Asphales awoke to the sounds of the forest. The windswept murmuring of leaves and music of ancient trees droned on. The chirping of birds and chanting of bugs tuned methodically. It was a natural symphony, effortless as breathing, complex as the earth. He wondered whether perhaps all the woodland creatures played to an unsung key, and if there was an unseen conductor guiding them in harmony.
Light trickled through wooden beams and cast playful shadows around the quiet chamber. The sounds outside carried on. The smell of oak and pine played about his nostrils. After he adjusted to the bright, Asphales realised he was laid on a bed. He felt the familiar cradling of a straw mattress and featherbed. Comfortable and snug, he was wrapped in milky silk and satin wool. He lay there, disoriented and puzzled. Where was he? How long had it been since…?
There was a sharp prick in his side. It all came back. The clearing. The battle. He rose abruptly. The weight of twelve fallen men threatened to knock him down again. The company. Ledner. Serìn. His thoughts drifted to Valinos. There was also the woman clad in silver steel and purple he had seen in his last moments of consciousness.
Asphales threw the sheets off himself and shifted to the side of the bed. It was then he noticed that his midsection and shoulder were bandaged. A faint streak of red bled through the wrapping above his right hip. His shoulder was bound tightly but it did not hinder his movements.
He stepped on the wooden floor and took in his surroundings. The homely chamber was not very large, all of wooden boards and planks, but it was stuffed to the brim with cluttered furniture and objects. Paintings and weapons and rugs adorned the walls. Cupboards and cabinets and even an exquisite vanity rested around the room. A shovel, spattered freshly with mud, leaned nearby.
But Asphales did not focus on them. He looked around the chamber for signs of Valinos. And of her. He spotted a makeshift bed in a corner. Beneath a blanket he caught hint of black hair. Valinos. His racing mind slowed. He walked over to his friend and noted that he was still unconscious. Valinos shifted in uneasy sleep, face wrinkling in subtle twitches between bouts of calm. Asphales lamented the suffering dreams that no doubt plagued his friend. But he did not wake him. After what he had been through, he needed rest.
Asphales sighed. Gratitude welled up within him. He felt a tension leave him, a weight that he seemed to have carried for too long. A strange sensation settled over him. It was a feeling he had not felt in a long time. Safety. Belonging. He had to find the knight among the flowers and thank her.
He moved around the room slowly, gandering at the objects scattered with purposeful disorder. He first spied two swords rested in a corner. Their blades were streaked with blood. One of them was Anfrìr. Asphales averted his gaze. It was not time to dwell on thoughts of war again. It was not time to walk through the gates of memory and into that dell once more.
Nearby, a few bags were settled against the wooden wall. He recognised one of them as his own. In a blink of panic, he rushed to it and rummaged through the pack. His hands touched velvet. He drew out his book, On the Reign of King Ulmìr. The faded words were as familiar as the creases in his palms. In the frantic commotion of the battle, Asphales had forgotten about his possessions. Thankfulness sprang up again. The knight had brought them back. Asphales wondered again how much time had passed until this moment.
He laid the book back inside the pack and set it aside. He took note of his armour which lay in pieces next to the bag. But other objects caught his attention. In an inset on the wall, the knight’s armour neatly decorated a mannequin. It was the same set of shining steel the woman wore. Beside it the silver spear rose triumphant. Up close, Asphales noted the intricate workings of its design and the beautiful and deadly shape of its spearhead. The knight’s short blade also lay on its stand. Clean, unblemished.
His eyes moved along the wall. A tapestry of muted colours hung loosely, countless interwoven threads telling an unreadable tale. Asphales’ gaze landed on the unkindled hearth. He drew closer to make out a rounded shape on its sill. It was a vase. Perhaps it had been golden once. It looked blackened with ash and dulled with dust and age. Two painted characters stood poised for combat, but they too were charred by lingering black flame.
