The Adani Chronicles: Birthright

Thaliondris was everything Brandt had been told it was. It mere hours after he and the lass Calle began their desperate ride, before the Heir of Laendor could hear water ahead; she led them out of a narrow crevasse between steep, dangerous peaks and into a clearing overlooking a beautiful valley. The city rose white and elegant before them. Mountains surrounded it on three sides, snow-tipped and rugged, cradling the city in a massive hollow of verdant life. The west side of the valley was enclosed by a sparkling lake so large it was impossible to see the other side from where they stood. The mountains and lake made invasion near-impossible, so the city walls were less threatening, less for protection, than any Brandt had seen in his lifetime. Some kind of light wood coiled in natural patterns depicting leaves and flowers to create a gate, of sorts, which they moved toward after a moment. The road was dark, rich earth packed down by many a weary traveler; for all the Eloni were rather isolated, they were also excellent—if slightly aloof—hosts to those they called friends, the humans of Laendor among them.

“Drath Feóran.” Calle spoke for the first time since they’d started their desperate ride. She adjusted her grip on Kota carefully. “Or so it is in our tongue. ‘The Greenest of Valleys.’”

Brandt nodded and murmured, almost to himself, “As everyone else knows it, Thaliondris. By the Astra, it’s beautiful.”

The warrior-healer nodded an acknowledgment and led him down the well-kept path into the valley. They made it into the courtyard without incident, and were met by a team of Healers who handled the lynx gently off the white mare while Calle gave a report of her patients’ conditions. The Master Healer was a wizened, sapphire-skinned old man, long hair and beard white as the snow blossoms on the ubiquitous trees. Everyone seemed to take the presence of a full-grown wild cat in stride, which the prince found a little surprising, but was relieved. The old man ran wrinkled fingers over fur in practiced gestures, obviously classifying injuries and speaking in a low voice to the two younger Healers accompanying him. Brandt couldn’t understand him; he used the Eloni’s strange language, elegant and flowery. It made his tongue itch just listening to it.

Brandt found himself receiving similar treatment from another Healer; this one a bit younger but still old enough to be his mother, and obviously no less competent than the old man. Her tattoos were many and varied—which his statecraft lessons had told him denoted someone of great experience—dark blue against her pale lichen-hued skin. Slanted gray eyes regarded him carefully, studying his reactions to her questions, making him feel as though she were taking in his answers with more than just her pointed ears. Her movements were sure and precise as she removed the bandage Evin had helped him apply over the wyvern bite; Brandt was careful not to make any sound as the rough material came loose from the deep lacerations reluctantly, tearing a bit.

The lady clicked her tongue in sympathy when she got a good look at the bite. “Aye, youngling, you’ll need our care for this.” She poked a little at the redness surrounding the cuts, and Brandt sucked in a pained breath in spite of himself. “It is becoming infected already; it is fortunate that Jorlan found you.”

Nearby, the Healers had Kota ready for transport and began to walk quickly toward what the Prince only could guess were the Healing Houses. He stood quickly and made to follow, though his Healer protested. He looked back at her stern, questioning gaze.

“I cannot leave his side,” was the answer he gave, and after a moment of thought, the lady stood too.

“Well then, hurry up,” she urged, following close behind him.

They accompanied Kota and the Master Healer through vaulted halls and into a large room, open and bright, where the team of Eloni set to work on the lynx. They spoke soft words in their language, assessing with gentle hands, cleaning the blood from mottled fur and wrapping the smaller wounds with plain cotton gauze. The Master placed himself at the cat’s heart, magic flowing from his withered fingers into Kota’s chest.

Brandt watched the whole thing, paying little attention to his own arm, which was reopened—that bit hurt more than he wanted to admit—disinfected, stitched, dressed in herbs to stymie the infection, and wrapped. When at last the Master was finished, Brandt sighed in relief and moved closer to the lynx, settling beside the bed upon which Kota now rested peacefully. He placed a hand on the creature’s flank, stroking his soft, thick fur.

Soon enough, the Healers left him be, with promises to come back with food, and orders that he was to bathe and rest within the next few hours. Brandt caught a glimpse of the city up close through the tall open arch near his back.

