Arc 1: Chapter 9: Onsolain

Arc 1: Chapter 9: Onsolain

When I woke, I wasn’t feeling any pain. That was my first clue that something was off.

The scent of flowers drew me from a dream whose details scattered to dust even as I was pulled from it. I heard birdsong, the flow of water over rock, and a woman’s voice humming a quiet, nostalgic tune I was certain I’d never heard before.

I opened my eyes and found myself in a forest glade. The ground beneath me was soft, and the air was pleasantly cool. I didn’t want to stand. I felt too good. For that reason more than any other I forced myself to get up and inspect my surroundings in more detail. I didn’t trust anything that wanted me to be at peace.

My eyes were met by a scene out of an ancient dream. Which, I suppose, it was. Everything in the grove was tinted in shades of emerald and sun-dappled gold, though the sky — where I could see it through the dome of a thick canopy — was utterly black and starless, the light within the grove seeming to have no discernible source. The sound of water came from a low waterfall which fed into a gleaming silver stream. Grass and moss covered nearly every surface, including the trunks of the ancient trees. All shone vibrant, abundant with growth, and untouched by rot.

Put simply, it was a scene beautiful enough to make an artist weep and a poet grow tongue-tied. I closed my eyes and took shallow breaths, trying not to take in the heady scent of the flowers blooming across the grass. My body and mind were telling me I was safe, that this was a clean place, a refuge.

I knew in my gut that it was dangerous.

Instead of drinking in the fey-lit grove, I turned my eyes to the figure kneeling by the stream. She was as beautiful as the setting within which she was enthroned. In a way, it was her throne. She hadn’t spoken as I’d woken and stumbled to my feet, and I had time to take in details as I cautiously approached.

She was dressed in a gown fashioned in shades of forest green and moon-silver. Flowers were woven into her midnight black hair, and her skin a shade of pale nothing in the natural world could replicate. Even kneeling, she was tall. Taller than me. Taller than any human. She was athletically built, her round shoulders displayed by the sleeveless cut of her dress, her long neck dappled with spray from the waterfall which glinted like beads of crystal. She exuded a very faint light.

She was the source of the grove’s light.

The woman bowed her head over the form of a slumbering creature. It looked like a war chimera, though I knew that no mortal alchemist had crafted this beast. Its body was that of a wolf, all course gray fur and lean, muscular limbs, and its head had a distinctly canine aspect as well. Shining antlers grew from its head, and its back legs ended in cloven hooves. Its tail was long and bushy, like a fox. Its chest rose and fell in long, deliberate breaths, and its jaws hung slightly open to reveal long teeth sharp as any blade. It was larger than most bears.

I approached to stand near the beautiful woman and the creature which was, in its own way, also striking. I studied it for a while longer and then said, “it’s dying.”

The woman’s eyes were closed. One of her thin-fingered hands rested on the creature’s chest, the other on its neck. Her head bowed slightly, and I thought I noted a shade of weariness in the movement. “She is.” Her voice was a breathy murmur, so low I shouldn’t have been able to hear it, yet every leaf and tree in the grove quivered with the words.

“How long?” I asked.

“She was injured in the year the Gilded City fell,” the shining woman said. “Most of ten years ago. Not long, I think.”

Something wrenched in my chest. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

A smile touched the edges of the shining woman’s roseberry lips. “No, Alken Hewer, but it does you credit to offer.”

A shudder went through me at the sound of my own name. There was power in that utterance, of a kind that made my whole essence respond like a plucked cord on a lute. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling, but it made my guard go up again. I didn’t much care for anything that made me react in a way I didn’t want to.

When I spoke again, I did my best to keep anything like anger or disrespect from my tone. “If you and your brethren wanted to speak to me, you could have sent Donnelly. I’m not fond of having my dreams tampered with.”

The woman stood, and my initial of impression of her height was, if anything, conservative. She was more than seven and a half feet tall, probably most of a foot taller than me. Her hair hung in a black curtain nearly down to her bare feet, giving it the aspect of a shadowy cloak. She turned to me, and her eyes cracked open to reveal a clean silver light. I was careful not to look directly into them.

She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. “Of course. You would resent having your dreams intruded upon, given your past...” she bowed her head, the gesture conveying apology. “Forgive me. If it puts you at ease, this is not your dream but mine. I have invited you in as a guest, and I assure you that this place holds no danger for you, Knight of the Alder Table.”

It didn’t really put me at ease at all, but the apology was so formal and genuine that it made me feel guilty for saying anything. I scratched at the back of my neck and shuffled, then bowed my own head respectfully. “Thank you, Lady Eanor.” I surprised myself by meaning it.

My host placed delicate fingertips over her lips, hiding a wider smile. “You know me?”

I nodded. “The grove and the chimera kind of gave it away. I’ve been in more than a few churches.” I paused, then decided why not? I had been a knight, once, and flattering women was sort of a religion for the profession. “The carvings don’t do you justice.”

“You are most gallant,” Lady Eanor said with a light giggle that seemed to make the whole forest shudder in mirth. Even the trickling stream altered its music to match the sound. “But Valharre is not a chimera, Sir Knight. She is much older than any of the mutants your kind has bred and spread across this sphere.”

Valharre. Bleeding Gates, but that was a name I knew. I was standing in the presence of a legend.

