Tempest of Bravoure Page 2

Cayne motioned for them to sit back down. “It’s bad,” she grumbled. “Azera’s giving up.”

  She collapsed on the nearest seat, her elbows planted in her knees and her face in her palms. She let out a long grunt of exhaustion. Jules noticed the bouncing ball roll to the center of the room. In the next instant, a small, furry shadow bolted to the ball. The color was auburn; Jules recognized his favorite little friend immediately.

  “Luky!” he called.

  Luky, the young sindur catling, picked up the ball between his paws and furiously played with it, making it bounce to the other side of the room and running behind it. Cayne smiled when she saw Luky rush out of the room after the ball. She then sighed deeply—a way to get back to reality after this brief moment of fondness.

  “The frigates you mentioned, Jules, they’re for war,” she said, then paused and straightened her posture on the chair. “War against Galies.”

  The two women gasped. Jules, who now leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms. They knew this was coming, but this soon? When Jules had returned, he had seen first-hand what Bravoure had become. Lost in the streets, he had been captured by the City Watch, a branch of the Bravan Army dedicated to capital-centered operations on the nation’s own citizens. They had suspected him to be a saboteur, an enemy of the new regime. His confusion had not helped his cause. Soon after, Jules had been taken to the gallows, not to be hanged, but to have his head cut off like an animal. Had it not been for a band of defectors, Jules would not be standing here today, in the Underground.

  “They’re drafting the declaration as we speak,” Cayne finished her statement.

  The silence that followed almost allowed everyone in the room to hear their own thoughts. Bravoure had the means to pillage and plunder a land like Iskala, as it had done twenty years ago. But Galies? Why? How could they be so foolish? The light voice of a catling interrupted the mute debate.

  “Does this mean we’ll fight Corax?” Luky asked, leaning against the wall beside Jules, mimicking his posture.

  Jules cast a glance at the catling. Luky was now holding his iron dagger and ferociously stroked it with his other paw.

  “You want to fight with that?” Jules jocularly wondered.

  “Yes!” Luky firmly responded, raising his dagger into his fist. “I’m going to slit the general’s throat myself!”

  Jules and the two women let out a compulsive, synchronous laugh. They found Luky’s zeal adorable. Only Cayne remained still, pondering, forming a plan in her head. She inhaled deeply before addressing her companions.

  “We have to rebel,” she declared. “We have to get it together. Get the Wolf Pack together. If we don’t unite now, it’ll be too late.”

  Her voice, deep and grave, sounded like Cayne no longer believed there was an escape. This was to be their next fight. It was their duty, for the protection of a nation that had long failed its people.

  Sara raised her head to Cayne. “The hard part is going to be getting everyone together.”

  Jules flaked off the wall and took a few steps forward. “We’re handling this. Cayne, any news from Luthan?”

  Cayne shook her head. “Not since he passed beyond Fallvale’s border.”

  “Is that the elf, the one you sent on that mission?” Meline, born in Iskala, raised in Bravoure, asked Cayne, who gave her an affirmative nod in response.

  Jules clapped his hands together. He rubbed them a little, in enthusiasm for the plans to be made. “We have to rally the clans! I’ll send word.” He then turned to face the door. “Follow me, Luky. We have work to do!” He was confident and happy to have found something else to keep himself busy.

  Staring at an invisible point on the wall, Cayne released the breath she had been holding all this time. “We have to hope the archmage comes back with something,” she distantly said.

  Sara stood and followed Jules out, but not before glancing at Cayne. “I’ll make contact with Sud.”

  Meline followed soon after. “And I, with mercenaries in Dalgon.”

  Cayne acknowledged the two. Once all souls had left the room, she leaned back in her chair, never losing the fixed point on the stone wall. She glared at it, analyzed it. The band of insurgents, divided across the land, needed to assemble for good. But they needed an incentive. Something to unite a fractured movement. Cayne had sent Luthan Hyehn on a rash mission that had grown from a desperate idea. But that mission might finally tip the scales of power in the Wolf Pack’s favor.