Seclusion had been kind to the citizens of Thaliondris, peaceable and elegant folk that they were. It was rare to see one of them outside their own borders; save for their scouting parties, who, assisted by the unforgiving terrain around them, kept out any unwelcome visitors. Brandt remembered learning that the Eloni had not been to war in centuries—hadn’t needed to—but were unashamedly brilliant at the design and construction of near-impenetrable mail armor. Rumor had it their legendary skill was rooted in the use of magic in their metalcraft.

Brandt didn’t think he believed in such nonsense, but Evin was of the opinion that there was something more at work in Eloni armor and weaponry. He’d seen it firsthand, he said, and it was nothing like what they smithed at home. Brandt had seen it too, but he was far more inclined to attribute the wood elves’ success in forging to skill than magic.

Nevertheless, he would very much have liked to see their craftsmen at work; doubtless could have asked and perhaps been granted such permission, were he and Evin to reveal their identities while they were here. But their Uncle Eirik had been clear in his instructions: secrecy was paramount, no one must know of their identity or mission. Maintaining the element of surprise was their only real advantage over the Beast when they confronted him, and they could not afford even whispered rumors of their absence from Sannfold.

So he would have to wait to see the legendary armor makers of Thaliondris at work. Perhaps on a diplomatic visit someday, when he was King and his brother General. For now, he turned back to the lynx and got comfortable on the floor, leaning against the wall and readying himself to sit vigil until Evin returned, hopefully with Ryn in tow.

Ryn found herself mashed up against Evin’s back on the ride to Thaliondris. It was a position that would have been uncomfortable on the best of days; given her recent experiences, the vulnerability she usually despised feeling warred with the mad desire to just hang on tight to someone strong and safe and never let go. She didn’t bother looking up from her companion’s shoulder blades even when they entered the city, in spite of her previous wish to see Thaliondris.

Now all she wanted was Kota.

Luckily, Evin seemed to understand, and rode the mare he’d been given straight to the Healing Houses without a word. He helped her down, his strong grip keeping her upright as she dismounted. They walked quickly through vaulted halls and past large breezy rooms furnished with plush beds, washrooms, fireplaces. It struck Ryn suddenly how tired she was. She felt as though she hadn’t slept in weeks.

When at last they reached the right place, she saw her Friend lying still and quiet on a pallet in the center of the sickroom. White bandages contrasted sharply with his summer fur, and he seemed to be sleeping, but he lifted his head and let out a whimper when he caught her scent. The sound tore at Ryn’s heart, but so did utter relief at seeing him. She let out a shuddering breath she didn’t know she’d been holding inside.

He was alive, and her heart could beat again. She stumbled to him and pressed her face into the unmarred fur at his neck.

“Kota, I’m sorry,” her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, my kisa.”

The lynx nuzzled her weakly and licked her forehead before closing his eyes again. He began to purr, the sound rumbling through her sore head. Ryn stayed where she was for a moment, allowing a couple of sobs to escape before attempting to work her breathing into something resembling normal. After a long moment she sat back, swiping impatiently at her eyes and gathering herself before standing to face the brothers.

Brandt looked primarily relieved; a sentiment she found she shared. She hadn’t realized just how worried she’d been about these two, as well as Kota, while she was captive. But Evin was looking between her and her lynx, and his smile could’ve lit much darker places than this one. Before she had a chance to move, he threw his arms around her and squeezed, then let go so quickly she wasn’t even sure it had actually happened.

“I was so worried,” he said quickly, still grinning. “But all is well now; we’re all together again, and I’m so grateful.”

Ryn tried her best to return his smile, but it had been a long day. Stifling the sudden and unexpected urge to bury her face in Evin’s shoulder and just not move, she nodded. “The same is true for me. I had no indication whether you lot were alive or dead, and it was...”

Startlingly worrisome, is what it had been, but she wasn’t about to admit as much to them aloud.

“...It was difficult,” she finished hesitantly.

“What did they do to you?” Brandt asked, and she realized he was looking at her with that infuriating mix of concern and protective instinct.

Forcibly shoving back memories of torture, Ryn shrugged. “I’ve been through worse.”

That, for some reason, didn’t seem to relieve either of them. Evin stared wide-eyed, while Brandt regarded her with an expression of perfect skepticism.

She stared back as hard as she could manage. They didn’t budge, and she sighed. “There was…you know, starving, beating and slicing and hair yanking—” she motioned to her tattered locks, “—but I’m fine. Look at me, I’m fine!” To punctuate her point, she spread her arms and tried to crack a smile.