A curious object took his fancy next. Above the fireplace, above a bookshelf, a spear sat suspended on iron hooks. It was small. Wooden. It may have been a trinket from the knight’s childhood. But the craftsmanship proved this was no mere toy. The meandering swirls were skilfully engraved in the dark surface. And the spearhead was made of… Asphales was not sure what comprised the marble-like material. It was clear and lustrous. And dim. There was something wrong with the spearhead. It lacked life and light. Asphales had never attributed such qualities to a weapon, but the object in front of him demanded it.
A note rang out from somewhere distant. A woman’s voice. Asphales’ melancholic thoughts were halted. He listened for it again but it did not come. Asphales moved toward the doorway, but his gaze fixed on a couple of canvasses by a dining table. Two portraits peered at him, a man and a woman. The man had a hearty laugh, thick features captured in pastels of earthy colours. The woman was delicate. Her hair was a waterfall of rich auburn. And her eyes… Green. Green as the forest and deep as a well. They struck him as the same eyes he had dreamily gazed into before the black took him.
The note rang again. Clarion and sweet. Asphales pressed against the wooden door and stepped outside the cabin. A clear afternoon sun greeted him. He walked through daylight and saw the shape of the building. The lodge was nestled among the trees like a bird on its perch. It was comfortable. It belonged. The forest spread around it welcomingly. A garden grew around the cabin. Asphales spotted tulips and roses and lilies. Purple and red and yellow played in the sun. He looked around the encircling forest.
He saw her.
She was dancing.
He stood taken aback.
She moved among the trees.
He watched her dance through sunlit strands of forest timber. He watched her spin and shuffle, turn and twirl. Every movement was perfect. Each pirouette met with approval from the woodland audience. Her scarlet hair followed her like the streak of a comet.
He heard her.
She was singing.
He hearkened to her voice.
She greeted the forest by name.
He listened as she sang a melody more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. It lifted his soul and broke his heart. It carried him to mountaintops and plunged him into the deepening abyss. Her emerald eyes were alive with music.
He was captivated. Daylight filtered through the branches and arrayed her in gold. Dappled sunlight clothed her with star-shine.
There was a spark. Not the kind that sets ablaze a forest. It was not a reckless flame that burns selfishly and consumes. It was not one that burns out with undue temerity. It was one more fleeting and fragile. A flash like a shooting star that ignites a dream of what could be. An ineffable glint that fuels the heart’s desire.
Entranced by every detail, he took in all of her. Her presence, her movements. Her scarlet waves, her emerald gaze. She filled his thoughts and imagination in the indescribable and infinite way the sky above fills the expanse between horizons.
She became a blur of sound and motion as her routine peaked into a climax. The movements of the forest put her in the limelight. The sounds of the atmosphere accompanied her. There was a graceful leap. A flawless landing. A longing note. A rending fade. A perfect finish. Silent applause.
Their eyes met. Emerald and jasper locked to each other. The forest held its breath. She spoke no word. Asphales hoped to see at least a flicker, a dim reflection of the intrigue that overwhelmed him.
But there was only emptiness. Deep. Wounded.
It is said that the eyes are the windows to the heart. But her heart was like the hidden moon. In that moment, understanding brushed him. He grasped something of the great divide that yawned between his heart and hers. He sensed the insurmountable distance, like dust reaching for starlight. But still the spark shone, faint yet resilient.
‘Who are you?’ Asphales stammered, but his summer voice was resonant. Out of the thousand burning questions, that one crashed like a meteor.
There was a long period of quiet. Asphales knew it was not because she did not understand. She was deciding whether he could be trusted with something as fragile and intimate as a name. Whether she would give that part of herself away.
‘Adélia Amal’ethar,’ she said. She spoke with a voice like flowers in the wind. Beautiful. Broken. Perfect.
The name played like a soothing song in his mind. He tucked it away, gently and carefully as one would a newly-cut rose.
‘I am Asphales Esélinor,’ he said.
She gave an acknowledging curtsy, like a partner before a ballroom dance. But no dance followed. She stood expectantly.
‘Thank you,’ Asphales said with a slight bow. ‘For everything you’ve done for me and the comp—’ He bit off the word. There was no company left. ‘If you hadn’t come when you did…’ His words trailed and his thoughts filled in the blanks.
