A Prayer for Dead Kings and Other Tales (34 page)

Then Nàlwyr, seeing this Captain Guderna in the foreguard,
called to him and said ‘Our companies are even matched and the river’s flood a
third foe that all face at our peril.’ Then both approached under sign of
Herald, and Guderna who was Gilvaleus saw that this captain of the best armed
and armored Knights wore only a shirt of chain set of dwyrsilver links, and
that his blade was the slender silver of a serpent’s tongue that looked like
any blow might shatter it.

The White Pilgrim feels the bright shard of pain. He feels a numbness
that wraps him like the embrace of a lost friend.

He sees himself reflected in her eyes as he stumbles back. Sees a
fear in that reflection that he does not feel for so long now.

And Nàlwyr spoke and said ‘In the even fierceness of our
force, this fight shall be decided by my blade and thine, so let us spare the
blood that should not stain the hands of any Knight so noble as thee and me,
and make a pact of single combat that shall decide the day.’

The Golden Girl’s movements are a deadly song, are a dirge of
blood and iron that will best him in the end if it continues. But it is a
deeper blow that drives him back, sets his feet to falter.

The blade in her hand. The rapier, recognized in a heartbeat.

And Captain Guderna agreed, who had never lost a bout, and so
faced Nàlwyr who had never been bested at arms, and both fought within a narrow
bend of stream that fed the torrent of Konides down a bright falls, and where
their forces were lined, and watched amazed. And through a long day the two did
clash, sword to shield and sword to sword, and in the end did the speed and
sharp bite of Nàlwyr’s blade draw blood from Guderna whose true name none knew,
and did send him down.

He feels all the space of memory filled in. Black water seeping
to fill the cracks of the soul. He knows the speed of her movement, the
singular grace that is the form of the greatest warrior who ever lives, long
ago. The greatest friend.

He tries to not think on these things.

The Golden Girl drives past his defenses, slashes an arc of red
across his sword hand. The strong of her blade catches at his hilt, snapping
the shortsword free of his hand to twist and fall six strides away.

The White Pilgrim freezes before her, weaponless. The rapier
touches his own throat now, a look of fury in the Golden Girl’s gaze. Justain,
her name is. He remembers.

She sees the recognition in his eyes. Falters. She looks past
him, around him like she realizes only belatedly where she stands, what is happening.
Who she fights.

“Gilvaleus…” she whispers.

And the White Pilgrim falls to his knees. Justain stands over
him, still poised to strike. Not letting her guard down, always expectant. The
old lessons learned well, the rapier held stone-steady in her hand.

And all the force of Magandis was wroth and prepared to attack
against their Captain’s fall, but Guderna the War-Captain felt the nobility of
Gilvaleus whose name he did not know, as he spoke and called ‘Hold, for this
Nàlwyr is a noble Knight whose grace and skill hath saved ten score lives
today.’ And as Captain Guderna, he ceded the river to Nàlwyr and to his Prince
Sestian, though he knew what wrath his own King Astran would extend against
him, and retreated to Kalista with his host. And Gilvaleus marveled well at the
skill that had bested him, and thought for the first time of the goodness of
those he fought against, and wondered at the part he played in war that
threatened all Gracia now with steel and fire.

At the last, the White Pilgrim sees the father in the Golden
Girl’s eyes.

“Nàlwyr…”

A moment’s memory is let free of the darkness that is the past.
The White Pilgrim sinks fully to the ground, Justain watching, unable to speak.
Stepping away at last. Stumbling back in tears to the fireside.

The night passes. The half-full Clearmoon drifts to darkness in
the west. The fire is dying, so the Golden Girl gathers wood again, feeds it to
a bright blaze once more. The White Pilgrim stares into the twisting weave of
flame, shivers despite its heat.

The Golden Girl is watching him. She is Justain, he remembers.
Named for the justice and the peace that is the legacy of the true high king.

