Page 116

Sunlight in the Rain

Andry

The Jydi called himSafyrsar. The Blue Star.

At first, Andry thought they meant it as an insult, both to his dirty tunic and his Gallish heritage. He soon learned the Jydi were nothing like the Gallish court. They spoke openly. A smile was a smile, a scowl a scowl. There was no cause for political machinations or intrigue, not with war looming over all else. Halla, the Sornlonda chief, was quick to invite Andry to train with her warriors. Even Kalmo, the hot-tempered, red-bearded chief of Hjorn, gifted Andry an ax, to dispel any hard feelings between them.

The raiders still held no love for the southern kingdoms, let alone Galland and her knights. They spoke often of Erida, spitting whenever someone brought up her name. Andry could not blame them. He’d seen for himself what her greed had done to the realm, and what more she intended to do with Taristan at her side. Once, he admired Erida’s bravery and her intelligence, the way she balanced her court and kept the kingdom flourishing. Now he hated her political machinations, and her wretched ambition.

The Jydi mourned as Andry did, building funeral pyres to the Yrla,and all the tribesmen who died in Gidastern. No bodies topped the pyres but the flames jumped up into the heavens anyway, burning for many long nights. The few Yrla survivors took it upon themselves to keep the fires lit.

Like beacons, the pyres drew more tribes into Ghald, until Andry felt the city might burst at the seams.

He spent long weeks watching the people of the Jyd prepare for war. Weapons were forged, leather tanned, mail linked, arrows fletched. Provisions counted, barrels filled. Sails mended, rope woven, oars sanded, hulls sealed with tar. Andry soon lost count of the many tribes, their flags as varied as snowflakes. But every morning, he counted the longships in the harbor, both docked or anchored offshore. Their number grew steadily, until the horizon was a forest of masts.

War councils and endless debate spiraled, more than two dozen chiefs of the Jydi arguing over tactics. At least everyone agreed on one thing. If Erida and Taristan’s legions rose to war, the Jydi would slow them down.

In his heart, Andry itched to be gone, away with the wind and the tide. But he could go nowhere without the Elders of Kovalinn, who idled in Ghald despite his best efforts. The days felt endless, sliding by slowly, as if time itself had frozen. Andry found himself praying to the god of time. He begged for less and more in equal measure. More time for the Ward. And less time for Corayne to wander, alone in the wilderness.

Above all things, Andry prayed she was safe. And he prayed Valtik was right.

The old witch said nothing more about Corayne, but told him the same thing every day:

“Beware the halls of graying woe, our doom rises from below. The fates collide on ragged wing, snow melts to blood in coming spring.”

That rhyme, at least, was clear enough.

Andry spent his free time training with the Jydi, turning axes with his own sword. The raiders fought more fiercely than knights, but without any organization. Andry knew the intricate steps of dueling and advised the raiders on how to fight a trained Gallish army. Most were farmers outside the raiding season, and it showed. He only hoped it would be enough, to strike Taristan’s army from the sea, and retreat to safety before the full might of his legions could strike back.

On one cold, pink dawn, Andry awoke to find the sky streaked red, and the sea a still mirror. He stepped out of his warm tent with a shiver, almost enjoying the slap of cold air. It woke him better than anything else.

He sipped at a hot cup of tea, enjoying the taste of honey and crushed juniper. His scalp still felt tight, his black hair newly wound into neat braids.

In Galland, he would have shorn his hair down to the root every time it grew too long. But that felt wrong now, like putting on a jacket he had grown out of. Instead, one of the Jydi obliged. She was of Kasa originally, his mother’s country, and knew how to set his springy black curls.

Finishing his tea, Andry ran a hand down his head. The braids felt right beneath his fingers. They remined him of his mother, and her own intricate braids woven with keen fingers.

As always, his throat bobbed when he thought of Valeri Trelland.

Is she alive?he wondered for the thousandth time.Is she safe with our kin in Kasa?

To that, there was no answer, and perhaps never would be.

Andry sighed, looking back to the city.

Ferocious as the winter was, the calm hours were just as beautiful. The cold gave everything a diamond sheen of frost, freezing the muddy streets, with ice crusting on the shoreline. The longships glittered in theharbor, the clouds sharp against a blooming sky. Andry hoped it would not burn, crushed beneath the fist of What Waits.

To Andry’s surprise, Eyda and her Elders stood above the city gates, watching the single road along the coast.

He left the tent behind, pulling on his cloak at a run. By now he knew the streets of Ghald well enough to sprint all the way to the gates, taking a few shortcuts along the route.

“What is it?” he gasped, breathless as he bounded up the steps.

The other Elders parted to allow him room next to their lady, who only nodded in greeting. Eyda did not blink, her gaze locked on the tree line obscuring a bend in the rutted old road.

Her silence was answer enough. Andry gave a grim nod of his own before searching the pines with a squint, though his own eyesight could hardly compare to the Elders’.

Something lurched through the trees and his stomach lurched with it, trying to place the lumbering shadow as it picked through the snow. It looked like a boulder at first, shadowed by the endless trees.