Seven

In which a great deal happens in a short amount of time, and Daystar pretends to be dead.

Daystar was unceremoniously awakened as a messenger burst into the room, sliding on his knees as he came to a halt.

“The dragons have attacked, Prince Daystar!” the young man cried in clear distress. “Deepnight is burning, and King Felstar wishes you to come to the council chambers.”

“Tell him I will be there quickly,” Daystar replied.

The messenger sprang to his feet and ran from the room, banging the door shut behind him.

Daystar threw off the covers, not bothering to call for the usual servants as he headed for the wardrobe. Emberlace sprang from the bed behind him, wrapping her dressing gown around her as she vanished through the door of her own chambers.

What had they done to illicit such an attack? Daystar wondered in a frenzy as he yanked on whatever clothes met his hands. And if the dragons turned against them, how could they survive? No one dared attack Upper Vale - none of the surrounding countries had their advances, and they did not dare provoke the more powerful nation. Any enemy, they could defeat, save the dragons. They had no plan to fight them.

Emberlace returned as he headed for the door, halting him to straighten out his tunic and hair before neatly putting his circlet on his head and helping him into his formal mantle. She had chosen a stunning dress of flowing blue satin and wore a tiara of diamond and pearl crusted scroll work.

They swept through the halls together, guards pulling open the doors ahead of them until they reached the vast council chamber. Disgruntled barons filtered in, shirts askew, sometimes tugged over nightclothes, muttering and rubbing sleep from the eyes. Only the Lord Baron of Deepnight looked anything close to awake, fingers pressed to his temples. Daystar and Emberlace joined Felstar at the head of the room, taking their appointed seats slightly above the council - Felstar on his throne, Daystar and Emberlace to his right. Daystar felt suddenly appreciative of the moments his wife had taken to make certain they appeared put together - it gave them a sense of control in the otherwise haphazard room.

“We should have burned the dragons out of the Cinderstrand centuries ago,” the Lord Baron of South Plain growled. “Dreadful lizards.”

“They’ve leveled two cities since nightfall,” the Lord Baron of Far Haven returned, scoffing. “Exactly how do you propose we ‘burn them out,’ Lord Baron Southplain?”

The room exploded into infuriated arguments as the Barons raged and bickered. Ravenglen merely sat, watching with puzzled eyes, and the Lord Baron of Deepnight sunk back in his chair, his gaze dark and distant.

“How dare they withhold energy from us!” the Lord Baron of Steppe shrieked. “Fool creatures. One baron and a good showing of military force would make them see reason. They should be glad we allowed them to live this long, infecting the mountains!”

Daystar sighed, leaning back in his chair. If his research was correct, the destruction of two cities was merely a warning attack - a small percentage of the toll the dragons could take on their country. If they ignored this, the consequences would be dire.

“Father, we must appease them,” he murmured, leaning over the arm of his throne to speak quietly.

“How?” King Felstar replied sadly. “Has your research shown you anything that mine has not? We know nothing of these creatures any longer, and cannot speak with them as we used to. I fear our only option is a counterattack.”

“You know we cannot bend them to our will, much less drive them out of the Cinderstrand.”

“It could be a show of force would win enough of their respect for them to listen to us.”

Daystar turned away, pressing his fingers to his temples as the lords continued to screech at each other.

“You and I both desire a peaceful outcome,” Felstar admitted. “But the option may be closed to us. Deepnight is fighting for their lives, and we cannot abandon them.”

“The barons may not be willing to send support.”

King Felstar chuckled softly, then sat up straight on his throne, waiting for the bickering to peter out. Daystar marveled at his father’s ability to command a room merely by his aloof silence, patiently waiting until the barons all turned to him, waiting for a suggestion.

“Lord Barons of Northmarch and Eastmarch. You will commit a quarter each of your forces to the defense of Deepnight. Send archers and two companies at least of skilled lancers. No attacks are to be made upon the Cinderstrand, but the people are to be defended to the best of your men’s ability.

“Lord Baron of Runedoor: Your leading scholars on dragonlore will begin to research our involvement with the dragons, our treaties and other former dealings with them, and send their findings directly to me or Prince Daystar. They will seek a diplomatic solution to this crisis.

