Chapter 8 - TAAR #2
Again the guard’s red eyes flash with wariness. “Well, now, let me see,” he muses. “It was something like Arto or Artis, erh. Ah, that’s it! Artoris. Mage Artoris Kelfaren.”
The name might as well have been an ax, so brutal is the blow. I am obliged to reach out and grasp hold of the window opening just to keep from losing my footing.
Artoris. Marrying Ilsevel.
“I loved him.” Her words burn in my memory, brands of fire across my brain. “And I asked him to come find me at the Temple of Lamruil. To run away with me.”
I had not wanted to believe her when she told me.
Not even then, not even when I was still fighting with everything I had against the draw of the velra and the inexplicable need for her awakened in my blood.
Now, after everything we’ve been through, after all that we’ve become to each other, done to one another, all the glory and pain and hope and brokenness . . . I cannot bear it.
Another voice murmurs in my memory, a dangerous, subtle venom: “I’ve warned you all along, Taar—she’s one of them.”
Could it be true? Could it be that she was only playing me?
That somehow our marriage, our love, was nothing more than an elaborate scheme to bring me low?
And now, having distracted me from my purpose, having weakened me in mind, body, and soul so that I failed to lead my people in victory at Evisar .
. . now she abandons me for Artoris. As she always meant to.
It's not true. It cannot be true. Even as my throbbing blood pounds with betrayal, I know the truth, gods-damn me!
I remember how she saved me from Shanaera, how her gods-gifted voice called me out of the virulium madness.
Time and again, I was at her mercy, yet she always acted to save me, even from myself.
And her bond to Diira—do I truly think that was nothing more than a cursebond?
No, what linked them was far too profound, powerful enough to stretch across the Unformed Lands and guide them both safely home.
I remember her face, how she looked lying on that pallet bed following her licorneir’s death. She was hearttorn. Truly. There is no imitating that state of soul and being. What she felt at Diira’s loss was real, so real it drove the two of us apart, possibly forever.
But it cannot change the truth of what we had.
“She’s alive,” I gasp suddenly, even as my soul seeks to grasp hold of this one hopeful anchor within the dark storm of turmoil. I turn to the gate guard once more. “The princess—she’s alive.”
The guard chuckles darkly. “If she ain’t, those necroliphon mages have got even darker proclivities than I thought! Can’t imagine even one of their lot choosing to marry a corpse, heh heh—”
He breaks off with a scream when my arm shoots through the window, grips him by the front of his chainmail shirt, and drags him hard against the gate. “You will let me through,” I snarl.
“Like hells!” he bellows, struggling to break my grip. “Don’t think I didn’t glimpse that great sword of yours, hidden under that tatty cloak! Man like you ain’t up to no good, and it’s as much as my job is worth if I let you through.”
I shift my grip, taking hold of him by the throat. Deep down in my veins, the virulium madness murmurs, awakened once more, never fully purged from my system. “Let me in, or I’ll snap your neck.”
“Hawlins!” the man croaks, his fingers scrabbling at my forearm ineffectually.
“Hawli—” His voice cuts off when I squeeze, but another man is already on the run from the gatehouse, blade drawn.
I glimpse a flash of steel and withdraw my hand only just fast enough to keep from losing it in a heavy, downward stroke.
The choking guard falls onto his back, gagging and kicking his legs, while his fellow—Hawlins, presumably—shouts for reinforcements against this unexpected gate invader.
I back away ten steps, my gaze taking in the height of the gate and the walls surrounding.
The walls themselves are a good fifteen feet high, but the gate is no more than ten.
I set my jaw. Part of me knows this is not the cleverest idea I’ve ever had, assaulting a gate guard and roaring threats in his face.
But I’m too caught up in the moment now to care.
I’ve got to find my way through to the castle somehow.
Ilsevel needs me.
With a great huff of air like a snorting bull, I charge at the gate, leap, and use my feet to propel me up high enough to catch hold of the finial spokes lining the top.
I haul myself up and peer over the side, where the first guard is scrambling to his feet.
His red eyes stare up into mine. “Oh, hells no!” he cries. “What are you thinking, boy?”
I climb over the finials, taking care not to let my cloak catch on the sharpened points.
The guards below threaten me with lances, but none are tall enough to be much use.
Someone shouts for a crossbowman, but none is immediately forthcoming.
I consider jumping down into the midst of the guard swarm and laying them low with a few deft strokes.
Beginning my assault on Beldroth with murder of these men, who are merely trying to do their job, doesn’t seem the most propitious beginning, however.
Not if I want to keep the gods on my side.
Instead I look to the gatehouse. The edge of its peaked roof is only a six-foot jump from where I’m perched—difficult without a running start. Impossible?
My muscles coil like a cat’s. Even as the guards below shout, “Is he really going to—” I spring, my cloak rippling through the air behind me. I land on tiles, scrabble for purchase, and just manage to keep my balance.
“Did you see that?”
“He flew, gods-damn it!”
“What in the blazing hells is he thinking?”
“Get down from there, boy, before I sound the alarm!”
“You ain’t welcome here, and if we’ve got to—”
I don’t wait to hear more. I’ve already climbed to the peak of the roof and balance there, my head high and shoulders back.
Many more rooftops, some tiled, some wood, most thatched, spread before my view, a veritable forest of gables, finials, and chimneys.
I lift my gaze from these to the castle high on its rocky outcrop.
“I’m coming, Ilsevel,” I whisper. “Wait for me, my love.”
Then I slide down the far side of the roof and spring for the next, even as the guards send up their hue and cry below.