She waits for him to speak, but he is mute in the shadow of his
memory. In the end, she speaks instead. “My mother was a healer. In the house
where my father was brought after Marthai.”

And with weeping eye, he beheld that of his Companions, yet
lived only Nàlwyr, who had returned to his High King…

“He tried to follow you but was too badly injured,” she says.
“She nursed him there. Cared for him. I was born there.”

And Gilvaleus cried out, saying ‘Woe to all that this day
should come, and an end to all we fought for.’

“You should be with her,” the White Pilgrim says. Barely a
whisper.

“She’s dead,” Justain says. “Four years past. When my father took
me with him for the first time on the long road.”

And as Gilvaleus the High King lay dying, he was cradled in
the arms of Nàlwyr, who spoke his grief and rage to the empty field.

“I am sorry,” the White Pilgrim says.

“Thirteen years, he searched for you. He picked up your trail
again as soon as he was able. The plains folk spoke of wounded soldiers passing
west and south in the aftermath of the battle. And one that more than a few
remembered. A pilgrim in white, sick with fever. Crying to the old gods for
forgiveness for the death of his son.”

‘Father, remember me…’

“He thought he’d found you once. He missed you by days, he said.
Down south in Aldona where he said you were born. For a time, he thought you’d
gone over the mountains. He feared that you knew he was following you.”

The White Pilgrim sits in silence a long while. “You don’t know,”
is all he can say in the end.

“I know you are Gilvaleus. You are the high king, lost at the
Plains of Marthai in the battle against Astyra, the king’s-bastard of Mirdza.”

“There is no name…”

“Do not forsake who you were, my king. Who you are.”

“There is no name!” The White Pilgrim circles around and away
from the fire. The Golden Girl is shifting past him, careful. Afraid that he
will run, he realizes. He does not remember rising.

“Legend supplants the truth of what a man is,” he says. A
weakness threads his voice that he cannot fight. “The sins of the father, too
quickly forgotten.”

“Gilvaleus is legend now,” she says. “Legends cannot die…”

“The blood of children on my hands…”

He hears the words hanging, not sure whether he speaks aloud until
he sees the Golden Girl’s questioning look. She waits for him to say more, but
he will not. Cannot.

“When my father pursued you, he had one goal.”

“In the morning,” he says. He shakes his head. Watches her with
clouded eyes, the tracks of tears fallen and dried along the grime of his
cheeks. “We must talk of this in the morning.”

“My father wanted you…”

“In the morning, child. Justain. Please.”

He is on the ground again, cannot remember sitting. He closes his
eyes, the lines of age on his face etched by the light of the fire. Seams of
black and red like a patina of blood across the skin.

She watches him for a long while as he lies down on moss and
gravel, cloak drawn tight around him. When he closes his eyes, he can see
himself through her gaze. A weary old man. Something broken in him where the
weight of the world presses down.

Time passes. She keeps the fire burning hot and low, harder to
see it from the woods. The White Pilgrim knows this spot, though. He knows that
their isolation will keep them safe from the sight of anyone passing by night,
even along the nearest trails.

When he closes his eyes, he can sense what the Golden Girl feels
as the talisman lies cool against her skin, tells her they are safe for the
night at least. She trusts its power to warn her of enemies close by, as it
does since the cold day at High Winter when her mother slips it to her neck and
breathes her last.

Time passes. The White Pilgrim curls up in exhaustion, not
stirring when the Golden Girl pulls his cloak tighter about him. She watches
curiously as his eyes flicker beneath heavy lids, cracked lips twitching with unheard
words.

Time passes. She sits with her back against the standing stone
closest to his, trusting its cold touch to help her stay awake. Shivering with
the descent of the deep night, she closes her eyes for just a moment, the
rapier across her legs and clutched tight in her hand.

The haze of light is bright in her eyes as the Golden Girl shocks
herself awake, groping blindly for the talisman by force of habit. She is cold
as the shroud of mist that rises with the dawn, sends fingers of light twisting
through the screen of trees.

