Breath of Heaven, page 28
His foot caught on a protruding edge of bedrock and he fell forward, his body not reacting fast enough to catch himself. He slammed into the soil, salt and dirt particles rising around him in a plume before being caught by the incessant wind and carried away. A deep-seated pain flared in the center of his chest—finally scabbed over—and he gasped and coughed up blood, its taste thick at the back of his throat. Wheezing, he struggled to get his arm beneath him, then froze.
A single withered bunch of grass flailed in the wind a foot in front of him, its highest stalk bent and broken halfway up, its roots partially exposed at the base.
It was the first sign of plant life he’d seen since entering the Flats.
He heard someone cry out, then the crunch of approaching feet, and a moment later both Siobhaen and Eraeth were kneeling at his side.
“Shaeveran! Are you all right?” Eraeth demanded. Siobhaen’s hands were already checking along his body.
“I think I tore something in my chest. But look.” He pointed toward the dried husk of grass, even as Eraeth rolled him over and sat him up. The pain flared again and he coughed up more blood, the liquid staining the cloth that covered his mouth, but he didn’t care. He realized he hadn’t even let go of his staff.
“It’s dead grass,” Siobhaen said hoarsely. Both of their voices were dry, and even though he couldn’t see their faces through the coverings, he knew that their lips were as chapped and split as his.
He worked some of the blood he’d coughed up over his lips, wincing at the pain. “When was the last time you saw a plant of any kind? We’re close to the end of the Flats. We must be.”
He heaved himself to his feet with a groan, leaning heavily on Eraeth. They turned to look south.
Heat smeared the horizon a short distance away, but they could still pick out a few more tufts of dried grass through the haze.
Siobhaen laughed. “Aielan’s Light. We made it.”
They stumbled forward. The shimmer above the salt plain receded before them, more and more grass appearing, some beginning to show hints of green. Then the ground began to rise. They staggered up the slope and halted at the view spread out before them. Yellowed grass covered the ground, gradually shifting to darker and darker greens. Larger bushes dotted the landscape, and a stand of maybe five scraggly trees. Far distant, Colin thought he saw the shimmer of actual water—a creek or river, its banks lush with greenery.
At his side, Eraeth collapsed to his knees, bent forward at the waist, his hands resting on his knees.
Colin knelt beside the Alvritshai. “Eraeth?” The Protector’s breath came in ragged gasps, each intake harsher and more strained than the last, as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Eraeth, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t—” Eraeth rasped, then broke into a fit of coughing. “Water.”
When he canted to one side, Colin caught his weight. But the Alvritshai was too heavy—or Colin too weakened by their crossing—and he was knocked to the ground.
“Shaeveran,” Siobhaen said.
Colin as he crawled to Eraeth’s side. “Siobhaen, help me.” But the warrior of the Flame remained standing, her eyes shaded from the mid-morning sun. Eraeth was still breathing, the cloth covering his mouth still moving, but when Colin ripped it aside, he gasped.
Eraeth was worse off than Colin had thought, his lips a deathly white, except where they’d cracked and bled and split again. His eyes were crusted with salt, his eyelashes caked, and his already pale skin had dried to near translucence. Patches had cracked and peeled away, one spot on his upper cheek rubbed raw and bleeding by the covering over his eyes.
“Siobhaen!”
“Shaeveran, look.”
Colin glanced up, a curt retort dying on his lips as he saw a group of riders heading straight toward them.
He stood, pulling himself up using his staff. “Who is it? Can you see?”
“The banner they carry is some kind of tower against a red field.”
“Yhnar, then.” He moved ahead of them both. “I’m surprised they’re patrolling this far north.”
They waited in silence, the group separating until Colin could pick out five individuals, all on horseback, all wearing light armor in the colors of Yhnar. They vanished behind a low hill, but as they neared, they kicked up dust from the dried grasses, the wind taking it east. Neither Siobhaen nor Colin moved as the men slowed their mounts to a trot.