‘They were good men of the Guard,’ said Adélia. ‘Were you with them?’
‘Yes,’ he said, focused once more. ‘Yes, we were on our way to Fara’ethar.’
‘Why?’ Her question was innocent as a blooming flower bud.
‘I… I don’t know,’ Asphales confessed. ‘We were summoned. We came from Silnodìr.’
A flash of pain crossed Adélia’s eyes. Asphales caught a glimmer of darkening emerald. And then it was gone. For a moment Adélia had been a knight again. Strong. Imposing. But she was a princess once more. He noticed anew how well she fit in her dress of forest green. Supple light kissed her bare arms. Her shoulders were shrouded by frilly cloth the colour of the earth.
‘We were attacked by those bandits,’ he continued. ‘Ambushed us in a forest clearing on our sixth day out.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The intruders led by the one-eyed proud man.’
Asphales realised that was what was wrong with the bandit leader’s face when he saw him earlier. The lesion had derailed his marksmanship as well, he thought. He wondered how the wound had happened. He shuddered at the memory and repressed it. He wanted to change the subject. Then a thought occurred.
‘What day is it? How long have we been out?’ he asked.
‘It is about the sixteenth watch of Kingsdell,’ Adélia replied.
Asphales’ eyes widened. It was around midday Stonestell that the ambush occurred. He had been unconscious for over a day.
‘And my friend is still…’ he trailed, thinking of Valinos.
‘Your friend? The boy with the broken heart? He is injured. He needs rest.’ There was foreboding in Adélia’s tone.
Asphales looked at her, puzzled.
‘He mumbled while I carried him here. He speaks from here.’ She motioned to her chest. ‘He speaks cold venom and shattered glass.’
Asphales stared blankly. Who was this girl? How did she speak with such perception? What had she been through to know the hearts of people so?
‘But I am glad to see you walking,’ she said. The beginnings of a smile played about her mouth. Then it broke. Faded. ‘Your wound was fortunate but still serious.’
‘Thank you again,’ Asphales said.
‘Do not worry about the rest. I buried the men of the Guard. Their spirits rest among the stars now.’
Asphales’ face turned ashen at the reminder of their death. Their faces flashed by. Serìn’s smugness. Ledner’s stone firmness.
Adélia tilted her head slightly. ‘You have never had someone die?’
The question caught him off-guard. The pent-up stress of the events he had suppressed unleashed suddenly, unwillingly. ‘No! No, I haven’t. Not before my eyes like that. I don’t suppose you have?’ he blurted out unthinkingly.
The flicker in her eyes told him everything. She had suffered loss uncounted. He regretted his words. He saw pain and rage buried beneath the empty layers that screened her emerald eyes. It was only a sliver, a crescent moon on a dark night. But it was there.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I apologise. I didn’t mean to say… It’s just…’ He stopped. Words were in vain now, he figured. There was no way to justify his confusion and frustration.
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‘My village,’ she said flatly. ‘Twelve years ago. Pirates.’ Her response was honest. Calm. But her words hit him with the force of a hurricane. He felt more foolish with every passing second. He thought of her living alone in the forest. He thought of the portraits inside the cabin.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I lost my family, too. My father vanished at sea. My mother disappeared not long after that. I know my father is dead. But my mother… I have no way of finding out.’
The thoughts were unpleasant. He did not know exactly why he had shared them. But Adélia absorbed and processed them wordlessly. The forest seemed to grieve around her. With her.
The silence grew like a dissonant chord around them. Asphales did not want to ruin this storybook moment. He wanted something to say. Anything. Anything that was not stupid, he corrected his own thoughts. But it was Adélia who spoke first.
‘Do you like stories?’ she asked.
Asphales looked at her. The lovely glinting of her emeralds returned. He wondered how something could be so pure and deep and perfect. ‘I do,’ he stated. Understated, he thought.