“In one month’s time, I will set out for the Cinderstrand myself to find the leaders of the dragons and treat with them in hopes of preventing further attacks.”

“And if they do not stop attacking?” the Lord Baron of Fairtree demanded.

“Then we will fight them, my lord barons, with all we have for as long as we are able.”

He turned to Daystar and spoke in a much quieter voice as the lords turned away, muttering among themselves but unable to argue with the king’s decrees.

“Let Runedoor’s scholars handle the research on dragons for the time being. I want you to compile a plan for the increased rationing of energy.”

“We’re already rationing, and the barons are sick of it.”

“They’ll have to wean off it completely if we cannot negotiate with the dragons. I want a plan for how we will transfer into a kingdom without energy without destroying our trade and economy.”

Daystar’s reply was immediate. “We can’t.”

“Can you minimize the damage?”

“I can try, Father. But whole guilds will lose their trade, or have to find another way to practice it.”

“Have a plan for it, then.”

“King Felstar?”

They looked back to see the Lord Baron of Runedoor standing near the thrones.

“Yes, my lord baron of Runedoor.”

“There is someone who may be able to help you. My scholars tell me that at the foot of the Cinderstrand, there is a ruined cathedral inhabited by a strange woman. She has sometimes provided us with information, but she is peculiar, and often will not speak with anyone, even if she shows herself. Still, when she will speak, she has proved herself an expert in dragon lore.”

“Why have you not told us of this before?” Felstar asked, brows drawing together.

“Her sympathies are with the dragons, King Felstar. My scholars had gone to her already for information and gained nothing.”

“I will meet with her,” Daystar said immediately.

“Daystar!” Felstar protested. “I need you here.”

“We need a solution,” Daystar countered. “My name and rank may carry some weight with this woman.” He looked to the Lord Baron of Runedoor. “What is her name?”

“She is known only as The Sister.”

“A religious woman?”

“Perhaps.” The Lord Baron of Runedoor shrugged. “She has shown such inclinations from time to time, we are told. No one knows what her true intentions are. The place is called - or was once called - The Great Cathedral. The minister of it was set upon by his enemies three hundred years ago. They murdered him in the nave while he knelt at prayers and desecrated the place - the event was too dreadful and the memory too haunting for those who knew of it, and the cathedral was abandoned for fear it had become an evil place. Some believe that the Sister is attempting to purify it.”

“How long has she been there?” Daystar asked.

“Our records go back a hundred and fifty years. They record the same woman each time, with no change to her appearance.”

“That’s impossible,” Felstar protested. “No one could live that long.”

“Unless they had magic,” Daystar put in. “I must consult her.”

***

Darkness wrapped around the room, and Emberlace lay still in Daystar’s arms, feeling his chest warm against her back, pressing her shoulder back and stilling herself until she could count his heartbeats. Daystar wasn’t to know it, but she often counted the paces of his heart to mark time in the long night vigils.

They were coming. She didn’t know when and she didn’t know how, but they were coming, and they would not have him. Her fingers tightened on his, and he sighed in his sleep, nuzzling her shoulder. Emberlace blushed to think of the way she behaved around him, especially last night, and blamed it on the high emotion. Him loosing his temper, her realizing more and more who she was and what she wanted.

How many years had she spent in the Tower of Damantia? Every bit of her life was regulated, holding on to some form of her identity only because no one cared to know who she was enough to take her mind apart completely. Her orders were clear: marry the prince, share his bed, his meals. Be the perfect wife. Get him to talk to you, to trust you.

Ravenglen didn’t know that he had truly and completely given his daughter away. Emberlace expected to hate her role, to be glad when it was over. Part of her first despised Daystar for forcing her to seduce him on the night of their abrupt wedding. No one had prepared her for the cacophony of feelings that overwhelmed her, the feeling of someone else so close, and she was terrified - though she hid it well - that when all was done she would have lost what little of herself she had salvaged. Of all the things Emberlace anticipated, the scenarios she contracted in her head, steeling herself for her task, she never expected for Daystar to unwittingly give her a way out.