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  Falco, Dallor. These two names were written at the top of the large headstone. Ahna touched the cold marble of a family grave with a frail hand. She read some of the names in her mind, carved in gold, the letters of which shimmered in the afternoon light of the sun. Kairen Aquil. Ahna could not believe it. She had to close her eyes to hold in tears. David Falco. She touched the words, traced them with her trembling fingers. Iedrias Dallor. The cursives were so beautiful. She had to cry this time. Iedrias, her old friend she had been reunited with after fifty years, the one she had last seen but a week ago, deceased. David, to whom she could have never said goodbye, deceased. And Kairen, her dear sister and friend, the woman Ahna had raised like a daughter, deceased. The woman Ahna had taught the art of combat. Ahna had taught her to fight for her freedom with everything she had. And that, Kairen had done exactly so. Kairen had fought with the Resistance of legends to free Bravoure from the claws of the Dwellunder, from the grasp of an evil Ahna could never forget.

  The elf collapsed at the foot of the marble grave. She had already been on her knees. Now, she was curled up on herself, crying a flow of endless tears. Her stomach hurt from the pain of the endless spasms. Her arms crossed to support herself, she pressed them close to her.

  “These people, they were dear to you,” a melodic voice spoke to Ahna. It was as if they were not words, just a transmission of a complex feeling

  She had no answer for it. She simply nodded, aware wherever the voice came from, it could not see her, yet she still did it.

  That melody, again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Get out of my head,” Ahna pleaded through her tears.

  Ahna wanted to hush the voice, the call of the Arc of Light that had never left her. But mostly, she wanted to stop crying. She wanted to hush herself, the risk of getting caught was too great. Because that was Ahna’s greatest worry at the moment: getting caught by the City Watch, on the Congregation’s consecrated burial grounds. The brownish cloak she wore, with a hood that practically completely covered her face, had been enough so far to keep her hidden. But she saw the way people in the streets looked at her, curious to find what lurked beneath this ample cowl. Afraid whoever that may be would be dokkalfar.

  When Ahna had landed in New Bravoure, she had been utterly lost. Stranded. Castaway. But the worst had struck her like a knife to the heart: she had been stripped of her magic. That one thing that had been there with her since birth. The arcane. The power she knew so well that had guided her through her entire life, like a lighthouse in a cloud of mist while she had been lost at sea.

  Everything had been all...different. The city, the people. Ahna had been able to escape, and later, she had slowly pieced together an eclipsed puzzle, with some scattered pieces that still eluded her.

  She had figured out the year. 1554:AV. That was one hundred and eighty-nine years too far.

  There was a curfew too. No souls were allowed in the streets after sundown. It did not make it easier for her. As the days had passed, Ahna had heard whispers, conversations, rumors about the ruthless General Corax and a monarch too weak to rule. A Reign of Terror. One thing was obvious, one thing that gnawed at her to the bone: the dokkalfar were banned. The elf had been forced to hide in the shadows not to be removed or brutally killed, just like that. Ahna had also learned about Iskala’s fate, the land of the north. A nation of nomadic tribes, conquered for the ore that sponsored the Bravan Army. Blackiron, harder than regular steel. Though there were a few pressin
g mysteries that remained. It drained her just to think about it. What had happened to her? To Farooq and Jules? To...Luthan? Almost everyone she had known was long gone, but what about Thamias? Where was he? Was he dead? Was he killed? Where was her brother?

  Oh, Bravoure, what have you become? Ahna thought to herself. She sniffed the last bits of her cries in silence, then swallowed before raising herself up. Still on her knees, she took one last glance at the names on the marble headstone. Lucas Falco. Could that have been Kairen and David’s son? Deceased. Clarice Dallor-Falco. Iedrias’s daughter. Was this where the two lines had joined? Deceased.

  A sharp click, followed by a pulsating surge. Ahna heard it right behind her. The point of something hard pressed lightly against the back of her head. She instantly froze.

  “Care to tell me what you’re doing here?” a voice asked with a severe timbre. A woman’s voice.

  Ahna spread both of her arms as a sign of peace. She had no idea what pointed at the back of her head, but she was sure it was dangerous.