Judging by their expressions, she managed something closer to a grimace. The sympathy in their eyes was edging uncomfortably close to pity; Ryn fought down a rush of irritation.

“You look…tired. Half-dead, in fact,” Evin pointed out, tilting his head, “but you actually don’t look like you were beaten.”

Ryn flushed, heat crawling up her neck and making her ears burn. She tugged a lock of her ruined hair, holding it up for inspection. “Do you think I did this to myself?” It came out more sharply than she perhaps intended; she was very quickly nearing a breaking point and she needed to be alone.

Now.

Brandt’s face was darkening at her aggressive tone, but for once, Evin seemed to be the wise one. He gripped Brandt’s arm tightly and drew him out of the room. “Of course not. It has been a tremendously hard day for everyone. We’ll be back later. Rest well, Ryn.”

And with that, they were gone. Ryn nearly collapsed on the floor beside Kota’s pallet, head in her hands, and didn’t move for hours.

When at last she came back to herself—had she slept?—a cool breeze was ruffling her hair, raising bumps on the skin of her arms and the nape of her neck. The sun had apparently gone down hours ago, and it was chilly. She thought perhaps that was deliberate; lynxes were naturally built to endure colder weather, and thrived at a lower temperature than was comfortable for most humans. She didn’t mind. A soft, fur-edged blanket had been draped around her shoulders at some point, but she couldn’t recall by whom.

The Master Healer had visited once, she remembered that much; he’d checked on Kota and given Ryn the run-down of his condition, but other than that she had been left mercifully alone. Despite her rest, she struggled to keep her eyes open now, caught in that strange limbo between bone-deep exhaustion and fear of falling asleep again.

Kota was hurt. He’d nearly died. The Master said he’d likely pull through, but the damage the wyvern had done had been extensive.

How could she have been so foolish as to bring him out here, to take this job? She had tackled the Great Wilds once before, but that had been before she met Kota, and she’d been lucky. It was actually, she thought, on the backside of that trip that fate had smiled upon her in the oddest possible way.

If she hadn’t sprained her ankle, it likely would never have happened. It had been raining profusely in the hills a few hours southeast of Sarelton; Ryn had slipped on a wet rock, wedged her foot between it and a downed tree, and then fallen over, twisting her foot into a highly unnatural position. By the time she’d managed to work it free, the rain had become a deluge; she was cold, wet, and in pain when she had limped into a cave nearby. It was a little thing, perhaps large enough to shelter a family—and a family it did turn out to house. A litter of lynx kits and their mother rested inside, she discovered as she fumbled toward the back of the cave in an attempt to determine how deep it was.

Curses had been many and varied when she realized she’d stumbled into a wild cat den, but the little ones had just sat calmly, tilting their fuzzy heads in curiosity while the mother moved to face her, teeth bared and claws showing. Ryn had backed up slowly while the larger lynx had studied her for what seemed like several full minutes. She cooed quietly to the mama, sweating and hurting and dripping all over the unfinished stone, afraid to spook the animals and wind up the family’s dinner.

Finally, the lynx had chattered at her, began to purr, and turned her attention back to her tiny balls of fluff. Ryn had breathed a sigh of relief and begun to back up slowly again when she noticed the mother’s odd behavior. Mama lynx was snuffling her babies, pushing them toward Ryn, and one by one they’d regarded the tall human in their midst. One by one, the little ones had eyed her—inspected her?—before turning back to their ma; until the tiniest kitten had taken one look at her and yowled, in its strange, lynx way. The mama mewled back, and the kit ran to her, propping himself on two legs against her wet boot, begging for attention. Awed, Ryn had acquiesced, kneeling to scratch him behind the ears.

She’d spent two more hours in that den, being thoroughly ignored by the entire lynx family save for the little spotted brownie, waiting for the rain to stop; and when she left, the kit had followed. She’d tried to send him back to his family, but he wouldn’t go. He kept following her for three days, until she accepted it, some part of her glad of a companion. She had called him Kotani, after the massive companion of the Great Hunter, Rorik. Legend said Rorik and Kotani had hunted the Forest Wyrm Gorshod, who had held the Northern Wood in terror for centuries in service to Skeðu himself. The battle had been fierce and long, but the pair had prevailed, at last ending the Wyrm’s tyrannical reign and opening the way for the Eloni to build Thaliondris. She had wanted Kota to have a strong name; it would protect him on their travels.

