Thunderwyrm IV (1/2)

The Grand Balcony was near-empty. It seemed the bulk of the Quaiggar had flown in terror. A ferocious incision was across Junothor, though the matriarch appeared to have survived where those others that stood with her had not. Amongst them was Thunderwyrm, mutilated at the neck, with three thick claws that slashed as a bear might.

‘I must confess I haven’t seen a thing like this. My prayers are with you, Lady Fiara, and with poor Thunderwyrm. The damage starts at the wings,’ Twyner explained, tracing his calloused hands down her back. ‘When I heard the commotion, I came out here and saw the tails of our Quaiggar off into the moonlight. I ain’t worried that they’re gone for good. Couldn’t do that. But the fact they haven’t come back yet tells me it may be some time. Lessons are called off until then, obviously.’

Fiara didn’t care about lessons. Her Thunderwyrm. The beautiful creature lay scorned and in the horrid pose of death; lessons would never bring her back.

Maerk kneeled beside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. A hand fell to her shoulder as he sung silent hymns and made prayer for her loss. Twyner had no qualms about it.

‘What is happening tonight,’ Fiara stood suddenly, speaking outward. ‘Nothing’s going how it should. Father’s a mess… I’ve just been told I’m marrying Threid–’

Maerk’s eyes opened twice as wide as Twyner’s. ‘You’re marrying Archduke Hedet? Well surely that’s brilliant news? You’ll lose the suitors, and secure the man you wanted, and…’

‘You don’t understand, Maerk.’ The moon glared over the open air of the balcony. Night’s whispering winds were so queerly absent that Fiara had only just given notice to it. ‘You… I wish you did,’ she said. ‘But I can’t explain it. Please, Twyner, take Junothor and search for the Quaiggar. Nothing would come in here to scare them away and bleed the others for no reason. And if you can, make sure they’re ready and mounted as soon as possible.’

‘They’ll be back, though, Lady Squall. In their own time,’ Twyner tried.

‘Go, Twyner. That’s a royal demand. An order. I’ll write it in paper if you don’t. So go.’

No sooner had she spoken had Twyner dived into the nearest arch for the saddling gear. Maerk gave a frown as he darted between them both; Twyner’s face was of panicked assurance. He seemed to be aware of something that only Maerk was yet to realise.

‘Maerk, I want you to make sure we have some way of evacuating as many as possible. Use the servants’ halls and be discrete. Don’t tell anyone about this, or why, or anything. There’s something or someone that’s… Jaedd knows... Jaedd knows. I’ll be back. Do as I say, all right?’ Fiara put a hand on Maerk’s shoulder and pierced his eyes through to his mind. Her words were final, and in them the power sourced from gods.

 Fiara leapt into a clumsy run back through to the court hall. It seemed that time had gone at speed in her mourning of the Quaiggar, for many had retired to their chambers for the eve. The only ones still present were of the affinity of Hedet, and Haebyrling, sitting in his Duke father’s seat. Their ears pricked at her entering.

‘Lady Fiara,’ one announced. ‘We thought everyone had retired following our Stone’s cogent speech of love and the power of rest. It seems you’re restless. I can–’

‘I also believed everyone had retired,’ Fiara sharply replied. ‘Strange that you’re all still up. I was simply on my way to collect mother’s present.’ Fiara waited for no reply, moving only toward the King’s Bench at the head of the table. The retinue murmured amongst themselves as she did.

Around the banqueting table food still sat. Some untouched; entire crisped birds of game even had smoke coming from their thick bronzed flesh. A few feasters had fallen sullied to slumber, most likely from the volume of drink, collapsed on the table or in their chairs, but many of the seats were empty. Fiara ducked behind her chair, feeling for the box containing her dress. Instead, her hand fell to parchment.

