The Crow's Cry

Afterward, Arran never knew how he saw the movement at the corner of the house, nor how he recognized that the lurker had drawn a bow. But he did know.

“Soldor, run!” he screamed, straining to rise from his chair. Anlaida grabbed him and held him upright next to her, as Soldor whirled around. He did not run; he threw himself flat to the earth. And that movement saved his life. The arrow thudded into the turf just beyond him. He did not wait. As soon as he threw himself down, he was up again, dodging under the ropes of the dueling corridor and running toward the shelter of the house. The six marshals drew their swords and followed him more slowly, searching for the shooter.

Arran waved an arm toward the opposite corner of the house. Kalon saw it and ran apart from the crowd, wild-eyed. Bryn grabbed him. “Get inside, man! All of you, go inside.”

Nobles began to run toward the door, shoving one another to get inside. Arran strained his neck toward the direction of the shooter, even as Anlaida and Mostaras helped him toward the door as best they could. Kalon still stumbled on the lawn.

“It—it—” His incoherent gaspings grew and swelled together into one word. “Gavon!” he cried. “Gavon, my son—!”

At that moment, an arrow from the corner of the house struck Kalon in the neck. He collapsed at Bryn’s feet. Bryn gathered Kalon into his arms, dropping his sword. But Kalon was dead already. Blood bubbled from his wound and dripped onto the ground.

Lirath ducked an arrow and dashed across the lawn, his face twisted with the determination to stop the shooter, despite the fact that he had no long-range weapon. He would be killed, Arran thought, struggling against Anlaida’s efforts to push him inside the door.

Soldor reached them, breathing hard. “Arran, stop it. Go.” He pulled his sword and edged along the side of the house, moving toward the corner, his back against the wall. An arrow sped across the lawn, cutting into turf just in front of Lirath. Bryn laid Kalon on the ground and rushed forward, ducking another arrow. Perethor flung himself by Soldor against the wall, while Denath’s marshals raced for the door in terror. Arran stepped aside to let them in. Another arrow skidded across the lawn.

It was then that a scream rang out on the stone walls of the courtyard. Anlaida froze, grabbing Arran and looking wild-eyed across the lawn. A cloaked figure crumpled to the ground at the corner of the house, and Arran saw an arrow in its chest. Soldor stepped away from the wall, staring, when from behind a hedge along the courtyard wall a second archer rose, similarly cloaked. He held a bow loosely in his right hand and stepped into the open.

Slowly the archer stepped across the lawn—small steps. He was not tall, Arran noticed, and the hem of the cloak dragged across the grass. But it was Soldor who first recognized the truth. “Linnerill?” he said. A strand of pale hair straggled from beneath the cloak.

She pulled back her hood and looked at him. “I was worried,” she answered simply. They met on the lawn, and he took her into his arms. The bow dropped to the ground.

Arran limped down the steps toward Lirath. “Arran!” Anlaida said. But she followed him.

Lirath knelt beside Kalon’s killer and loosened the cloak from his neck. He waited until they had come near. “Kalon spoke the truth,” he said quietly. “It was his son.”

Gavon coughed quietly, fixing his gaze on Arran. “Barbarians,” he mumbled. His chest heaved twice more, and he died. Lirath shut Gavon’s eyes and drew the cloak over his body once more.

Linnerill approached with Soldor, the bow in her hands again. She did not touch him, but they walked together. The hood hung down her back, and her hair, so pale that it was almost white, fell down her shoulders. “I am Lady of Salenna,” she said. “Is the man dead?”

Bryn straightened. “Indeed,” he answered. “You shoot well, Lady.”

She looked at Gavon, at her bow, and then at Perethor. “I am head of my household, am I not?”

The older man assessed her gravely, but smiled. “You are, and you shall be.”

“Then I shall honor my father’s memory,” she said. “I shall honor my father’s memory by following his original plans. Salenna and the Northland will be united. Tomorrow, directly following my father’s funeral. He had no siblings, so I trust that a man of my mother’s house will officiate.”

Soldor’s eyes laughed at them all. He spoke no word, but took Linnerill’s right hand.

“Sufficient arrangements have been made.” Linnerill raised her head. “And as for the minor details—musicians and such—which have been untended, that cannot be blamed on the House of Salenna under the present upheaval.” She paused, looking at Soldor for a moment, and then turned to Bryn. “My mother grew up on the River Kirac.”

Bryn blinked. “I had forgotten,” he said, smiling slowly. “I fear that she made an unwise decision. But her daughter, I trust, has not.”

“I have not,” Linnerill said.

“She saved our lives.” Soldor spoke the words softly. “I will see to it that she is rewarded, and not tomorrow only.”

Arran remembered Uliath’s vow to Calwen his mother, and the thought pulled tight across his stomach. But Soldor lifted his chin and met the eyes of Bryn, and Lirath, and Perethor. And Arran knew that it would be all right. Soldor had chosen.
 
In the morning, Denath’s body was lowered into an unmarked grave in the woods, and Gavon was laid beside him. Only the close families of the two men were in attendance. “May their deeds pass with the night,” Arran said quietly, watching the last shovel of earth stamped into Gavon’s grave. But Kalon’s body was treated with honor and placed in a coffin of Caslan oak, to be buried in the land that had borne him.