He’d been by her side since. And now he was lying here severely injured because of it. This wasn’t the first time one or the other of them had been hurt—it happened all the time; slips, falls, sprains, heat sickness, lacerations and bruises from the skirmishes they tended to start, all of these were fairly regular occurrences. But this was the first time she’d nearly lost him, and after she’d sent him ahead, so she wasn’t even nearby to help when he’d been injured. Ryn swallowed the hard lump in her throat, refusing herself the release of tears.

She startled a little when the door opened—it was silent, well-oiled, but the brightness grew as torchlight from the hall spilled in. She looked up, squinting a little despite the gentle orange glow, to see the figure of a man in the doorway. A tall man, with curly hair and a smile, holding a bowl of something that smelled truly tantalizing.

“Evin,” she greeted, a little more shortly than she intended. She was pleased to see him, but also wanted nothing more than for him to go away. It was very confusing. His smile did not falter, though; he simply took her recognition as an invitation and came to sit down.

Ryn did not feel like socializing. She was exhausted, achy, and had just nearly lost her best friend. She stifled a sigh.

“I brought you food!” Evin said cheerfully, plopping down on the floor cushion beside her. Ryn scooted away slightly but reached for the food. She had forgotten she was famished. Evin’s smile widened as she took the bowl and spoon, and she sort of wanted to smack him for it.

“Thank you,” she grunted, by way of politeness.

The man took it as permission to stay, apparently. “You’re welcome,” he nodded, the low light playing with the shadows of his face. Ryn turned away. “I expected you hadn’t stepped out to eat or rest, so I thought I could help with at least one of those.”

“Mmm.”

“My brother said you probably wouldn’t want to be bothered, but he’s kind of an idiot when it comes to the personal touch, so I didn’t listen to him.”

You probably should have, she thought, then scolded herself. Her friend was trying to be kind; she could at least be courteous. She spooned a little of the thick stew into her mouth, careful not to eat too fast. It was rich and salty and delicious.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Evin said after a moment, and Ryn sighed quietly, turning to face him. He looked contrite. “I was more curious than doubtful, about…the, uh—.”

“I know,” she murmured back, feeling a little sick. “I have no answers for you. I don’t know what happened.” She turned back to her meal, eating stiffly, appetite gone. Evin said nothing, but sat by her side until she finished, and then for another hour, without speaking.

When the distant bells chimed midnight, he rose quietly with her bowl. He stretched, sauntered to the door, stopped on the threshold. The light framed his silhouette, blocked his smile, but she saw it anyway.

“We’re at the Wildtree Inn, if you want a warm bed to sleep in. Goodnight, Ryn.”

The moon cast its weak white light on the wrecked nagrat camp, filtered through the same clouds that blotted out the stars entirely. Scavenging animals paused in their bloody meals, turned tail and ran, for they could sense the darkness encroaching, sharper and more sinister than any mere night could conjure. Black and empty, the Dark coalesced in the midst of the dead camp, a mist that began to gain form quickly. A den of rabbits screamed nearby as their hearts all gave out at once; their small sound was the only audible one, though a wide assortment of beasts in the vicinity suffered the same instantaneous fate. White fire leeched from hundreds of small bodies, burrowers and scavengers and birds alike, lent itself to the black mist, dancing and whirling until a corporeal form finally stood in its place.

It was a Man, or at least a close approximation to one. He was impossibly tall, an effect only heightened by his black, fitted clothing. He looked almost regal in velvet leggings, a black leather vest over a linen shirt, inlaid with gemstones of exact equal color and cut—rubies all, blood-red. His leather riding boots were black, too, as was the doeskin cloak fastened by a heavy silver brooch at his white throat. His face was hooded, but the deep shadows highlighted sharp, pure features marred artfully by twisting ritual scars that wound over every inch of visible pale skin. Scarlet eyes peered out over the carnage, handsome mouth curling into a dangerous glower.

Huffing a low growl, the tall man turned, white palm opening to reveal a single bloodstone that glowed dimly. He whispered a sibilant word to it, and black fire swept through the remains of the camp, rolling over every rotting corpse in the clearing. Over most, it simply paused, then moved on; but over a few bodies, the black fire sparked bright red, some brighter than others. The brightest of these was a twisted, gray corpse near the edge of the settlement that garnered a small geyser of the red sparks. The man smiled, pleased, as he picked his way toward it, black steel staff leaving small impressions in the rich earth. His smile disappeared when he noticed; the air here, so close to the wood elves’ domain, was full of vibrant life magic—his own lackeys’ very-dead bodies excepted, of course. The force of it, white and pure, made him vaguely nauseous, though that was not unexpected. He was far closer to Thaliondris than he generally preferred to venture, but news of what had happened here had prompted him to come see it for himself. He had a feeling he would not regret it.

