The market streets are quiet, empty stalls outnumbering those still in use. A butcher wipes his blade clean with no one waiting, the scrape of metal too loud in the stillness, while across the lane a woman counts out coins, then closes her hand around them and walks away. The longer this war drags on, the poorer our people become. It’s a harsh reminder that I’m doing this for more than just Osian’s freedom.
Beyond the market, the city climbs toward the Order’s central castle, orange-tiled rooftops rising one after another. Whole stretches of homes sit dark now, their doors barred, their Kingdom of Gwalia banners long since taken down.
If I can do the impossible, maybe the war will end and Caer Draen will come alive again.
Drab stone buildings crowd the narrow street as I make my way toward the looming wall. A few window boxes hold the withered remains of flowers, their glass fogged by the cold. Thin chimneys puff smoke into the air, one of the few signs of life in this part of the city. Two seagulls watch from a crooked rooftop as I pass beneath them, their claws hooked around the tiles. No one wants to live this close to the wall. If rebels break through, these people die first.
A guard waits at the gates, his slender hands wrapped around the reins of a gray mare. He nods as I approach, but his expression gives nothing away. If the High Swynwragedd have confided in him, I will hear nothing from his lips.
“This is Mari Lwyd. She’ll be your companion for the journey.” Reverently, he hands me the reins, as if he’s entrusting me with his own child. To him, it likely feels that way. I’ve heard stories about this guard. He takes great pride in tending to the horses, even when it has nothing to do with his assigned tasks.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll take good care of her.”
“See that you do.” He nods, gives the horse an affectionate pat on the rump, and then walks off.
The gate groans as its raised, and wind rushes in from world beyond, ruffling my hair. Rolling fields spread out before me, practically glowing beneath the rising sun. My heart lifts. There it is. The great expanse. I’ve always preferred it to the endless gray of our drab city, where rats and rot creep through every street. Despite its danger, it calls to me.
Inhaling deeply, I mount the horse and ride onward.
As we canter across the fields, I tip back my head to gaze at the clear sky. Only a few wisps of cloud mottle the blue, a welcome contrast to last night’s impenetrable darkness. I want to take it as a sign of good things to come. Our ancestors would have.
Before our gods died, we looked to the skies for answers. The elves charted the constellations from their Observatory, gleaning wisdom and knowledge from them—or so they thought. In truth, the stars were the source of all magic. The gods could access that power, and they gifted it to those they trained and deemed worthy of carrying it.
Then came the Culling. The stars abandoned us, along with our gods. Hundreds of elves died with them.
No one could use magic for months afterward. With both the stars and gods gone, we thought all was lost.
But then the king discovered a new source of power. He went to the Order and offered to share it with them in exchange for their assistance with the rebels and the war. Through our talismans, a Swynwraig—only those elves chosen by the Order—can temporarily imbue additional strength, precision, hearing and eyesight, and speed in our fighters, the Rhyfelwyr. We can help our warriors and the king’s army, but we can do little more than that. It’s such a vague echo of the rich magic we wielded in ages past.
But if this plan works, perhaps it’s a start to making Gwalia whole again.
Lost to my thoughts, the day passes slowly, the sun climbing higher into the sky. Eventually, I reach a high ridge, and a stunned stillness grips me. I’ve been travelling along a plateau, the edge of which drops steeply along into a valley teeming with flowers. A rushing river cuts through its heart, sparkling beneath the midday sun.Beautiful.
Osian and I never venture north. There’s nothing here. Nothing except abandoned towers, endless fields, and the remote coastline of our kingdom, where the exiled threat lives.
My heartbeat thrums in my neck.
Tomorrow, I will come face to face with Taliesin Wynn, the most infamous man alive. Impossible to kill, the Order was forced to exile him, hiding him away on the northernmost tip of the continent, on cliffs too dangerous for civilization, where the poisonous sea churns. Not even the rebels venture there.
They trapped him behind wards that mute his power, but they don’t dampen them completely. And they can’t stop him from using brute force against anyone who comes near.
He will not hesitate to kill me if he believes I’m a threat.
And Iama threat.
I urge the horse onward, heading further north. Soon, an icy wind whips at my face and darkness creeps into the sky.
When I round the base of a hill, the Twin Talons finally break the monotony of the fields. I’ve never seen an image of them before, but there’s no mistaking them for anything else. Two jagged rocks rise from the ground at the edge of a ridge, their tipped points scraping the lower edge of the clouds. Menacing shadows slant in our direction, devouring the light.
At their base sits a singular tower, dwarfed by the enormity of the rocks.
The Twin Talons Inn.
It’s the only building for miles. Smoke rises from a side chimney, and the scent of cooked meat drifts toward me. Mystomach twists with hunger. The High Swynwragedd suggested I camp out on the hills, but a fire there could draw rebels, even this far north. It’s still another day’s ride to the sea.
I dismount at the inn, barely keeping my legs under me. My body aches from the long ride, and cold seems to have permanently seeped into my skin. The towering rocks block the wind here, but the air is still frigid, my breath misting before me.
After I stable the horse, I approach the inn warily. I’ve always thought it strange that anyone would own a building so far from a town, let alone anything else. Built from the same flat stone as Caer Draen’s walls, the tower looks so out of place amid the rolling green. But the sound of laughter and the lilting strain of a lute chases away my unease.