And then, as the sun reached its zenith, Bryn took Linnerill’s arm and led her across the lawn to the place where Soldor stood waiting. She wore a soft yellow, unfashionably, and it seemed to catch the sun’s rays, brightening her pale face. Or perhaps her face was bright with eagerness, or with the hope of a life not controlled by Denath’s rages.

Arran did not know. He sat with Anlaida as Linnerill placed her hands in Soldor’s, and Mostaras wrapped a bright marriage cloak about them. Within the cloak, Soldor kissed his bride.

Linnerill assigned a steward—one of a rare few that she trusted—to care for Denath’s house, and then she prepared to depart. Things that had been packed and then shoved away during the troubles were pulled out again. Mostaras advised her, while Soldor and Bryn examined the members of Denath’s household and discharged those they found to be less than honest. The nobles returned to their homes, and Mithras grew quiet again.

It was on one of those quiet nights that Arran found Anlaida wandering in the gardens, gazing at the sky. “I can see her, I think,” she said.

“Lossyr?” Arran asked.

The wind tossed the garden plants about their feet, and Anlaida raised her arms to it, laughing as it rippled her sleeves.

“It will not be long before Soldor and Linnerill leave, I think.” He smiled at Anlaida’s delight.

She lowered her arms and turned her face toward him. “I will not go with them this time.”

“But you’ve forgiven him?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I still think that my place is elsewhere. In any case, Soldor is newly wed. He will not be eager for the company. I may return some day, but first, there are things I need to find.”

“Not in Orrinshad,” said Arran.

She laughed again. “Go to Orrinshad? I’m no longer a child, Arran. But Iredail is not so far from it, and my sister lives there.”

“A wise decision, I think.” He found Lossyr, silver-bright. She flickered, and he thought that he saw her face.

“Will you come with me?”

“The waters of the Kirac run through me,” he said. “But my home is in the North.”

“I will miss you—brother.”

“And I you. But,” he said, “we will meet again, I think.”

“In the stars’ country.”

“Or before.”

Together they raised their eyes to the Star of Evening, watching as she passed into the west. Full darkness fell.
_____________________


Anlaida left with Bryn and Mostaras two mornings after. “Send my clothes,” she told Soldor. “And take my blessings with you.” The carriage rattled down Denath’s lane of white shell and pulled onto the main road. As its noise faded, Arran thought that he heard Bryn singing. It was the song of Oran.

“I meant what I said that night,” Soldor said to him. “You are free to go where you choose. Even to the barbarians, though I would ask that you be a guardian of peace.”

“I’ll ride with the baggage,” Arran said. “And—I thank you.”

Soldor nodded and went to find Linnerill. The two were hardly to be separated, and perhaps, Arran thought, the Northland might yet find hope through their seed.
______________________


He left Jadoth with more than the first time—clothing, and blankets, and food. Soldor had offered him a horse, but he had declined, saying that he would rather not eat it. Spring had spread the plains with flower, and the harshness of Northland winter seemed forgotten. He walked at night, following the stars. They were bright again, and he could see their faces. Anaroc, grave with gladness. Eliane, carrying dawn in her eyes. Rhonan paced the skies, staff in hand. And Ardall bowed to Lossyr, who was luminous in her peace.

He knew them all, and he could feel the Sky-lord’s gaze on him. He was safe. Even the pain of his wound was nearly gone. But there was still one whom he desperately needed to see—a solitary man who lived in a hole, with little to offer but himself.

It is enough, Arran thought. The dark Tablelands rose before him. He heaved his sack over one shoulder and walked quietly beneath the stars.



Finis
 
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So...it's done. Any overall impressions, or problems that you noticed? Thanks to everyone who has kept up with this story, particularly Zella, MissReepicheep, and Copperfox.
 
“I meant what I said that night,” Soldor said to him. “You are free to go where you choose. Even to the barbarians, though I would ask that you be a guardian of peace.”

It's hard to explain this well, but there is a sort of category of not-too-sad yet somehow heartening goodbyes that occur between characters in stories. For instance, at the end of Treasure Island, when Jim Hawkins helps Long John Silver to escape to the sea; they have different paths, but Jim's very act of "release" is an act of friendship. Soldor's goodbye makes me think of that kind of scene.
 
It's hard to explain this well, but there is a sort of category of not-too-sad yet somehow heartening goodbyes that occur between characters in stories. For instance, at the end of Treasure Island, when Jim Hawkins helps Long John Silver to escape to the sea; they have different paths, but Jim's very act of "release" is an act of friendship. Soldor's goodbye makes me think of that kind of scene.

I knew that, at the end, all three siblings would have to separate. The separation ended in a friendlier way than when I told this as a story to my sister...a lot of the plot twists came after I actually wrote it out. When I told it to her I had Anlaida running off to Orrinshad by herself (not a very smart idea) and Arran leaving only with Soldor's very grudging agreement. I like it better this way.
 
That was a very satisfying ending. I liked that they parted in peace with the danger sorted out, but that there are still things for the readers to be curious about.

As for overall impressions or problems, I remember being rather confused at the beginning, but it's possible that that was because I was reading it in segments; perhaps if I had read it all at once that wouldn't have happened.
 
I'm inclined to agree with you on the beginning. It was hard to figure out how to explain all the cultural details without having someone sit down and give a discourse on it, which would have been ridiculous. Personally, I'm inclined to think that all the cultural stuff was too much for a fantasy story.

I'm glad to hear that you liked the ending. I was afraid that the last-minute deaths would feel faked--like I was using the easy way out to get rid of certain characters. :rolleyes:
 
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