Across from her, the fire is burned down. The White Pilgrim,
Gilvaleus, High King of Gracia who her father serves and loses and seeks and
dies never finding, is gone.

A VILLAGE SITS AS A BRIGHT CROWN atop a cluster of green
hills, familiar to the White Pilgrim from one of the endless seasons that bring
him here before. A wide road is set with grass-graded flagstones, speaking at
once to some importance in the past, and how that importance is forgotten now.

This place has a name, but he cannot remember. He does penance at
the fane there, long ago. Bright walls, whitewashed. Twelve mosaics newly cut
for the twelve gods, set deep in alcoves of stone. Twelve carved columns line
the portico, for the twelve mountains from which the gods watch over these
lands of Gracia, whose every tree and blade of grass they first sowed in the
dark before time began.

He glances back at intervals, looking for something. Someone behind
him. He tries to recall who it is, but his gaze is blank. Images like sifting
sand in his mind. Gone.

He walks the day away. Red cloud seethes in the west as he passes
through twisting stands of apple and pear, their first green shaking off the
dark of winter’s sleep. He sights the farms as twilight presses down,
heightening the light of bonfires scattered across spring fields. Wreaths of
wicker and woven straw are lashed to masts, set alight beneath the shroud of
darkening sky.

The White Pilgrim judges the feel of the air. He judges the
warmth of the season, the length of the day. This is the celebration of life
and new growth. The rites of High Spring. Danassa is the god of field and fertile
sowing, who wears the flaming wreaths that are the sacrifice of spring, and
whose bonfire smoke seeds the spring rains that are the goddess’s soft breath.

He hears bright voices on the dark air, singing in Gracian and in
the common trade tongue that is the Imperial tongue of Lothela before that. He
sees the fires grow closer together where fields turn to farmsteads, as
farmsteads turn to the low walls marking the edge of the meadows that are the
village’s start and end. Tight points of red and gold are strung against the
darkness of cloud and night. A circlet ring of firelight, above which the
half-globe of the Clearmoon is a silver blur.

The crowds are thickest where the road reaches the wall. The village
is small to judge by its scattered houses. Ten score souls dwell here, perhaps,
but ten times that number are here this night, flocking from all the nearby
farms and thorps. Ready to eat and laugh and drink and love through these seven
days and nights beneath the goddess’s bright blessing.

Copper kettles blaze brightly, steaming with the scent of fruited
stews and spiced wine. Slow-roasting mutton glistens and turns on a dozen
scorching spits, and the White Pilgrim is drawn toward the feast even before he
becomes aware of the tight knot of hunger twisting in his gut.

From the corner of his eye, a shadow crosses the Clearmoon’s pale
haze. A twisting ripple of great wings, carried fast on the wind. Then gone
within the shroud of cloud and night. Too quick to see had he not been looking.

It reminds the White Pilgrim of something. Gone now.

He slips through the crowd, feeling the course of laughter and
song push past and around him like a warm wave. But in the voices, he hears the
undercurrent of fear that laughter and song hides.

In his mind, he sees a ruined village. A cluster of a dozen
farmhouses, sod walls and ridgepoles, canvas and plaster and thatch shimmered
by the gusting wind.

In his mind, he sees folk divided from and against themselves, a
surge of anger spilling out between friends and neighbors along a rough line
marked by fear.

He shakes his head, feels the memories fade. Gone now.

The mutton is thick sliced, dripping blood and grease to his
fingers. Its taste is autumn grass and winter grain and sweet roots, and he
knows to eat slowly, sparingly. Pacing himself, he chases the meat with bread
and water to prevent the iron pangs of an empty belly suddenly overfull. A
soldier’s instincts, drawn from long campaigns fought on the barest rations.

“We share the warmth of firelight, welcoming the bounty of spring
with the sharing of the last of winter’s stores. By the green spirit of
Danassa, life is restored to the land and its people, whose faith weathers the
dark season and its storms.”