Adélia waved her hand in an indistinct motion. ‘Do not worry about before. You spoke truly, unhindered. It is past.’ She took a step forward. A beam of light broke from behind her and highlighted the redness of her hair. ‘But I must apologise as well. You caught me unprepared. I was telling the forest my story. But in my village it was also conventional to share stories with those we meet for the first time.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Asphales said. ‘Stories are the lifeblood of friendship and tradition.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I found a book amongst the possessions I recovered. Might it be yours?’
‘It is,’ Asphales said.
‘Would you read for me and share your stories?’ she demurred. Her tone was reticent. Shy.
Asphales nodded. He ran back inside the cabin to bring out the book. He checked on Valinos. Still sleeping. He drew the volume from its pack and dashed outside. Adélia had already shifted. She sat awaiting on a log. She was framed in golden light.
Asphales found a place near her and opened the book. Adélia was still and attentive. He began to read. She listened with childlike eagerness as the story rolled through tragedy and triumph. She did not interrupt, even though she revealed afterward the story was known to her. Asphales wanted to ask. But it was not the time for questions.
Adélia told tales of her own. She spoke of Lanurel and his struggles against the King of Stone. She moved through the lay of Lady Vildia and the Dread. The Spearheart. She recited fables and songs and records of heroes forgotten and villains forsaken. And she did it with passion as if from cherished memory.
Asphales fumbled through other stories he had read. The exploits of Al’ur the Wise. The courage of the Thirteen Nightriders. He uttered the few poems of the Salahìn he could remember. He even attempted to sing the ballad he had heard at the Waypoint inn. Her voice swept in when she recognised the tune. It skirted around his, bouncing delicately just out of reach and yet entirely within it.
They shared stories and songs until starlight circled overhead. One by one, the lights above gleamed to life until there was an audience of starry onlookers. A fire had sprung at some point to ward off the encroaching cold and light the stories told around them. Adélia’s eyes shimmered in the firelight, a stark and flame-tinged emerald. They sparkled as she spoke.
But they never shared their stories. Not this first time. It was not right. When Asphales had drawn those painful words out of Adélia it felt forced. Untrue. Their stories would wait for another time. Presently, Asphales was content for them to orbit each other like distant celestial bodies. Like stars that have not met.
Storytelling may have gone on without end if not for Valinos’ interruption. He staggered out of the cabin late into the night. The first hint Asphales caught of it was Adélia’s sudden silence and unyielding stare. He turned and saw his friend limping toward the fire. His walk was slightly firmer. But rest had not untightened his firm features. His face austere and sullen, Valinos eyed the campfire and spotted them. Asphales rose and ran to embrace him.
‘Valinos, my friend, I’m so glad to see you!’ he said, almost blinking back tears. He released the embrace and held Valinos’ shoulders. ‘Paran raises his apprentices tough, doesn’t he?’
‘Asphales,’ he inquired, ‘where are we? What has happened?’
‘We are still in Gohenur,’ said Asphales unsurely. He turned to Adélia, who nodded. ‘It’s late Kingsdell, my friend,’ he continued. ‘You’ve been slumbering for over a day.’
Valinos’ eyes narrowed. Irritated.
‘After the attack yesterday, we passed out,’ Asphales said. ‘The brave knight over here rescued us and tended to our wounds.’ He motioned over to Adélia. She stood politely.
Valinos glanced at her briefly. But if he had any doubts he left them unspoken. Some of the tension seemed to leave him. ‘You have my thanks,’ he said. His voice was strained. Held back.
‘It’s thanks to her that you’re walking again,’ Asphales said.
‘Where is Shurun’el?’ Valinos asked, unfazed by the comment. ‘Where is the bandit leader?’
‘The man you call Shurun’el is gone,’ Adélia called from the other side of the fire. ‘He has escaped. It would be unwise to dwell on him any longer.’
Valinos darted an angry look. ‘What do you know of it?’ he lashed. ‘The man slew our company. I will not let it rest. We have to leave this damned forest and get on with our business.’
Adélia did not retort. She lowered herself onto the log again. Asphales was prickled by the mounting tension. He glanced at Adélia. She had closed off entirely. A clouded sky. A hidden moon.
