The Rose of Sarifal (24 page)

The light, also, was kind to the blue dress, which, though tattered and ripped, Suka now confirmed to be of costly fabric, some type of iridescent velvet, with a woven pattern that had been invisible before.

“In the Common tongue,” said the eladrin, “my name is Mindarion, warden of Synnoria, and I am at your service. This is my friend and companion, Captain Rurik of Winterglen.”

Other soldiers milled around, both eladrin and Northlanders. Poke’s horse had arrived with the last stragglers, and she needed help in her dismount. She rolled out of the saddle and sprawled heavily onto the ground. Her own clothes, which she’d taken from the Ffolk guards in Corwell prison, had scarcely survived her transformation and return to human shape, but someone had thrown a cloak over her, which she had wrapped around her body. Aghast, Suka looked into her face, examining the mixture of human and porcine features, and at the same time she was thinking how astonishing it was to hear an eladrin of high rank identify a man as his friend—what did the word mean to him? To both of them? And in this new world of possibilities, was it conceivable that her own friends and companions were a fomorian princess and a lycanthrope? She felt lightheaded, sick.

“And yes,” continued Mindarion. “I believe we can find some more suitable clothes.”

The horses had been drawn away to the other side of the fire. Suka noticed that no one was attempting to strip them of their saddles or bridles, and she drew a small conclusion as she turned to face the Northlander, a famous man, after all, and the reason she had come to Gwynneth Island in the
Sphinx
, with Aldon Kendrick and the others, carrying an important letter (yeah, right) from King Derid. “I have a message for you,” she said.

He raised his big eyebrows.

“The message is—” she coughed into her hand portentously—“that the leShay can kiss my scrawny ass.”

She watched him laugh. Some of his teeth were false, made of steel, and a livid scar ran over his lips and down into his beard.

“Miss,” said Mindarion gravely. “I hope, believe, and pray we can accommodate you, at some time in the future.”

But in the meantime, there was much that Suka didn’t understand. Later, she, Poke, and Marabaldia sat on campstools near the fire, eating bowls of actual food for the first time (in the princess’s case) in many years. Suka couldn’t think about that. Her own hunger was fierce enough, and she didn’t even know what she was eating, nor did she care. Poke and Marabaldia had found new clothes more appropriate for traveling. Rurik and Mindarion sat with them while their soldiers milled around, a dozen or so, not more. Suka hoped they were right about the drow, and for some reason found herself picturing the captain she had seen strolling toward her up the road, a smile on her black lips, her black sword held nonchalantly to the side. She did not look to be afraid of any fey creatures in the woods or from the trackless fens, whether night hags or shadow hounds or displacer beasts or owlbears. Suka even wondered, if she were Prince Araithe, if she might allow a few unimportant prisoners to be rescued, if it meant discovering the whereabouts of other more powerful enemies outside Synnoria, which was, of course, impregnable. But perhaps Mindarion
had hidden them somehow, wrapped them in an incantation so the light from their fire wouldn’t spill out of their little dell. Certainly he looked at ease, though he didn’t smile. Nor did he eat, but drank a horn of water, sniffing it sometimes as if it were fragrant wine.

“Do you have any wine?” she asked, and Rurik laughed again.

“I like you,” he said, “but we have things to discuss. Tell me about King Derid’s message.”

She did, while he scratched his beard. “It worries me,” he said, “that Ordalf has any communication with spies in King Derid’s court, even if it’s not with the king himself. Of course I have been hoping for his support in our war. But he’s afraid.”

“Tell me about the drow,” said Marabaldia. Startled, Suka looked at her, avoiding any glance at her right eye. Even so, it was hard to see any trace of the hunched figure in her cell, weeping over the various iterations of
Oh, Father Dear
. For the first time Suka imagined something else had happened when the giantess had lost her mask, some internal sharpening of perception.

Mindarion spoke. “That is who lives in Citadel Umbra now. That is who does Prince Araithe’s bidding. The eladrin have fled from there, and everyone but the dark elves. He must have made some kind of pact, promised them something, but I do not know what.”