The voice is deep, ringing out like the tolling of a great bell to
still the sea of closest voices. The White Pilgrim feels a shadow thread his
thought.

“The Triad of Brothers protects our rite with thunder and hammer,
blesses us with skies swept clear by the wind of the sea. Beneath those skies,
we give our thanks to Danassa the sister-daughter. Sharing our joy that the
Twelve might hear us. Sharing our laughter and song that the Twelve might know
our love, and that they might hear our contrition for the breaking of our faith
under the yoke of heathen Empire, and our prayers for the heroes of faith who
have thrown our conquerors down and will do so again.”

A broad rise of white stone stands within the triangle of the
three gods’ fires that burn brightest of all at the center of the celebrations.
The fires are the sign of the Triad, the white slab the spring stone of
Danassa, and the stage where the speaking figure stands.

“These are dark days for the faithful. War crosses our borders.
But we remember other days and other wars, and those whose allegiance to Gracia
made the difference in those wars.”

Safe in the leeward shadow of a woodpile close to the fires, the
White Pilgrim sits alone, unseen by those closer by. Over their heads, he spies
the speaker’s bearded face. His arms are spread wide, grey robes unfurled. A
priest of the Orosana, an oaken staff in hand.

“We remember that when word came that Ulannor Mor had fallen,
with it came the joy and hope that all the Lothelecan was fallen with it. But
even so, the Lotherasien who were the Imperial Guard, the blood and steel that
bound the Empire, did endure to threaten that the rule of Empire would not
pass, and that as its power was once, so it would be.”

The White Pilgrim holds a mug of wine. He cannot remember who
thrusts it into his hand, some one of the dozen laughing maids that skip up to
embrace him as he eats. He holds it for warmth, avoids the temptation of its
sweet scent for the sake of the sleep already rooting deep in belly and mind.

“But in those dark days that were the First Wars of Succession in
Gracia, even as Telos the King dwelt in exile in Vanyr and sought to build the
army that might challenge the unjust rule of Thoradun the Usurper, there came
word of the dispersal of the Lotherasien. And it was said that the Knights of
the Imperial Guard had vanished from the face of Isheridar.”

Farther from the circle of listeners pressing in around the
priest, dancers robed and unrobed circle within the gleaming light in a frenzy
of song. In the even farther dark where the White Pilgrim watches, forms shiver
and twist and come together in the passion of the rites of spring. Caressing
and coupling, oblivious to inhibition and the chill of the clear night.

“But in Gracia’s darkest time did one such knight of the Empire
turn from that heathen path, and she claimed a place among the gods and her
people by denying her past. And this was Irthna the Silver Sorceress of Aynwel,
and lover to Telos the king and mother to the young prince Gilvaleus who dwelt
in Magandis, broken from his past and the name that was his. And neither Telos
nor his princeling knew of Irthna’s place among the Lotherasien, nor had the
fallen Eurymos, nor Garneus the Great who was father to Eurymos and Telos, and
last regent of Imperial Gracia and first king of this reborn land. So with her
vow to the Lothelecan broken for the greater good of the land she loved, the
Silver Sorceress to her lover came, and she spoke, saying ‘By my word and oath
have I kept secret these long years a power that might save all for which you
and your line have fought.’ ”

The White Pilgrim feels the chill of night suddenly, cutting the
warmth of fire and wine that spreads through him.

“And saying so, the Silver Sorceress took Telos to a secret cove
of the Bronae Ashtal, which is the Whitewater of Maris. And at that ashen
lakeshore, she summoned for him Ankathira, called by legend the Whitethorn,
sword of kings, that for those thousand years of Empire had been lost to
Gracia.”

The priest’s voice carries, the faces at the more distant fires
now turning. Laughter and song are dimming, the warmth of light and laughter
twisted through by shadow now in the White Pilgrim’s sight.