She thought she lost herself when Ravenglen changed her name, taking her Damantian name and replacing it with the Valian ‘Emberlace.’ She felt like someone else accepted Daystar’s signet when he offered it to her. She looked like someone else in the blue room, robed in shimmering purple with jewels glittering in her hair and around her throat. And whoever that someone else was, Daystar trusted her directly. She’d expected to spend weeks waiting to get as much information out of him as she got during two courses at the feast a few hours after they met.

He knew nothing of her, she thought as he joined her on the bed that first night. And somehow, that was the greatest gift she never expected to receive, because she could be the glittering princess who swept the competition aside, leaving them in sullen envy. She could be that wife who knew the political aspirations of the barons and how to assist or counter them to best benefit the royal family. Emberlace, she realized when she first heard her husband whisper the name as they lay together, did not belong to Ravenglen. She was Daystar’s. She was Valian. And she was free to write herself over how she wished.

She liked this woman who became ever more difficult to hide, and she loved Daystar, his passion, his idealism, his naivete that hid well behind his blunt and stoic analysis of the back-biting Valian Court. Sometimes, Emberlace felt as if she were taking advantage of him and his sense of obligation to her when she mostly just needed the way he touched her as if she were worth something. Last night had been dangerous, her discovering he truly enjoyed being with her, both enthralling each other and wearing themselves out. She’d slept more heavily last night then she could remember in a long time, and she shivered to think what might have happened if they’d come that night, when she and Daystar slept deeply together in blissful vulnerability.

Tonight, Emberlace would be watchful, because tonight was not a good night. All the shadows were right, the silence thick enough to be peaceful but not so thick that it magnified every sound. And her father was impatient. He was a fool, she realized, who knew nothing of the Court, only his own ambitions to rule it. His plan was too simple, his mood too caloric to bide his time now that he knew he was losing her. They would come tonight.

And she would destroy them.

More shadows, not the shadows of the moonlit room. She kept her eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of Daystar’s heart, the sounds of the castle and the hum of the energy running through its walls, the footsteps in the carpet.

Emberlace rolled on her back, forcing Daystar underneath her, and reached up, and grabbing the assassin’s arms as he bore down on her sleeping and vulnerable husband. One slight movement, and the force of his blow redirected into the bed beside them. She flipped him over to the floor on the other side, grabbing his knife and springing after him.

Daystar woke abruptly as Emberlace rolled them over and stared past her tangled hair in shock at a dark-clad, masked man standing over them with an upraised knife. Before he could react, Emberlace had deflected the blow and pitched the man to the floor. Her teeth bared fiercely as she jumped after the assassin, and he went down out of Daystar’s sight with a gargling noise.

Two more shadows rose on either side of the room, one swinging through the window, and Emberlace intercepted them, sending one staggering with a kick to the head before turning on the second. They spared for a moment before she pushed him back to pitch head over heels over the windowsill to the black void below. The last assassin recovered and lunged at her with a drawn knife. She turned lightly, blocked him, and bore him down to the floor, rising up somewhat to drive the dagger home. Emberlace stood over the body for a moment, breathing hard, then pounced on the bed, leaping at him.

Daystar pulled back, finally awake and reaching for his sword before he saw she had dropped the bloody dagger. Emberlace grabbed his face in her fingers with a desperate look before running her hands over him, checking for wounds.

“He didn’t get me,” he assured her distractedly.

She took his face in her hands again, leaning her forehead against his, trembling slightly. Daystar hesitantly embraced her, still shaken by what she had just done.

How quickly had she eliminated three assassins? His rooms were secure. The guards halted everyone before they even reached the corridors adjacent to them. A sense of forbidding filled him, and he sat up further, one arm around Emberlace, his other hand picking up his sword from its place near the bed.

“Do you think something is wrong?” he asked her softly.

She nodded and scrambled up, grabbing the dagger and slipping silently across the room to check the door. She stepped beyond it into the corridor for a moment and returned, a grim look on her face, motioning across her throat with a finger.

The guards were dead, then. The total silence in the castle chilled Daystar to the bone, and he dropped his hand from where he reached for the buzzer to call for a servant.

I am supposed to be dead right now.