  “I’m unarmed,” she said.

  “What are you doing here?” the unknown woman asked again, aggression rising in her voice.

  The elf wanted to turn around, but she couldn’t reveal her face.

  “I can explain!” Ahna quickly stammered.

  The hard point pressed against her thick brown cowl. It forced Ahna to lean over.

  “Wait!” she called. “I can explain. My name is Ahna. I’m a mage.”

  The pulsations of whatever the stranger held became louder.

  “I come from far, very far away,” the elf desperately wanted to explain. “I used to know them, the names! You have to believe me.”

  It was as if the woman had not listened. “Tell me what you’re doing on my family’s grave, or I’ll blow your head off!”

  “Wait!” Ahna shouted in panic, then paused, recalling the woman’s last words.

  Her family’s grave.

  Ahna impulsively turned around, coming face to face with a metallic object of two tubes and a larger barrel. The object appeared to glow. The woman had blazing copper eyes fixed on the elf. She clenched the hilt of that strange weapon when she saw who Ahna really was. But her glare did not show fear or anger. Just solemn conviction. Ahna recognized these eyes. It was undeniable. In them, she saw Kairen Aquil’s fiery stare.

  “Are you a Falco?” Ahna simply asked, not knowing what else to say to save herself from an impending fight.

  The stranger’s posture softened, but her eyes still burned. “Who’s asking?”

  “Ahna.”

  “Why are you here, Ahna?” the woman pressed, her weapon still pointed at the elf’s forehead.

  Ahna lowered her arms before speaking again. “It’s hard to explain—”

  “Try me,” the stranger interrupted.

  Ahna took a short breath. “Kairen Aquil, David Falco, Iedrias...they were my friends. In a different time.”

  Out of any reaction Ahna had anticipated, she would have never thought a warm smile to be a logical response. The woman with copper eyes and olive skin lowered her weapon and sheathed it in a holster strapped to her leather belt. Ahna noticed she wore simple chainmail over a green tunic. The dark green that, for a brief second, made her thoughts veer back to the sight of Resistance cloaks. The stranger kept her smile, and she gave a greeting hand to Ahna.

  “He’s going to be thrilled you’re finally here,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

  Ahna, still surprised by the woman’s mood switch, clasped her hand and mechanically shook it.

  “The name’s Cayne Falco,” the woman said with a sense of pride. “And your friend, Jules, has told me so much about you.”

  Jules. Ahna’s heart filled with a spark that burst into a wave of joy. Jules was alive. And he was here. She was so overwhelmed that she did not find any words to say. Cayne chuckled and released Ahna’s hand.

  “Follow me,” she instructed. “We need to get you out of here before the Watch sees you.”

  Ahna complied. She wanted to do nothing more than to follow this woman like she was desperate for some comfort. She was ready to believe her. That woman with long wavy black hair inspired trust. Ahna wanted nothing more than to see Jules again, her dear friend, the handsome shrike spy she loved, almost like a brother.

  * * *

  Cayne Falco led Ahna to the Gold Monk, a tavern almost as old as the Congregation itself. It was located around a square with a fountain of clear water. Dozens of roses hung from large banners stretched across the square. There were a few stands, with merchants selling goods from all over the nation. Mostly food. Momrogis, spiced soup, braised chicken legs...

  People did not pay much attention to the two women, even though Ahna was the only passer-by cowled to the chin. They were more focused on getting something juicy into their stomach.

  The man at the Gold Monk’s entrance greeted Cayne. Ahna noticed how the two looked at each other. They knew one another, and he seemed to be aware of why she was here. Cayne headed straight for a door painted red to the side of the large counter inside the tavern. The floor felt sticky, but the air smelled nice. Fruity, with a hint of cedar incense. There were barely any customers, as it was the middle of the day, but the innkeeper, an old woman with a white scarf that covered her hair, was scrubbing some silver goblets nonetheless. It was most probably to prepare for the evening to come.

  Past the red oiled door was a set of steps that led down to the Gold Monk’s basement. Ahna could hear voices coming from the bottom of the stairs. It was loud. Laughter, shouts. She could almost exactly guess where she was headed...