The scrap was scrawled, but in its margin was the rich scarlet ink of a sketched plumeria, the seal of Summerose. I meant to pass this you before you left. You should know what I mean if it is you. What you suspect is not incorrect; I was adamant to attend your father’s travels here, as I fear something is amiss. Our night at Meridian was attended by bannerless walls. He is due a speech, though it was scripted by his Honourable Lord. If I alone have left, then try nothing rash. If most souls are absent, then use intuition. Be as indiscriminate as possible. Fiara left the note where she found it. A speech written by the Honourable Lord Hedet that calls everyone to their rooms? Fiara thought for a moment.

When she rose from beside her seat, a horn called in the distance, and a drum began to beat. It thumped. It thumped. It thumped. Closer upon every sound, in tune with the trotting of hooves upon old cobbles.

The Hedet affinity was gone, leaving only Lord Elmond Haebyrling. His wig and makeup were at foolish angles, but his face was far from the amusing tone it boded. Beside him a man in a jet-leather jacket, with dark hair lay head against the table. A cane was beside his jacket, thin, and stained a horrifying crimson. Haebyrling had more tears to give as he gazed up across to meet Fiara. ‘I was promised your hand,’ he calmly said. Every thump of her heart fell between the sound of that drum. The horn screeched again. ‘May I take your arm?’

Fiara’s icy eyes swam across the room. A grey gloom was swallowing the high hall, balanced only by the spectral hue of three moon’s arrogant radiance and the smoking embers of torches unlit. She said nothing but met his eyes again. That sadness was there, but it was hollow, and told of broken plays. ‘I’m a Duke now, the most important nobleman of Clyreton. May I take it?’ He said again. The drum’s thump was loud.

‘What have you done?’ Fiara raised her hand, uncontrollably shaking, at the collapsed man beside him. ‘I can see he’s not sleeping. What have you done to Leach?’ She demanded. The terror was trickling as every thumping pound encroached on the keep.

‘I had to. It’s all been to earn your hand, my Lady Fiara. Everything’s been about earning your hand. Sorry about you losing your inheritance though; they say I get Cliffhaven, to join my estates in Clyreton, so I can always make you my lady of Cliffhaven in absence. That way we don’t ever have to leave,’ Haebyrling offered, as if kind. As if he was in control.

Fiara spoke clear and powerful. ‘I am the heir to the Stone of Brighthelm by my right as great-great-great-great-granddaughter of Boeris the First, Boeris the Dragoncaller, Boeris the Stormlord, Boeris our Boy Conqueror. I am the lawful heiress apparent of Loullands, and heiress to this Cardinal Ladyship of Scarshire. And I swear to you I will claim that right. Don’t threaten me. Don’t ever threaten me, or my family, or scheme against us–’

The thumping paused for a moment. Haebyrling had begun to show his fear. There was a deep fear when spoken down upon in any person, but the hall’s greatest fear came when that horn screeched through the sky again. And still, the winds of Cliffhaven had not blown. A screech that made him laugh. ‘You’re right, it is your throne. It should be. It would be if this world was good, Lady Fiara. Alas, this world is not. Where are… listen to me,’ he shrieked.

Fiara had no more time to hear his hubris; she made run for the Grand Balcony. Her closest thing to active equipment was the riding attire. It had gambeson, padding, leather squares, and bandoliers meant to carry supplies. If only I had Thunderwyrm, Fiara thought. But she knew too that the slaughter was precisely for that reason.

The Grand Balcony was perhaps the most silent place. Maerk was off on his duty, and Twyner somewhere deep in the Seashell cliffs, far from Silversalt. Far from Cliffhaven. Thunderwyrm still lay sprawled across the mosaic in the centre, flayed and brutalised. Thunderwyrm was the name her father teased for calling. It was on her birthday did he gift her the royal seal to bless Twyner to teach lessons. Thunderwyrm. What a stupid little name it is, Fiara thought as she mourned for her dear friend. If only the winds would blow.

It was not a challenge to remove the loose silks of nobility when one had grown around it. However, tightening protective equipment and lacing brass-adorned leather was no simple task. Alas, with some effort, the fire fuelled by desire, Fiara was ready. Then she heard a wicked shriek. Then many shrieks. The drums were rambunctious and thundering where the squall was not. The wind was subsided, and the thump of drums were the music of dusk.