They halted ten paces away, the lead Legionnaire glaring down at Colin, gaze flicking toward Siobhaen and the prostrate Eraeth before returning. “Who are you and what are you doing in Yhnar Province?”
Colin tried to speak, but his voice cracked and splintered into a hacking cough. He spat blood into the grass, one hand raised to keep Siobhaen back behind him when she started forward. He wiped his mouth and tried again. “I’m Colin Harten, and these two Alvritshai are my escorts. We’re here to speak with the GreatLord of Yhnar. Do you have any water?”
At mention of the Alvritshai, all of the guardsmen stiffened, but none of them drew weapons. The leader considered for a long moment, but then he fumbled at his belt, producing a water skin. He tossed it to Colin, who immediately turned to Eraeth, his hands shaking as he crouched down and unstoppered the leather pouch. Water spilled across his hand, warm, but glistening in the sunlight. Its rich scent flooded his senses and he gave out a low moan. But Eraeth needed it more and so he dribbled it into the Protector’s mouth.
Eraeth choked on it, spluttering without opening his eyes, then began to drink almost reflexively. The liquid stained his skin dark, his clothing darker, what escaped from his lips colored pink with blood.
He let Eraeth drink a little, then withdrew the skin, handing it off to Siobhaen, who stood over them both protectively.
“You should drink first.”
“I’ll live. You first.”
Siobhaen’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t argue, taking a pull, swirling it around her mouth, then swallowing it with a grimace of pain. She took another few swallows, then handed it to Colin.
Eraeth hadn’t opened his eyes, his breathing steadier, but still shallow.
Colin dribbled more water onto his lips. “Come on, you bastard. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. You’re supposed to be saving me. That’s how it’s always been. Aeren would never forgive me if I let you die.”
Eraeth drank some more, then began coughing, his eyes fluttering open.
Colin sat back.
Eraeth’s eyes found his, his forehead creasing in consternation. “Why am I on the ground?”
Colin snorted and took a long swallow of water. It tasted like the finest wine in all of New Andover…and Andover as well. Washing the blood from his throat, he worked the moisture into his mouth and tongue, then stood and handed the water skin to Soibhaen, turning back to the waiting guardsmen. He heard Siobhaen speaking softly to Eraeth behind him.
“Take us to Yhnar, Lieutenant...”
“Craig. Craig Mills.”
“Lieutenant Mills. I need to speak with Tarken Sohn immediately.”
“The GreatLord is not in Yhnar.”
This startled Colin. “Where is he?”
The lieutenant opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut, as if suddenly realizing he may have already said too much. “We’ll take you to Yhnar. You can ask your questions there.”
He turned and ordered three of his men to dismount. Siobhaen helped Eraeth up into the saddle. The Protector slouched forward but remained seated. Siobhaen took a gelding, while Colin took the third, a muscular brown mare with a black mane. He could have slowed time and reached Yhnar within hours, but he felt too weak from his wound and the trek across the salt flats. Besides, he didn’t want to leave the Alvritshai alone with these men, not after the sharp looks of suspicion once they knew who they were. Something had obviously happened in the southern Provinces to set these men on edge. Colin needed to know what as soon as possible.
Seated, he spun his horse toward Lieutenant Mills. “Lead the way, as swiftly as possible.”
The Legionnaire gave orders for those unmounted to return to the patrol camp and report, then kneed his horse into motion, heading south and slightly east, his second close behind.
Siobhaen and Eraeth followed, Colin bringing up the rear.
* * *
Two days later, Colin’s group and their escort—now grown to seven Legion, the other five men picked up at various camps along the way—broke from the edges of a forest, the road ahead leading down to the banks of a river, then snaking into the distance. The river split, one branch heading east, the other south. In the land between, grassland rose in wide, rolling hills toward a fat, rounded tower surrounded by a formidable wall. Smoke rose from the tower and from numerous unseen buildings inside the wall. Yhnar wasn’t as sprawling as Temeritt—it certainly didn’t hold as many people—but it was still a sizable city. Unlike Temeritt, there was only the one set of defensive walls outside of the one that surrounded the palace, barracks, and cathedral; it hadn’t been around long enough to grow enough in size to warrant more.