‘You will leave on the morrow,’ she said calmly. ‘But now you must rest and eat.’ Her kindness came amid the broken.
Asphales only realised then how hungry he had been. The stories had fed him for the last few hours but now he felt his empty stomach. It gaped empty and barren as a cave. ‘That would be great,’ he said with a smile. Valinos did not protest.
Adélia prepared a warm meal for the three of them. They ate wordlessly under a watching sky. The moon raced along the angled lights of the Lance, indicating the month of Lonoris. Asphales and Valinos returned to the cabin in preparation for sleep. Adélia permitted them to sleep in the same beds they had recovered in. Asphales placed the volume in his bag and collapsed into the bedding, covering himself in the same silken sheets. He watched Adélia briefly, who returned bowls and cups to the kitchen area. She walked out into the starlit forest. Sleep took him.
Morning dawned without Ledner’s rigid rudeness. Asphales arose sharply, disturbed by remnants of a dream. He cooled, collected himself and rose off the bedding. Valinos’ bed sat empty. Asphales gathered his possessions. The bag. The armour. Anfrìr. He sheathed the dirty blade, the bloodstains a reminder of the unpleasant, and went outside. Valinos waited, armoured and ready.
Adélia appeared between the trees. She was carrying a bundle wrapped in burlap. Asphales could not help but notice how the morning light heralded her approach. Birds sung as if to announce her presence. ‘I will guide you to the river,’ she called out in a clear voice.
As Asphales and Valinos followed her through the forest, the rushing of the river rung like a bell. They cut through a tangle of bush and foliage and emerged on the banks of the Valarion. A boat rested on the shore. It certainly was not the vessel of his dreams, but Asphales nonetheless found it appealing.
‘You will take the river south,’ Adélia said. ‘You will reach the coast in less than two days.’ She came nearer to Asphales. ‘Here, you will need this,’ she said, holding out the burlap sack. ‘Provisions for the journey.’
Asphales peered inside. Fruit and nuts, dried meats, bread, and cheese were bundled neatly. He thanked her.
‘You will not be able to embark as you are,’ Adélia said.
Asphales realised the armour’s weight would make the waterway trek difficult, if not impossible. He looked dejectedly at Valinos, who scowled. They removed their armoured plates and pieces and set them on the shore.
‘Keep your swords,’ Adélia said.
‘I intend to,’ Valinos intoned.
Asphales and Valinos pushed the boat onto the flowing stream and hopped inside. There were oars prepared for directing the vessel and clever openings for placing provisions. The boat began to sail downriver. Asphales looked back. Adélia was gone.
Hours passed. The river’s gentle current carried the boat steadily. Only minimal adjustments were necessary. The sun hung high and bright.
Valinos brooded speechlessly, his eyes far away, his focus in another place. He thumbed his sword idly. Reddened muck scraped with each motion. Suddenly his eyes glinted and he moved. He dipped his bloody sword into the rushing river as they floated downstream. Valinos scrubbed at the blade. It shed a trail of sanguine silk.
‘Gulren,’ he said, drawing the blade out of the water. He raised the sword ceremoniously. The sodden weapon gleamed. He smiled. There was no playfulness in it. He sheathed the sword and did not speak again.
Asphales reflected on the name. Blood-river. Its title was macabre. Dark. Filled with unresolved hatred. He wanted to ask about the unspoken hurt that seethed beneath the surface. Valinos had changed. But it was not a time for asking.
Asphales realised he, too, was already a different man than the one who left Silnodìr on that sunny Queenthell morning. It seemed an age ago. The quest had already rent him. Broken him. Reared the ugliness of the world. The realms contained in stories were left in tatters and tears. But still he clung on to their ideals and hope. For there was no sense to the turning of this world. Why did good men fall while wicked souls stood in mockery and gloating? What else can one do when the veneer collapses but to hope and strive and dream for a day when the gears of the world turned aright? It was not a day for asking. Today was a day for reflection. For remembering. For looking forward.
