guile, only the truth. Truth and peace. Satisfied, she gave in to
trust.
As night deepened,
Graelalea produced a moonstone. Its light was not glaring to the
eye, but produced a soft radiance that captured each snowflake that
fell around them, flashing like silver glitter. Even with the
light, however, Laren could not discern the path Graelalea
followed, though the Eletian strode ahead without hesitation,
entirely certain of her way.
It was almost a
passage through a dream with no sense of time or place. Her whole
world existed within the glow cast by the moonstone—the snow, her
horse beneath her, the gray boles of trees they passed by, and
Graelalea leading them. Laren felt buoyant, as light and
insubstantial as the snowflakes that landed on her hair and
eyelashes.
The Eletians glided
through the forest so unhindered that Laren thought this must be
one of the ancient paths they used long ago to travel into the land
now known as Sacoridia. Graelalea’s brother, the prince, had spoken
of them. He said the land recalled them.
Did the trees bend
out of their way and the terrain mold itself to make their footing
smooth? Laren almost laughed at the notion, but it was uncanny how she did not have to duck beneath
branches and Bluebird did not stumble over uneven ground. There was
not a single snag to circumvent their progress or a fallen log to
step over.
A time passed and
they stepped out of the woods. The illumination of the moonstone
spread around them revealing a snow-covered field. Laren,
disoriented by the change, took a few moments to recognize where
they were.
Graelalea suddenly
extinguished the moonstone, and when Laren’s eyes adjusted to the
absence of its glow, she picked out the flickering of lights in the
distance. The gates of Sacor City were not far.
“Let us continue,”
Graelalea said. “We shall speak to your king soon.”
So mesmerized by the
journey had Laren become, that she had forgotten its purpose. She
shook herself as if to awaken from a long sleep.
“What is it you wish
to speak to him about?”
“Kanmorhan Vane,”
Graelalea replied.
Blackveil. This time the shudder was
involuntary.