Emberlace ran back from the door, now positively frantic. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she took his sword out of his hand and smeared the blade with blood from one of the dead assassins. Quickly, she dropped it on the floor before shoving him back onto the bed and smearing another large glob of blood onto his nightshirt over his belly.

Daystar caught on. He was supposed to be dead, and now he looked dead. Emberlace carefully cut through his nightshirt and just into the skin, making a stinging cut that oozed blood. Even more dead, then.

“Emberlace,” he said, clearly, just as someone entered the room.

Her eyes widened, and he realized that who ever it was would have heard him, and dead men don’t talk.

“Emberlace please,” Daystar quickly changed his tone. “Don’t do this.”

She leaned forward and pushed against his stomach as if twisting a dagger, and he screamed with what he hoped was appropriate agony before going limp.

“Finally came around to it, did you?”

Houndwalker? Why would the Damantian ambassador want him dead?

“I loved him, Houndwalker.”

Her voice. Her voice was more beautiful than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine, like the Wanderstep rolling past the castle on warm summer nights under a clear sky full of stars, now, in the moment, in her pretended grief, like so much rain in a fountain. Then it turned to a deadly hiss, like her light movements earlier when she defeated the other assassins.

“You’ve only ever taken from me, you cur. And now this.”

“And now you’re queen, Talia.” Houndwalker laughed smugly.

Talia? Laying still and dead was getting difficult.

“My name is Emberlace. Princess Emberlace Kingskin.”

“The king is dead, woman. The barons are supporting Ravenglen to replace him, as regent for you, of course.”

Daystar went cold. Emberlace put a gentle hand on his chest, a signal to remain still, he guessed, though it took almost more effort than he could summon. His father, dead. Himself nearly assassinated. A coup organized by Ravenglen of all people, and the barons supporting him? Of course. They would control him easily.

“I want no part of it,” Emberlace said coldly.

“No part of it?” Houndwalker laughed again. “But you’re already part of it. How did it feel, killing your beloved husband, twisting a knife in his gut while he begged you for mercy? You’re a mountain wolf, Talia. A monster. Look at his blood, running down your pretty white fingers. Can you really claim innocence?”

“It’s his blood, actually,” Daystar interrupted, pointing in the general direction of the assassin lying dead on the floor without opening his eyes. He sat up, then rose with Emberlace, glaring at Houndwalker, who staggered back in surprise. Emberlace quickly handed Daystar his sword, and he leveled it at Houndwalker’s chest.

“His life in your hands, Emberlace,” he told her, amazed he could stay calm past the rage boiling in his veins.

“Talia?” Houndwalker sounded less certain, and Daystar followed him ruthlessly as the Damantian ambassador backed away against a wall. “I raised you.”

Daystar glanced back at Emberlace, and she turned her face away from the man, fists clenched, before whirling back again.

“You call loosing my childhood raising me? You call locking me away from the light of day for ten years raising me? I was a weapon to you, to be forged, trained until I collapsed from the strain of it, only to have the cycle repeated the next day, and the next until you said I was the deadliest creature you ever saw in all your life.” She bit her lip, then laid a hand on Daystar’s arm. “Don’t kill him.” Emberlace glared at Houndwalker. “Death is too kind for you. For you, I hope nothing. No hardship for you to overcome, no trial to temper your spirit, nothing to pit yourself against so that you have a chance to win, no contest for you to attempt and lose. I hope dullness upon you, until you have nothing to put your mind to than the petty little everyday things that have no consequence, and are left with no choice but to obsess over them until they drive you mad. I hope you never find a purpose. And I hope you enjoy explaining losing me to my darling father.” Her eyes darkened. “Although I expect he’ll understand. You two are very alike, you know.”

“But we are your people,” Houndwalker spluttered in disbelief. “You would betray us?”

“What is there to betray? I have loyalty to one man, and you are a fool to think I would have ever laid a hand on him.”

“They’ll find you,” Houndwalker hissed. “They’ll kill you both!”

Daystar clubbed him over the head, stepping back as the man dropped heavily. “He’s right,” he told her resignedly. “If the barons have staged a coup, they’re likely to eliminate us. We should run, while they’re still waiting on their assassins.”