But all this excessive life, this radiant magic, it was distracting.

Growling, the man knelt, pressed his bloodstone into the dewy grass, and whispered another word. Green mist this time, bright and vivid, wove its way through the soil, choking, poisoning. The luminous, glittering force that gave the plants their life sputtered and dimmed before fading entirely, leaving the camp and several hundred feet around it dead and dark. The dry grass crackled under his knee and he watched a thatch of wildflowers in front of him wither instantly. The man nodded once in satisfaction before rising to continue his primary mission.

When he reached the dead nagrat guard, he stopped. His sharp features twisted into an expression of disgust—horrid, ugly creatures they were, though useful—and drove the end of his staff into the creature’s barrel chest. The tip punctured leather armor and bone easily, settling deep inside the thing’s still, bloody heart. The man murmured a series of the hissing words and brought the brightly-glowing bloodstone in one hand to touch the carven head of his staff in the other. The point of contact between the foci of his magic sparked blinding heat for a moment before settling and darkening to a point of black light. The man smiled briefly, then removed the stone from the staff, scooping up the small dark orb and holding it so the wan moonlight caught it. The sphere wriggled, then seemed to hop off his hand, flattening and lengthening until it floated before him like a small black stage. Upon it flashed faces, impressions, feelings.

Resentment at having to pull two night watch shifts—the nagrat had gotten in a scuffle with a superior earlier in the day and been punished with an extra turn that night—then boredom. There were no dangers here. Sleepiness—no predators meant no need for a night watch, perhaps he could catch a few hours’ rest in spite of his punishment. Black unconsciousness, restful and deep. Awakening, to the strangest prickling sensation. Confusion. Instant agony, but no visible wounding—it was simply pain, grinding and sparking on every nerve without explanation. Exhaustion, the feeling that the very life was being sucked from his body. A merciful cease of the onslaught, though the creature knew it would die, and soon. Anger at defeat from an unseen foe, the despair of knowledge that it would die an honorless death, that its spirit would find no place in the Eternal Hunt. The man cared nothing for such things, but the creature was devastated by it. Blackness again.

The sorcerer frowned; he knew this magic, though he had not seen it used thus in centuries. A most interesting development, but not one he was happy with.

Then, blinding light, immediate shadowing by a nearby face; a woman...a young human who looked both out of her mind with fright and fiercely determined. She startled at the sight of the nagrat’s open eyes, staggered back slightly, recovered, reached for it. The man watched, slightly surprised at her nerve, as she snatched the nagrat’s knife and leather carrying pack. She was looting. He would have guessed her to be the prisoner he’d gotten word this group had taken, the one they called The Phantom; except that she was uninjured and not even a little bit threatening. Nothing but a passerby who’d happened upon the bodies, he reasoned.

But no, he felt the dying nagrat’s fury at being looted by a mere prisoner, a slip of a girl that he didn’t even understand the importance of; she was clearly only a small threat, and they had bigger game to hunt. Had they not stopped for this little shrew, they may have been the hunters to bring the Princes to Râza, a prize that would have given them much honor.

Ah, the sorcerer thought. So this was the Phantom. Slipped through his fingers this time, but he would remember her face. Her time was coming.

The nagrat’s world went black again, for what felt like a few moments. When it opened them again after a vicious nudge, it was a snarl and the weak realization that the end of its life was nearer now. Its vision was tinted, blackness gathering around the edges, but there was a man standing over it this time. Like the girl, the man startled, having clearly expected it to be dead already; but he recovered quickly enough and lowered the point of his sword to the nagrat’s thick neck, moving further into its field of vision. A scowling face swam into view, with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose, eyes gold like the wheat fields in autumn.

The sorcerer paused the image with a word, and it froze where it was. He moved closer, studied the young face, honed in on the sword the lad was using. It was folded steel, a single sapphire set in the hilt, honed to a razor-sharp edge. The sorcerer moved in just a little closer...there, just where the blade met the hilt; the royal crest. He smiled; he’d been right, it had been worth every second of trouble coming here.

“There you are, Prince Evin.”