Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (13 page)

The place the author of the scroll had chosen was high, at the very edge of the Dove Cara, where the thick trees of the forest reached the cliff side, which fell sharply to the sea, sixty feet below. The Dove Cara was a scar hacked into the rock, as if heaven's blade had cut through the edge of the East of the Land and left this bone of marbled granite. In fact, some said that in the angel wars of the Dawnshroud, long ago, that was exactly what had happened.

The shore below was a ring of crystal white sand. A cold wind was always present, always curling along the lip of the cliffs. As Adrea rode up, it cut the morning air with its chill.

This was far from the King's Highway, far from Adrea's village, beyond the reach of any protection, though she did not really feel the need for any. Adrea always had an inborn sense of things. Her grandmother had called these senses
the knowing.
Sometimes she had referred to it as the star knowledge, left her by blood of the mothering star, Dannu. Whatever it might be called, Adrea sensed no danger in answering the papyrus Aeson had brought tucked inside the silver scroll.

The forest seemed more primal here at the cliff's edge; it seemed to gather more shadows than the oaks near her village. Whatever had happened here, it had left a lingering malevolence.

Still, it drew her. She came here often; she rode along the edge of the cliff watching the sea. Aeson would have been right about these woods. They did contain Uttuku. The spirits hid in the forest's shadows, and there had been times when Adrea thought she had spotted them, gray shades swiftly darting. What she sensed of them, however, was not danger—not toward her anyway. It was more as if they were lost.

The view was utterly astonishing. Far out to the west was the edge of a misty island, a ring of far trees. She wanted to sail there, and she knew that beyond were other islands, even the city of Enoch and the temples of his Followers.

The water was dark blue, and it was cold because it was deep water—the cut that had formed the Dove Cara left a deep trench in the ocean, as well. This place was ancient, sacred, and whatever had happened here left spirits that stirred even to this day. She knew it was more than mere chance the rider of the wood had named this place for them to meet.

She turned toward the trees and then, quite suddenly, found herself staring at him. He was there, waiting for her. As always, he was slightly hidden in shadow, but this time he did not disappear. He waited for her. Adrea nudged her ankles against the gray's sides and slowly rode toward him. For the first time in her life, she entered the ancient forest that was the East of the Land, and as she had always expected, she felt the sprit of the trees, almost as if they recognized her. Something within Adrea changed as the shadows of the ancient oaks fell over her; she wasn't sure what it was, but she knew she had just stepped from the safety of the sleeping world into her destiny.

He was Daath; she recognized the skin, the dark hair. He was on a magnificent white mare whose bridle was golden and tasseled. He wore leather leggings, polished black boots, two very expensive crystal swords—a long double-edged at his left, and a second short sword through his belt at the right. From a back brace, the curl of a crossbow rose above his shoulder. His muscled chest was hairless, and his right upper shoulder was covered by a black tattoo that disappeared beneath the Daathan cloak. It was a phoenix rising from flame, the detail and workmanship magnificent.

She sensed a slight tension in him, something almost sad. Adrea had a gift of reading people, of picking up their feelings, even as they passed by, talking to one another. But this Daath was difficult to read; his feelings were confused. They were also hidden. His senses were as powerful as hers, and he was keeping himself guarded.

His face was sharply cut, his skin pale, tinted, as were all Daath, a slight blue. His night-black hair was braided in leather thongs, which dropped over his shoulders. She would not have called him handsome, rather she would have called him beautiful, as if an artist had crafted him from marble.

There was a sudden wind gust and his cloak blew across him, leaving him for the briefest moment nothing more than a shadow. There were Daathan warriors so highly trained, so skilled at their craft that they were called Shadow Walkers. They had gained their skill through a lifetime of training. They were slayers, and he was one of them, deceptively so, for he did not look severe or deadly.

Shadow Walkers were dedicated from birth, and once they were initiated into the cult, they bore a signet, a plain silver band on the upper arm. He wore one, and indeed, there was a precise, practiced edge to his every move. When she drew alongside him, he bowed in the saddle. “I must ask you to forgive all this intrigue.” “It has made things interesting. I like interesting.” “Were you expecting a Daath?” he said. “Yes, I expected one. I have just never been this close to one.” “Is it a fright or a comfort?”

“By reputation, that would depend on your attitude toward me. I know I certainly would not wish to be your enemy. I find it comforting that you have gone to so much trouble to meet me.”

“I am glad you came, and I assure you I could never think of you as an enemy. Allow me to introduce myself, Adrea of Lucania. My name is Lochlain. Those who know me well call me Loch, and you are welcome to do so.”

This she had not guessed. That he was royalty was obvious, but it took her completely by surprise. “Lochlain? The son of Argolis—the king?”

“I thought it best simply to lay it out so that we then forget about it. I am not here as a prince. I came to meet you. I have watched you for so long. To see you this close …”

His eyes seemed almost human—a soft brown in the shadow light. And there was an odd, inexplicable sensation that she somehow had seen these eyes before. Then, she noticed a lyre hanging from the saddle against the white horse's flank. It was distinctive, silvered along the edges with intricately carved, dark, polished wood. He had left it there on purpose; he knew she would recognize it.

She had seen it before, and the sudden realization struck her. She looked up, astonished. “That lyre … you are the minstrel! The one who has played in my village these last weeks; the one I passed each morning I walked the path of the Water Bearer. That was you?

“Yes.”