Marabaldia scarcely let him finish. “Tell me why he held me prisoner. And what is his interest in my friend,” she said, meaning Poke, who sat forward on
her stool, her clumsy hands in her lap, her yellow hair over her face.

Suka noticed that Mindarion answered only the second question. “He wants to find the Lady Amaranth,” he said. “His—aunt, if you’d like to call her that. The last of the leShays.”

“His mother wants to find her too,” offered Suka.

Rurik and Mindarion glanced at each other. “Yes, I suppose she does,” continued the eladrin. “But for different reasons. Her sister wants her dead. But her nephew wants her to bear his child.”

Yuck, Suka thought. Nobody spoke.

“To understand this, you have to understand the leShays,” murmured Rurik, his voice low and hoarse. “They are old, older than him.” He gestured toward the eladrin with his chin. “They are the root of all the fey, a long, skinny, endless little root, and they hoard their blood like gold. They don’t share it. Ordalf’s mother is dead now after many thousands of years. Princess Callia—Araithe murdered her, or had her murdered, a terrible crime. Because she bred outside the family after his grandfather died. He wanted Amaranth to be his daughter and his heir. When she wasn’t—well, you see.”

Not exactly, Suka thought. Still no one spoke.

“Let me try to make it clearer,” ventured Mindarion. “At one time there were several strands of the leShay, which they braided together in the Feywild. Now here, just the one. And they’ve had difficulties … stillborn babies, monstrous births, deformities that they’ve had strangled in their cradles. They are not … fertile. The
last one was High Lady Ordalf’s child, born ten years ago and lived just a few days. It was following his death that the princess disappeared. Lady Ordalf herself nearly died from the delivery.”

“And the father?” Suka asked.

“Can’t you guess?” Rurik asked. “There’s only the one. Ordalf’s father is long gone, and she never had a brother.”

“And … Araithe’s father?”

Captain Rurik examined his big hands. Mindarion spoke: “…  was the same as his grandfather. The leShays can’t remember their own childhoods. Their own histories mean nothing to them. These generational differences mean nothing—how could they, in a lifetime that stretches back before the first Ffolk came to Gwynneth Island? The emotions that they have, the feelings for one another, none of that can make any sense to us. The only thing to remember is that it is only the youngest who inherits. Always the youngest. High Lady Ordalf hates her sister because their mother married out of the leShays—my brother, actually, a Llewyrr knight of Synnoria, a simple eladrin, and a good man. Araithe hunted him down and killed him, and killed the princess too, his own grandmother, when she spurned him. He wanted her for himself, wanted to marry her, if it helps you to think of it that way. And now he wants her younger daughter, too. He’s already had the older one.”

Nobody wanted to hear any more of this, Suka guessed. No one had a question to ask. But Mindarion
continued with his answers: “Prince Araithe must have discovered that his mother had traced the Lady Amaranth to Moray Island. And he knew she would try to destroy her, because of her jealousy. She wants her own daughter. She wants to try again. But the prince is sick of her. They are not … fertile together. That’s why he came to find you,” he said, meaning Poke.

Then he nodded toward Marabaldia. And when no one said anything, he continued, “And why he kept you hostage all these years. Is it not obvious? The eladrin are deserting him. There are a few thousand left in Karador, but more are leaving every day, joining us in Synnoria, in the mountains. He and his mother have an army of Ffolk slaves, and other creatures in their service. But if the Underdark rose against him, the fomorians and the rest … You have no love for the drow.”

“We have no love for the drow,” the giantess repeated, blinking her great eye.

Mindarion turned his head away from her and said, “The fey are not like Northlanders, like men and women. We are too old to fight for causes, for freedom or what is right. We have no interest in such things.” He smiled ruefully. “Prince Araithe is a tyrant, it is true. But we have not known happiness since we were young. We need someone to fight for, one of our kind. And so you must tell me …” He looked toward Poke, and Suka watched the ridges of his nostrils curl, as if he caught a faint, unpleasant odor. “Is it true? Is Lady Amaranth, my brother’s daughter, still living? Captain Rurik will send his boats to Moray Island.”