“Is that Yhnar?” Eraeth asked as Lieutenant Mills led the group along the road toward the river without pause. The Protector had recovered slowly over the last two days, but he still wasn’t back to his usual strength. Siobhaen had fared much better.
“Yes. The farthest eastern Province, on the edges of human lands.”
“Because no one has dared to venture through the Thalloran Wastes to the lands beyond,” Siobhaen said.
“There are other options besides the wastelands,” Colin said. “Ships that have set out from the cliffs along Yhnar’s coastline have reported land not that far off. In fact, it appears to be merely a massive inlet, or perhaps an inland sea. No one’s completely certain. All they know at the moment is that there’s land, the shore surrounded by massive cliffs, their heights typically shrouded in fog or clouds. They haven’t discovered a safe port or beach yet, although sailors report seeing massive stone ruins on some of the cliff heights.”
“Like the ruins we saw in the desert?”
“They haven’t gotten close enough to tell. They’ve only seen them at a distance.”
Siobhaen muttered under her breath, “There’s more to this continent than we know, even nearly five hundred years after the Abandonment of the North.”
“The humans have explored more of this land in the two hundred years since they’ve landed than either the dwarren or the Alvritshai in the last thousand. Yet I do not think even we have unearthed even half of the mysteries it holds.”
Before either could respond, he felt a tingling through his skin and he turned, facing back along the road they had already traveled.
Far distant, well beyond the forest, black clouds boiled along the horizon, their depths flashing a dark blue-purple bruised color with occasional lightning. The storm was too distant for them to hear thunder, and was traveling away from them, southwest, but Colin didn’t need to hear it to know that the storm was unnatural.
“The sarenavriell are still unbalanced,” Eraeth said, his voice low.
“The activation of the new Well would have made it worse.” Colin turned his back on the storm and what it meant. “I haven’t felt the presence of the Autumn Tree since we left the Flats either. We need to find out what’s happened while we were in the wastelands.”
They crossed the eastern branch of the Serpent River, their horses’ hooves clopping on the stone of the bridge, then swept up along the road to the gates of Yhnar. The walls were higher than Colin had estimated, those manning them tense and alert, but Lieutenant Mills cantered through with only a brief pause to speak to the gatekeeper. The scarred man, older than Mills by at least twenty years, eyed Eraeth and Siobhaen suspiciously, but nodded at Mills’ words. His eyes never left them as they trotted past.
They rode through the streets, Mills’ men closing in on either side. Colin noted they’d picked up five more Legion at the gates. Those on the streets stepped out of the way, most ignoring them, a few giving them curious stares. A procession of children followed as they wound past three and four story buildings crammed tightly together, broken only by alleys or narrow passages that led to courtyards in the back or stableyards at inns or taverns. They passed two small churches, the tilted cross of Holy Diermani reaching into the sky from the spire of one. Signs hung above shop doors, sporting brightly painted depictions of candles, loaves of bread, charging horses, or butting rams. Shingled roofs pitched sharply over gables and dormer windows, and second floors often jutted out over the street. In two places, buildings were built over the street, the horses passing underneath as if through a tunnel. They skirted a marketplace and a plaza, both small in comparison to those in Caercaern or Corsair, but bustling with hawkers and venders nonetheless.
As they drew near the massive tower that Colin knew was Yhnar’s palace, he felt Eraeth nudge him from one side. The Protector nodded discreetly to a small group of Legion at the corner of a cross street as they passed. “They have Legionnaires strewn throughout the city. There were extra guards at the gates and patrolling the walls as well.”
They passed through a second gate into the tower’s courtyard. A stone cathedral, twice the size of any of those they’d seen in the city, rose multiple spires to the sky to the right, a massive barracks with training yard and outbuildings to the left. The rounded base of the tower lay straight ahead.
