ten of them; Cyrus, Aisling, Longwell, Martaina, J’anda, Nyad, Scuddar, and Calene Raverle, along with a healer whose name Cyrus had yet to catch, a human who said little to nothing. Raverle had made a fairly quick recovery after Green Hill and had made no mention of what had happened, though Cyrus knew there was a stillness about her that hinted at things, things going on in her depths that he preferred to not inquire about.
“Ready to either usurp my father’s throne or claim my birthright, depending on how things go?” Longwell did not look at him, merely kept his gauntletted hands on the reins as they went. “I suppose I’m as ready for that as I’ll ever get.”
“Glad you’re keeping it in perspective,” Cyrus said, and they went on in silence.
The border crossing was a simple thing. The guards said nothing to them, merely nodded assent as they approached the shack. When they had gone a few hundred feet past it along the path into the woods, Cyrus turned back to Longwell. “That was easy.”
“They see ten people, one of them wearing a surcoat of the Galbadien dragoons,” Longwell said without emotion, “they probably assume we’re not going to invade the Kingdom as we are.”
“That makes them all the more foolish, then, doesn’t it?” J’anda asked from behind them.
“Not in the context of Luukessia,” Longwell said. “A man with a spell may do much damage in Arkaria, but very few spellcasters would care to brave the bridge simply to come to Luukessia for the joy of it.”
The weather over the next days was pleasing to Cyrus, who had not missed the hot, listless days of summer, even after the few he had spent waiting at the camp near Filsharron for the battle to come to them. The nights he spent under the bedroll with Aisling, separated slightly from the others. She was the only thing that allowed him to sleep soundly at night; her activity, her vigor. He lay down at night spent not only from the ride but from her, letting himself rest in her.
His dreams were clear, surprisingly so, considering the scourge and all that it meant for Luukessia. They rode on at a fast pace but at one which allowed for proper care of the horses. He watched Martaina at night when she looked after them, picking out their feet, using Nyad’s ability to conjure grains and oats for them when they stayed in the wilderness instead of an inn. Some nights they did stay in towns and ate hot food made in the taverns instead of the hard cheese they carried with them. Occasionally Martaina would bring down an animal on an evening when they took extra rest and would make a stew or something similar. Occasionally it was long into the night before she was done cleaning and preparing the animal, but when Cyrus had the first taste, he knew the wait was worth it, even tempered as it was with the pickled eggs and conjured bread that they had to cut the hunger pangs.
They crossed through canyons and foothills, came down through wide forests choked with game. Those nights were bounteous with their harvests, and the nights spent in roadside inns where the fare was little more than warmer bread and the barest stew were ill enjoyed by comparison. Cyrus began to feel the slightest of his life’s blood come back to him one night sitting by a fire, in a circle with the others, his patera-a cooking pot, cup and bowl all in one-filled to the brim in front of him with something Martaina had created from some animals she had snared and the spices she carried with her.
“This is really quite magnificent,” J’anda said, supping it straight from his patera. “Where did you learn to do all these things-hunting, fishing, cooking, tracking?”
“My father,” Martaina said, stirring the small cauldron that she carried on the back of her horse. “He was one of the last of the breed of elves who lived their lives in the Iliarad’ouran Woods outside Pharesia. That forest is rich with wildlife, and a small band of our people chose to live outside the city gates, off the land rather than within the walls, herding, domesticating animals. It was a simpler life, a subsistence life, rather than one focused on creating excess and serving the monarchy, with their demand for as much of your grain and livestock as they could lay hands on.”
She stirred the spoon slowly in the cauldron, a small one, only slightly larger than Cyrus’s helm. “He taught me how to fire an arrow as quickly as you can pluck it, how to follow tracks, and skin a beast fast, get it over the fire and roast it on spit.” She blinked. “It was all we did, all day long, and the sooner we finished those chores the sooner we could get to the idle fun of the things we wanted to do.” She smiled. “So we got very good at it.”