  “Welcome to the Underground,” Cayne said with a smile.

  The two women stepped into a large chamber. Chic leather seats and tables were scattered around the room. There were many people, humans, elves, sindurs. Dicerollers and cardplayers sipping on full cups. Ahna even spotted a dokkalfar girl. There was a bar, but it did not serve the same rum or ale as upstairs. An attendant passed Ahna with three large cups of a blue liquid. Talmuur cognac, for sure. Ahna would recognize sweet Dwellunder brandy from miles away. At the back of the room was an arch that gave to a hallway lit by torches. The elf did not see past the two large men posted on each side of the arch.

  Cayne just had to clear her throat for the entire room to fall silent. They looked at her and waited for her to speak. She turned to Ahna and gave her a quick nod. The elf understood; she removed the hood of her cloak.

  Gasps.

  Then, from a corner Ahna had not yet inspected, a flamboyant mane of fair hair caught her attention. The man, with hair blond as hay and eyes of a clear blue, had immediately stood from his chair upon seeing the dark elf by Cayne’s side.

  “Ahna!” he called and immediately rushed to her.

  He did not give her a choice. He took her in his arms and almost lifted her up in the air. He pressed her against him—he was so relieved to finally see his friend again.

  “Jules...” Ahna was able to articulate, almost crushed by her friend’s embrace.

  People looked at them. Some men in the room had started suggestively whistling in humor. When Jules let her go, he gave the biggest of kisses on her blue cheek. He was so happy, filled with relief. Ahna, the missing, was standing right in front of him.

  “Gods, Jules, I thought I’d lost you,” Ahna said with tears in her eyes.

  Jules wanted to hold his friend again, but more people started looking. He did not want more gossip in the Gold Monk’s speakeasy. Oh, what the Hell! He pulled her in his arms again.

  He took a deep breath before addressing her silver hair since his face was in it. “There’s so much I need to tell you,” he said. He also had tears in his eyes. He let her go again and straightened his posture. “Where do I start?”

  Ahna adjusted her cloak and leathers, which had been squashed by Jules. Before she could speak, Cayne stepped in on the two and their reunion.

  “Let’s go take a seat,” she suggested. “I suspect you t
wo have a lot to talk about.”

  She led them to a booth in a corner, close to the bar. Most people in the room had now gone back to their previous activities. In this more private space, Ahna took a minute to look at the retired spy. Jules Halcyon, the handsome shrike she was so relieved to see again. His hair had grown longer. Ridges in the corner his eyes disclosed the things he might have been through. The elf could not wait to ask everything she needed to know. She could not wait to get answers.

  * * *

  Ahna ordered a cup of Gurdal tea, but her two companions fancied an alcoholic beverage. A shot of goldrain rum. Always good on a sunny afternoon. Jules raised his glass at the elf and gave her a beautiful smile.

  “When did you get back?” he asked.

  Ahna, unsure of what he had meant, leaned in closer to the table. “Back?” She had a theory, but she needed confirmation. Thinking about it was just crazy.

  “Back from the moon,” Jules specified.

  Jules looked like he had been here for much, much longer. Ahna noticed his growing stubble, unusual from his always clean-shaven face. His leathers were different. Dark brown, instead of the typical black. The tailoring was different. An altered cut.

  “About a week ago,” Ahna eventually answered. Jules stayed silent, so the elf spoke again. “What about you?”

  His tongue clicked. “About two years.”

  Two years? Ahna’s jaw dropped. Jules had been here for two years. How was this even possible? She did not hesitate. She had to know everything Jules knew, about the magi, about Luna, about this...place. About how it had changed.

  “What happened to us? What happened to Skyshrine?” she asked him. “What the Hell has happened here?”

  The blond spy chuckled. “Some time between then and now, the magi all left Skyshrine and left the Planar Mask to collect dust. I guess going back to the past was impossible. As for your last question,” with a motion of the hand, he pointed at Cayne, who sat quietly by the two, “Falco, here, can explain it better!”