All of a sudden, Asphales was near the hearth of the Woodland Waypoint again. Another place, another time. Far away…
‘That was a fine rendition of The Eagle and the Fair Maiden,’ Serìn said as he returned to the table and promptly picked up his cup of mead. ‘If I can say so myself,’ he humbly added. ‘I couldn’t help joining in.’
‘What will we do with you, the Troubadour of the Guard?’ Maresh quipped. There was equal admiration and jealousy in his easy voice.
‘Tie his hands and lock him up,’ another guard offered. ‘Keep him away from all the women. Every maiden within earshot’s gonna have their eyes on him tonight.’ Rueful jealousy.
Serìn cracked a smile and flicked blond hair away. ‘Does that make me the eagle?’
‘Watch that big head o’ yours don’t hit the door on the way out,’ a guard said. Roaring laughter erupted around the table.
‘I didn’t know you had that sort of skill,’ Asphales said, setting down his mug. The mead was bitter, but the company was sweet.
‘Aye, I was a bard before taking the mantle,’ Serìn said. ‘And a trouper before that.’ He pursed his lips as if remembering.
Relu burst in on the conversation, pushing through some of the men to offer his hand to Serìn.
‘That was splendid, my good man,’ he said. ‘Some of the old timers are saying they haven’t heard the song performed so well ever since my grandfather opened this establishment oh-so-many years ago. Invited a band of travelling musicians from somewhere out east, the story goes. Rowdy bunch. Good for playing. Bad with coin. A regrettable shame. But it was a night to remember.’
Asphales wondered when the innkeeper had time for breath.
Serìn made a placating motion that politely shooed the old man away. He turned to the table again and picked up his mug.
‘Ah, it’s been at least five-course since I’ve told a good story through song,’ he said wistfully.
‘Is there any truth to that story?’ Valinos asked. ‘To the eagle who spoke with man-speech and wooed the maiden?’
‘Believe what you will, lad,’ Serìn said. ‘A good story may be true but that’s not what makes it good.’
Asphales wanted to disagree, but left his complaints unsaid.
‘With these crazy times, anything is possible, I’d say,’ Serìn concluded.
‘All sorts of rumours are floating around,’ Ledner filled in. There was a careful edge to his rough tone. ‘Some defy explanation, but they may be nothing more than addled tales. Doesn’t hurt to be careful, of course.’
‘Like what?’ Asphales asked with piqued curiosity.
‘I’ve spoken to men who swear they’ve seen chariots in the sky,’ Ledner said. ‘Good men. Trustworthy. Makes me think twice about what’s out there.’ He glanced past the tavern’s walls.
‘And think,’ Serìn jumped in, ‘if there could be an army of sky-sailing soldiers… It would make warfare a lot trickier.’
The conversation lulled gloomily. Guards sipped quietly. The background tune drifted through them, filling in the silence.
‘I wish these string-pullers could play the Lay of Lanurel,’ Serìn said suddenly. ‘Aye, now that would be a treat.’
‘Who is Lanurel?’ asked Asphales.
‘A paragon,’ Ledner chimed. ‘An exemplar of the old adage ‘Tread heavily but travel light.’ He changed the world with naught to his name but his sword.’
Asphales felt the excitement of a story rush through him. ‘What did he do?’ he questioned.
‘He’s the old hero who’s supposed to have taken on the Stone King ages and ages ago,’ a guard piped up.
‘Aye,’ Serìn said, ‘but it’s the song that lasts, man. A song of beauty and difficulty unlike anything you’ve heard. Nearly broke my lute trying to learn it many years ago.’ Serìn’s praise continued. ‘Seventy-six ardent and taxing stanzas. Written by Géleden herself. And they say she was more beautiful than the songs she penned.’ He pointed significantly with his mug. ‘I would’ve liked to have met her,’ he added with a wink.
‘Perhaps if you were something like four centuries older you might have,’ a guard jested. The men laughed.
Serìn shrugged and returned to his drink.
‘And is the story of the Stone King true?’ Asphales found himself asking.