She nodded, and he felt disappointed that she didn’t speak. She vanished into her own room, and Daystar turned away, pulling off his bloody nightshirt and quickly choosing sturdy woolen hunting clothes, checking them for any sign of the royal house that would betray him. Nearly anyone could be an enemy now, he realized pulling on lightweight leather armor and belting on his weapons. Emberlace appeared as he finished dressing, wearing a knee length dress over leggings and a sturdy, metal studded corset of leather. A warm fur draped around her shoulders on top of her cloak, and she wore weapons as he did and carried another fur in her hands.

“I thought it would keep you warm,” she croaked hesitantly, putting it snug around his shoulders and clasping it shut.

“Thank you.”

They packed quickly together, taking little equipment, as well as coin and a few jewels to fund their journey, wherever they might go.

The castle halls were still silent when they opened the door, and they fled quickly down the hall, keeping to the shadows. Daystar knew the route he wanted to take, but Emberlace knew stealth, and they found themselves in a strange dance, Daystar leading the way, Emberlace guiding their steps and halts as they wove invisibly past anyone they encountered.

They reached the stables without incident, and Daystar chose two horses from their stalls, moving quickly to saddle them. They were dull-colored grays, strong mounts that looked nondescript enough to belong to a lesser nobleman or a more powerful guild master.

“Daystar?” Emberlace seemed to have shrunk, her earlier confidence and towering indignation gone, merging back into a frightened young woman. “Where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, giving her a leg up. “I think we’ll head for Deepnight. With the attacks, they’ll have other concerns than two travelers.”

She nodded, gingerly picking up the reins when he handed them to her, and Daystar paused.

“Have you ever ridden a horse?” he asked suddenly.

“No.” She shook her head and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, gripping at the saddle horn. Daystar finished putting the harness on his own horse and swung up. “Just follow me. Hang on with your knees. With any luck, we won’t have to ride very quickly.”

They left the city at a leisurely pace, hoping not to attract attention by a departure in the middle of the night. The only place he could think to go was the Great Cathedral where the Lord Baron of Runedoor said the Sister dwelt. Not many great places of the Faith remained; the kingdom had tolerated it practically into oblivion, and only the remnants remained in their culture, embedded in custom. The custom he counted on now was the old tradition of Sanctuary. To shed blood in a holy place was to call a curse upon yourself, and they could request Sanctuary from the Sister to protect them from any vengeful barons.

The Faith was no longer really a religion, but a large independent guild called the Mediation. The Mediation practiced religion so that no one else had to bother with it, and if you paid them a fee, they would practice your religion for you by proxy. The members of the Mediation were highly respected for this, but also largely ignored, except when people felt they might have gone a little too far and angered whatever God there was. Large places of worship were no longer needed and were rare, but sacred, since they were home to the Mediators.

Daystar explained all this to Emberlace as they rode along the banks of the Wanderstep River, and she listened, brow wrinkled.

“Does anyone practice their own religion here?” she finally asked.

“Only Fervents.” Catching her questioning expression, he elaborated. “A Fervent believes that no one can be religious for you, you have to do it for yourself or it’s no good. They go to a lot of trouble that other people don’t, but the movement has been gaining some traction among the lower classes, who can’t afford a Mediator except for the most extreme circumstances.” The Mediation didn’t like that, and it had driven down their prices somewhat. They were a proud organization, and the practice of Fervency by the lower classes made religion look like an humble thing. They did not like their Mediators being equated with the poorest in society, and moreover, Fervents were taking away profits and even had the nerve to pray for people without leveeing a fee or paying a tax to the guild. The most serious Fervents railed openly against the guild, while others bemoaned the collapse of good religion and went to sequester themselves in remote places.

“I’m going to guess that the Sister is a Fervent. Usually guild members or nobles who become Fervents withdraw from society, since the upper classes look down upon them for being so menial for being religious for themselves, and the lower classes fear to associate them.”

Daystar glanced back at Emberlace, who guided her horse awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten used to rambling to you and forgot you speak now.”

Emberlace shrugged. “There is much I don’t know, and you tell it well enough. Besides, this horse needs most of my attention. How are you riding without thinking about it?”