“You were always there so early, before the markets began. It puzzled me. The only ones to hear your songs were those preparing their shops or setting up their carts for the market crowds. You would have acquired much more coin if had you waited until midday.”

“I was not interested in coin; I was interested in you, Adrea. The only one meant to hear my songs was you.”

She stared at him a moment, moved by what he had said.

“You would not know,” he added, “but I have searched a long time to find you.”

“But why did you not say anything? Why play the minstrel?”

“I am a minstrel. More so than a warrior, despite these weapons I carry. I was born into a life I never chose, but it is one I must follow, regardless. At first I was silent because I had to be sure who you were; then, even after I was certain, oddly, I did not know what to say to you. Of course, there are many women in my court; however, I did not know quite how to approach you. I have never been shy with any women, ever. It was new to me, this feeling.”

Adrea had met no greater royalty than the fat mayor of Lucania. To meet the prince of the Daath should have left her shaken, speechless, but she found herself oddly unaffected. She almost wondered if there were spell binding at work.

“Do you want your scroll back?” she asked.

“Please, keep it,” he said. “I am told you are a Water Bearer of your village.”

“Yes.”

“From birth, or was it a calling?”

“From birth, my mother, my grandmother, all were Water Bearers.”

Before the gathering wars, the Water Bearers had been born into the cult, passed from mother to daughter. But so many of Adrea's tribe had been lost in the war that most of those in her village now were newly initiated. To be a Water Bearer was to be a priestess, but Adrea at present was merely an apprentice. Every third day of the week she walked the path from her father's cabin to the well in the center of town. There were six Water Bearers in her village, and each morning they filled the village fountains and basins from the town well.

She had always guessed that being a blood descendant of the Water Bearers was what had given her
the knowing,
the senses she felt of people and things, such as the oaks of the forest. The feelings came to her quietly, whispered inside her. They whispered now that there was nothing to fear of this prince; still, he had been watching her for weeks, hidden in the trees—in a way, stalking her.

“So why have you been following me, Loch?” Adrea confronted him. “Why watch from the shadows of the forest? Why send secret scrolls by way of my brother? It could hardly be difficult for you simply to walk up and take me aside anytime you wished. After all, you are the Daathan prince.”

“It was important I choose my timing carefully.”

“Why?”

“That will take some explaining.” “Then, explain. I will not stop you.” “Not here; this is not the place.” “Then, where is?”

He motioned beyond the cliff. “Down there, that curl of white sand that borders the sea below us.” “The Dove Cara?”

“Yes.”

“But that is more than a day's journey. We would have to circle almost to Ishmia and ride the shoreline. There are no pathways down this cliff side. Believe me; I have long searched for one.”

“I have no doubt. But it so happens I know a secret passage. I can have you back before nightfall without alarming your father.”

“My father? Why mention him?”

“He seems particularly concerned with your welfare.”

“More with my dowry.”

“Nonetheless, I do not wish to anger him further. It is better that we keep our meeting quiet.” “You mean secret?” “For now.”

She tightened her jaw. “I am no longer a little girl. I can do as I wish. Let us leave my father out of it.” “Very well.”

“Go ahead. Show me this secret path, and I will follow.” “This way, then.”

He turned and rode quickly through the trees. She spurred the dappled gray to keep up. Soon the forest grew deep, and the shadows thickened. They rode farther in than she would have ever ventured on her own, and she kept close to Loch's flank. Confident that she was an accomplished rider, he kept a quick pace.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “A slight problem—my brother.” “I know. He has followed you all the way from your village. We expected that.”

“We?”

“I have companions. They will intercept him. His day should prove to be somewhat interesting.” “He will not be hurt?” “My promise.”

They rode through an opening in the tangled branches of hemlock trees and beyond them into a shallow river before a waterfall. Loch then rode straight through its face. She tapped the gray's flank and leapt through, as well. It was a passage, a doorway. On the other side was a wide, spacious cavern with a pathway cut into the rock.

Aeson had managed to keep his distance from Adrea, careful to avoid giving the impression that he was pacing her, should any onlookers pay note. He considered himself skilled at stealth and planned one day to become a scout for the armies of Galaglea. He had good eyesight and was able to track his sister even though she was no more than a far dot.

When she neared the forest, however, he had no choice but to cross an open field where he would obviously be spotted by any who might be tracking her, as well. He slipped sideways, hugging his mount's right shoulder so that anyone watching from the north would see nothing more than a wandering horse without a rider.

The only problem was his father's hounds, Lamachus's herding hounds. They had followed him from the cabin and kept constantly at his heels. They would only serve to mark him.

“Damn,” he swore, hanging from the side of the horse. “Go! Get!” he shouted. “Go home, you boneheads! You will get me caught!”

Finally, he gave up; at least they were keeping close and were not baying.

Eventually, he reached the cobbled road that was the King's Highway, the only roadway that cut through the forest of the East of the Land to the Daathan city of Terith-Aire.

Aeson was used to this light—early dawn; he worked it often, and so he was startled when four riders broke from the trees and had him instantly surrounded. He had been taken completely by surprise. His heart was pounding as he pulled himself upright. The hounds were baying for all they were worth.

These were Daathan warriors, with their darkened breastplates of burnished steel and light, silvery cloaks.

“You, boy! State who you are!” demanded one of them who seemed to have rank—a ring of silver studs on his shoulders. Aeson figured them for captain's tassels.