“And bestowing the blade upon Telos, Irthna said ‘By the ancient
legend of the sword of kings, you shall command the fealty of the lords of the
south, who will be the army that rises up against the Usurper as must be. But
by the ancient power of the sword of kings, you will gain access to the
greatest secret of the Lothelecan, and shall strike into the heart of
Thoradun’s force like the most furtive blade, and the Usurper’s blood shall
water the grey plains of war where the greatness of Gracia will grow once
more.’ ”

The White Pilgrim hears the voice as a harsh echo in his mind. He
tries to breath but cannot. He tries to turn away but cannot. Something is
changed.

“And in the days of the Lothelecan, it was spoken of how the
armies of Empire could cross from any point to any point within the Elder
Kingdoms in an eye-blink of time, and of how the forces of Empire would move in
a day’s march from Ulannor Mor in the farthest westernmost reaches of all lands
to Daegraleth beyond the Leagin in the east. So to Telos, Irthna showed these
secret ways, and showed him how the arcane power of the Whitethorn could fuel
the portals of the Lotherasien, and so would sweep the forces of Telos past the
bulwark of the Usurper’s defenses, then into Sannos in the north that was the
heart of Thoradun’s rule.”

The White Pilgrim is on hands and knees. He vomits up the last of
what is eaten, swills the dregs of wine from his spilled cup to clear the acrid
taste from his mouth. The priest’s voice is a hammer in his head, a searing
blade of pain behind his eyes. His vision blurs wet as he tries to stand.

“And so with a force of knights and war-mages that had sworn
their lives to the sword of kings, Telos did return to Aldona that was his home
and the seat of his line, and announced his return to the Usurper, who laughed
in his northern hold. So did Thoradun send his forces to the narrowest breadth
of Veneranda and Lamitri, there to forge a wall of steel and spellcraft against
which the king’s forces would break. But unknown to even the Usurper’s most
powerful seers, Telos and his force took the secret paths of the Lotherasien,
and struck from Aldona straight through to Sannos and the great fortress that
Thoradun had raised at Beresan.”

The White Pilgrim blinks to see the priest’s face change, the
voice shifting. A shimmering panoply of other faces, other voices, comes
quickly then is gone again. Then only the familiar echo remains of the words he
hears before, hears endlessly through uncounted springs, uncounted summer
celebrations, uncounted tales at fires shared to keep off the chill of a winter
night.

“But even as the gates of the Lotherasien were opened by Irthna
channeling the power of the Whitethorn in Telos’s hand, the Silver Sorceress
had held a dark secret from her lover and king, which was that to reopen the
gates of the Lotherasien would cost her life. And so she sacrificed herself,
and as she died, the Silver Sorceress cried aloud a word of final prophecy that
was a vision she would leave to king and son alike, whispering the name of
‘Astyra’ that Telos knew not.”

“Mother…” The White Pilgrim is whispering, weeping, but he knows
not why. “Remember me…”

“Then Telos’s pain became the rage that fueled the battle cry of
all those who followed him, even as in far Kalista, the young prince Gilvaleus
felt that pain that was his father’s heart. For on this day, when he had passed
twenty summers into manhood, finally were the sorcerous wards that held his
name and memory prisoner roughly shattered with his mother’s death. Then
knowing his mind and past for the first time, he shook off the pain as he tore
the badge of his once-King Astran from his shoulder, and vowed that he would
ride to his father’s side. But Gilvaleus, too, heard the name of Astyra as his
mother’s voice echoed in his own mind, and wondered at its dark foreboding…”

The priest’s voice breaks off suddenly. From the darkness above
comes the shriek of hassas and a storm of beating wings.

They sweep the fire line like soaring ghosts, low enough that the
wake of their passage sends spiral pillars of spark and flame twisting skyward.
Cinders tear at the assembled revelers like a blood-fly swarm.

The White Pilgrim hears shouts of fear, cries of attack and treachery
in the night, but he does not move. He only watches as the dozen winged horses
circle back, carving wide loops around the gods’ fires. In their wake, they
forge a frenzy of movement as folk flee for the shadows, are pushed back into a
wall of fear that holds fast.