‘Travel west, boy, and you’ll see,’ Ledner said. ‘There is nothing there but dead stone.’ He let his words fade ominously.
Asphales retreated to his own thoughts. He looked into his mug. The mead swirled unattractively. He wanted to lighten the mood once more. ‘So what is an understudy, Serìn?’ he asked. ‘You appointed me to it. Is that a real rank? Will I get my own company soon?’
Serìn nearly spit a mouthful of mead in laughter. ‘Sorry, boy. I was teasing. You’ll have no such fortune, I’m afraid. And besides, a company is not even the most impressive thing you’ll see on this quest.’ He eyed Ledner. Asphales turned to the captain.
‘He’s right,’ Ledner said. ‘A company is a small unit, merely twelve-strong. If you really like dreaming of war, you’ll want a mane. A legion of a thousand men. Commanded only by the best. By an Amarant.’ He said the last word proudly, respectfully.
‘And none of us are that,’ Serìn supplied lightly.
Asphales’ eyes lit up. ‘How many Amarants are there?’
‘Usually there’re four,’ Ledner said. ‘One each to command the infantry, the cavalry, the archery, and the naval units. The four manes.’
‘But Amarant Darius alone holds command of two manes,’ Serìn cut in with trepidation. ‘There’s also Nadros the Ageless and Catena. Some call her Lady Loveless. They say she’s never loved a man and has a heart as cold as winter. She doesn’t even live with the rest of them.’
‘So there are four thousand soldiers equally divided among the manes?’ asked Asphales.
‘That’s right,’ Ledner said. ‘They are Fara’ethar’s elite. Then you have myriads of others who have sworn service and can be called upon in times of war. Like our group.’
‘The captain’s being modest,’ Serìn threw in. ‘You can’t lump him in with the rest of the rabble. He’s part of Darius’ mane. Trained by the Amarant himself. But see, occasionally a maneling gets his own troop. A company.’ He pointed amicably to the table.
Asphales watched the unflinching captain. No pride sparked or sprigged his solemn eyes. The weight of responsibility hung on his brows heavily. Asphales tried to imagine a troop of a thousand men like Ledner. He shuddered.
‘Four thousand warriors live in the castle?’ Asphales asked.
‘Well, in the castle, the docks, and in the surrounding precincts,’ Serìn corrected. ‘The districts of Guladran sprawl at the feet of Fara’ethar. But yes, the castle is immense, boy.’
‘Big as a mountain,’ a guard commented.
‘Tall as the clouds,’ another offered.
‘Luxurious and all of gold and marble,’ Maresh said. ‘Though I have never been inside. Our captain here has, but.’
‘Right,’ said Ledner. ‘And I would keep it a mystery a while longer from the boy. He’ll see for himself when we arrive…’
Ledner’s words died out. The company’s laughter vanished. Asphales returned to the gentle flow of the Valarion. The sun was setting, taking its drape of light off the forest and leaving it dark and naked. The river clung to the departing fire with wavering vigour. Behind him, Valinos slept, head bowed and arms resting on his scabbarded sword.
Asphales watched the water. Night animals mourned out of sight. Thoughts of Fara’ethar danced in his head. He wept with the keening moon. And like a faithful messenger, the Valarion carried his thoughts and his tears out to sea.
* * *
Adélia stepped lightly through her garden. Her tender hands touched the colours sleeping in the night. Above her, each ardent star was in its place. The tapestry gleamed contently. Complete.
Her heart trembled. There was a gentle quiver, a daring tremor. Something inside her screamed and sang. The stories spun like dancers in her mind. They whispered of a strange design of fate.
The boy with jasper eyes knew her.
And yet he dwelt in woeful ignorance. There was so much she did not tell him. So much left unspoken. But her heart would not give way, like a chest she had lost the key to.
A long-forgotten wound ached. She clutched her shoulder. The black swallowed her heart once more. The singing was silenced. The question haunted her.
What does it take to love again when love itself is taken from you?
She caressed a rose longingly. The red, velvety petals felt silky against her skin. She was all alone under the moon, under the stars.