Dutifully, as if by rote, the lycanthrope recited a version of the story Suka had already heard too many times when they were prisoners, after ceremonial incantations of
Oh, Father Dear
, how a wounded hippogriff had come down like a winged star, had alighted on the beach near Caer Moray, and how the helpless child on its back had been taken in and nurtured by a she-wolf, Deucala, as Amaranth had subsequently named her, the great matriarch of the northern shores, dead now. How the lost princess had grown up under her tutelage, and in time had brought incomparable gifts to the Northlander tribes, had liberated the Black Blood and the females of all species …

Suka stopped listening, and watched instead the play of emotions on Captain Rurik’s face. She wondered why it was so damned important to him to find Mindarion’s lost niece and put her on the crystal throne in Karador. Surely he didn’t need to hear this semimythic affirmation to send a boat to Moray, if that was what he wanted—he wasn’t a fey, stuck at home forever, endlessly and mournfully circling the drain. He was a man, quick-thinking and resolute, like all his kind (well, most of them—some of them, at any rate) and now he turned his big rough face toward her, frowning, as if he guessed what she thought.

Breaking eye contact, she looked up at the sky. The stars shone brightly. Actually, not so brightly, because of a new mist that had settled over the dell, small wisps of duller darkness that writhed and curled between her and the new moon. The evening wind had brought it,
and brought also a strange smell. She stood up, rubbing her shoulders in the sudden chill. Captain Rurik cursed, kicked over his stool, reached for his axe, and the drow were upon them.

Not as many, perhaps. A small crew. Enough to overcome the sentinels that Rurik had posted down below. As Suka drew her knife, she looked up at the ridge on the far side of the dell, where it rose into the wooded hills. The drow captain was there, illuminated in the soft blue light, the wind in her long white hair, a curious smile on her beautiful face as she raised her sword. In her other hand she carried a throwing spear, and Suka watched her cast it into the middle of the dell, into the glowing fire. As it fell, it also erupted into flame then exploded, scattering the radiance, extinguishing all light. And then they were caught in the noisome graveyard smell and the swirling black mist that seemed to stick to their skin, drawing them together even as they moved to defend themselves.

Great, Suka thought, a drow magician, a priestess of disgusting Lolth, a darkwalker from the web between the worlds. But Mindarion also had some kind of power. A small new light had risen up from his clasped hands, a battle between elements that transcended the cold struggle underneath, a struggle that itself seemed less like a battle between mortal creatures than like something supernatural—the air was thick and hard to breathe, and so cold that it hurt the lungs. The horses screamed and bolted, staggering away into the trees, some with their manes alight. And the men and the eladrin found
themselves pressed together and constrained into the bottom of the dell, fighting enemies that seemed in one moment to be creatures of flesh and blood, and in the next made of smoke or spirit. Near Suka, an eladrin knight was down, his breast hacked to pieces, a hulking figure looming over him. But when she slashed at it her knife divided only air from darkness, mist from light. Men cursed—guttural oaths in the Northlander tongue. Above their heads Mindarion’s light had made a glowing roof or shelter, against which the burning shafts of the darkwalker—Suka could see her prowling the perimeter—crashed in explosive spasms, weakening it slowly until finally it caved and foundered, leaving them defenseless against the concussive blast. Suka crouched down with her arms around her head. Looking up, she caught a vague impression of Princess Marabaldia standing over her, bar upraised. Then one final explosion and she staggered and fell, knocking the gnome cold between her feet.

W
OLVES

T
HE
S
AVAGE WOKE AT DAWN, CURLED UP ALONE AT THE
bottom of a ravine. For two days he had run from the stone city below Scourtop. During the day and while he was moving, he had not felt the cold, the loss of his shirt. During the night the wolf had kept him warm in the shelter of whatever small trees or bushes they could find. But last night it had rained, and he woke up with his teeth chattering.