Colin craned his neck back to stare up at its heights, the banners above flapping in a gusting breeze. Twice as wide as it was tall, the squat tower was riddled with small windows. It was essentially its own self-contained wall.
His gaze fell to the steps leading up to the open double doors banded in iron, flanked on either side of five Legionnaires, all at stiff attention. Lieutenant Mills and their escort had drawn up to the steps and dismounted, stable hands scurrying forward to take their horses after Colin, Eraeth, and Siobhaen removed their pouches, cattans, bows, and staff. Mills spoke to a steward, whose gaze shot toward the three in surprise. Mills motioned them forward.
“Steward Dobbins will show you to a waiting room,” Mills said, removing his riding gloves. “I’ll speak to Lady Laurelen about your request.”
“Thank you, lieutenant.”
Mills disappeared up the stairs. Dobbins bowed slightly. “If you will follow me.”
They entered the main doorway into a narrow inner room, not much larger than a corridor, another set of iron-bound doors inside that. Colin glanced up and saw murder holes above, caught Eraeth and Siobhaen doing the same. Then they passed into a large foyer with stone flags, a set of steps curving upwards to the left, banners and tapestries lining the walls on all sides between lanterns worked in brass and polished to a high sheen. Dobbins didn’t give them time to admire any of it, shuttling them down wide corridors lined with artwork, a few sculptures, and finally depositing them in a small room that contained multiple chairs, tables with arrangements of dried flowers in vases, and an unlit fireplace, all surrounding a low oval table made of inlaid wood. As Colin moved to one of the chairs, he noticed the pattern in the table: a depiction of the known continent of New Andover, including rough outlines of the treacherous straits and the archipelago to the south.
“Wait here,” Dobbins said. “A servant will bring you some wine.”
The aged steward stepped out and closed the door behind him.
No one sat. Siobhaen and Eraeth scanned the room, their gazes meeting a moment later.
“At least they didn’t take our weapons.”
The door opened abruptly, a servant taking a step in before giving a startled cry at the sight of the Alvritshai. She recovered swiftly, a stern look settling on her face as she trooped to the central table and set down a platter containing a decanter of wine, fine glasses, cheese, bread, and sliced apples.
“Dobbins said to bring you wine,” she said, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. “I thought you might like something to eat. Would you be needing anything else?”
“That will do nicely, Gina, thank you.”
The servant spun to the open door, then slid into a curtsey before dashing out behind the regal woman who stood there. Her gaze swept over all three, intense and intelligent, but landed on Colin last, her lips pursed.
“Who are you and why do you bring Alvritshai into my lands?”
Colin stood frozen, eyes widened, his throat locked. With his free hand, he reached toward the brown-haired, green-eyed, freckled woman in the doorway and managed a strangled, “Karen?”
The woman’s harsh expression broke, eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I am Laurelen Sohn, Lady of Yhnar and Tarken Sohn’s wife.”
Even as she spoke, he realized it couldn’t be Karen. He’d left Karen’s body on the grassland outside the Ostraell, along with everyone else who’d been a part of that ill-fated wagon train: his parents, Karen’s father, the Armory commander Arten, dozens of others. All dead. All killed by the life-eating Shadows of the Ostraell. He had thought that wound had healed over the last two hundred and more years, but it hadn’t. And he realized that it would never die, no matter how much time passed, no matter how long he distracted himself.
He heard his breath catch in his throat and he let his arm drop.
“Of course you are,” he managed, suddenly feeling too weak to stand, even with his staff as support. He fell back into one of the chairs. “Of course you are. You just look…you look so much like her.”
He fumbled with the front of his shirt, his fingers finally finding and closing hard about the vow hidden beneath. Its edges bit into his palm.
He felt a hand fall to his shoulder and his head jerked up and met Eraeth’s gaze. “You do look like her. Or at least, what she would have looked like if she’d lived.”
“Who was she?”
“If she had survived, she would have been my wife,” Colin rasped.
Laurelen’s gaze dropped to where his hand clutched his shirt, her head tilting back slightly in understanding. “My sympathies.”