“I take it he’s passed on now?” Nyad asked quietly. “If he was one of the Iliarad’ouran woodsmen, I know the last of their number was-”
“Yes,” Martaina said simply, cutting her off. “About a milennia ago. He was the last. I chose not to follow in his footsteps to carry it on.”
Nyad nodded without saying much else; it occurred to Cyrus after a space of seconds that the tension was heavy, which was probably due to the fact that Nyad’s father
“It’s fall now,” Calene Raverle spoke up. “Apples would be coming into season in the Northlands.” Her voice was soft but strained, as though it had been poured through a sifter and all that was left was smoothness. It could barely be heard it over the sound of the crickets though everyone listened intently. “Have you ever walked through an orchard on a fall day and picked apples as you went?” Her eyes were far off now, thinking about it. “Felt the cool grass beneath your feet, like a thousand tickling kisses?” She let a small smile crop up on her petite face. “You take the first bite of one, hear the crunch, feel it crackle in your mouth, the tartness of the yellow ones.” She took a breath. “They make cider with some of the excess, you know, and if you can get some cinnamon for it …” She breathed again and a sadness crept over her. “I don’t suppose they have much in the way of apple orchards around Sanctuary though, do they?”
“I believe there is one across the river Perda, to the south,” J’anda said. “I miss fall nights at Sanctuary, when the barest chill cancels out the warm sun. You know that two-week period after summer ends and we get our first chill, but then the warm weather comes back before it turns a little blustery? I like that. It’s like the last kiss of summer before it leaves. Not that it gets desperately wintery in the Plains of Perdamun, like it does outside Saekaj, anyway, but I like that last … that last goodbye. A fond farewell, if you will.”
“The gardens around the palace have a certain kind of vegetation that only blooms in fall,” Nyad said. “Pharesia is far enough south that winter’s touch is not that painful, but when they prepare the gardens for winter, it is an impressive sight … for the few days when it freezes, they make ice sculptures and fill the grounds with them. And at the smaller palace outside Termina, they used to-” Nyad’s broad face carried a smile that faded as she looked around and settled on Martaina, who stared evenly back at her. “Well, it was beautiful. Though I suppose that’s gone now,” she said with a touch of sadness.
“Longwell?” Cyrus asked, and the dragoon seemed to settle into deep thought.
“Vernadam sits so low in the land that summer lasts longer for us than it does for most of Arkaria,” he said. “Winter is a short affair, a few months only of lower temperatures, and a very quick autumn to bridge between the two.” He shrugged. “I spent time in my youth at Enrant Monge and in the northern parts of Galbadien and found them to be very different than life at Vernadam. Autumn in the north is like winter at home.”
“What about you?” Aisling spoke up, dragging Cyrus out of his quiet. “What do you miss most about autumn at home?”
Cyrus pondered that for a moment. “I don’t, I suppose. I mean, Sanctuary’s been home for the last couple years. Before that I was living in the slums of Reikonos, where every day is the same, even the ones where the snow goes to your knees. Before that …” he shrugged. “Still in Reikonos, all the way back to when I was at the Society of Arms.”
“So,” Nyad asked, “you don’t have any distinct memories of autumn? Nothing?”
After a moment’s thought, Cyrus shrugged. “We went on a training exercise to the Northlands once in the fall, the year after I joined the Society. It was almost as much a camping trip as anything, to get us familiar with staying out overnight, sleeping under the stars. But they took us away from the city for this one, on a long hike, aided by a wizard for transport. I remember seeing the leaves change. You don’t see much of that in Reikonos, because it’s not like Termina; there aren’t many trees in the city itself, it’s mostly houses and buildings. I remember that pretty well, the hues of the leaves, how different they were from the green ones I was used to seeing. Trees all down the road and beyond.” He hesitated. “I think that was the training exercise where I finally got the Able Axes to leave me the hell alone.”
“Able Axes?” Nyad said, her brow puckered with confusion.
“Blood Family,” Cyrus said. “The Society of Arms splits its trainees into two separate classes, the Able Axes