And she was dying. Right there, only a few feet away from me. Wary as I was, a tendril of sadness wove its way through my armor.

Lady Eanor’s eyes remained on the dying creature for a while. I waited patiently, feeling a strange lack of urgency. That, I was sure, had to do with the nature of the sanctuary my consciousness had been drawn into. I didn’t believe I was truly there, at least not physically. No doubt my body was back in Olliard’s cart, deep in sleep.

“By the way,” I said, wanting to change the subject from the dying demigod, “I saw your sister recently.”

I’d thought I’d be walking the shadows, fighting against shadows. Instead, I felt more like an assassin. A tool.

Nothing ever changed.

“I didn’t think I’d be one of the most wanted men in the land,” I said, more sour than defiant. “People have started to hate me nearly as much as the Briar.”

“Yours is a Penance of Blood,” Eanor said. “You are the Headsman of Seydis. You accepted this path. Now you must walk to its end. You know the alternative.”

I did, but I resented her for reminding me as though I’d forgotten. My head was beginning to throb from looking into Eanor’s eyes for too long. I turned away and walked toward the stream, staring into its clear waters. Precious gems glittered at the bottom rather than stones. After a minute, I sensed the goddess’s presence over my shoulder. There had been no whisper of feet across grass, no rustle of fabric. She was just suddenly there, at my side. Light fingers touched my shoulder, and I shivered. There was the strength to break apart mountains in those hands, and even if the touch was meant to comfort I couldn’t help but feel discomforted.

“You have been deeply wounded by war and betrayal.” Eanor’s words rang with empathy. “Had it been my choice, I would not have bestowed such a fell office upon an oathsworn member of the Alder Table.”

I took a deep breath, calming myself. “But you’re just one voice in the Choir, right? I get it.” I turned and met her eyes. I had to look up to do it, and the onsolain met my gaze with eyes narrowed to near slits so I could barely see the light in them, her expression troubled.

“Who’s my next target?” I asked.

“Orson Falconer,” Eanor said, the grove whispering the name along with her. “The Baron of Caelfall.” She took her hand off my shoulder and clasped it with the other, the gesture almost one of prayer.

I blinked in surprise, and she nodded. “He rules the land you are traveling into even now.” A hint of anger crept into her soothing voice, the first display of it since the audience had begun. “His men slew the sentinel.”

“The troll,” I muttered, realizing. “One of yours?”

Eanor nodded. “He was an old friend and a valiant guardian. My own vassal. But his death is not why we give you this name, Alken Hewer.”

I noted the use of we. I felt a twinge of disappointment at that. Part of me had hoped this was a case of personal vengeance on behalf of the being I spoke to. I could understand that. There was even a ring of chivalry to it.

But no. This was another edict for the Headsman, direct from the Divine Choir itself.

“The baron has consorted with the Adversary,” Eanor said, drawing my attention back to her. “He was once a just ruler, a valiant warrior, but that was many years ago. His dissolution began even before the burning of Elfhome, and he has grown ever bolder in his heresies of late. He gathers forces to him, and may threaten the peace of the Accorded Reams, already a tenuous thing.” Her expression grew distant, as though she were listening to some faraway voice. “He must be stopped before he strengthens his ties to other Recusants and threatens war.”

I pondered that for a time. There were many powers in the land who refused to respect the authority of the Accord, the alliance of nations and powerful factions formed to maintain order in a land broken by the Fall. Mostly they were warlords consigned to isolated demesnes where the Accord’s influence couldn’t easily reach, ruling small domains as they pleased and raiding the larger, battle-weary realms. But not all were merely petty warlords. Some were powerful warlocks, or militant groups posing as mercenary companies and bandit gangs. Some were wizards.

Some were kings.

In common parlance, these dissidents and warmongers were called Recusants. They were not a united force, but if they ever found common ground it could easily lead to another Fall.

Part of my job was to prevent just that outcome. Even if many of the lords of the Accord basically thought of me as one of those Recusants.

If Orson Falconer gathered forces to him here, practically in the heartlands of the Accorded Realms, and made nice with other rebel factions... things could get bad.

“You called him a heretic,” I said. “He’s a diabolist? A warlock?”

“Yes,” Eanor confirmed. “I have felt his darkness pressing on the edges of my own domain, especially here in this forest. I have urged my brethren to act before. It was fortunate that you were passing through when you did, and had just completed another task.”

Yeah, I thought bitterly, real fortunate. Aloud I said, “I’ll do what I can. I’m kind of a wreck right now.”

Eanor only smiled softly. My eyes felt heavy, and I knew the end of this strange audience was approaching. I turned and began to move back toward the edge of the grove. I wasn’t certain it would end the audience any faster, but I didn’t really feel too at peace just then, and didn’t want the enchanted grove taking my frustration away. It wasn’t like I was proud of my bitter feelings, but they were mine.

“Do not forget,” the onsolain said at my back. “You are still of the Alder Table, Sir Knight, bound to that office, and it is a calling greater than your penance as the Headsman.”

I tried not to snort. “The Table’s broken,” I said. “And my knighthood was stripped when I was excommunicated, so I’m not sure you’re supposed to be calling me sir anymore.”

“Mortal nations may not recognize you as such,” Eanor murmured, the words seeming to drift through my thoughts. “But your vows are forever binding. Do not forsake them, Alken Hewer, for they have not forsaken you.”

Damn immortals always end up having the last word.