Two pale, composed faces, framed in night-black hair spread out over white pillows. Eyes shut, breathing steady and slow. One lay alone in her narrow infirmary bed; upon the torso of the other rested a small bundle of grey fur, curled into a sleeping ball.
Aysun had scarcely looked on any other image in days. He had placed a chair between the two beds in which lay his wife and his daughter. Hour after hour he sat there, gazing first upon Ynara's face and then upon Llandry, so like her mother and yet so different also. The signs he craved never came: no quickening breath announced a wakening from slumber, no flutter of the eyelashes, no slight movement of hands or fingers. They remained still as statues, white as marble.
Pensould sat on the other side of the room, by Llandry's side. He and Aysun hardly spoke; both maintained their dejected vigils in near silence, unable to find anything to say. Pensould had been optimistic for a time, after whatever feat he had pulled using Aysun's own vitality. But when Llandry still didn't wake, his spirits had steadily sunk further and further.
Aysun still found the draykon-man unnerving, and he certainly didn't know what to make of his relationship with Llandry (of whatever nature it was). But his devoted guardianship over her warmed Aysun's heart. Whatever he might be, his affection for little Llan was obviously sincere.
Aysun shifted in his chair, his muscles cramping with inaction. He was neglecting his duties, he knew. In the aftermath of the draykon attack, there had been calls for new weapons to be developed, for Glinnery possessed nothing with which to respond to the attacks of those vast, airborne beasts. As a leading engineer of the realm, he had a clear duty to participate in the project.
He did try. Every day he left the infirmary for a few hours and turned his thoughts to the problem of city defence. But it was hard; all he could see was those two still faces, their beloved features as much dead as alive. Who could think of war machines under such circumstances? Not him. He was not equal to it.
Sigwide woke and stood up, stretching his short legs. Seeing Aysun, he gave the tiniest wag of his stubby tail, then wobbled over to install himself in the big man's lap. Aysun petted him abstractedly. The orting's fur was dense and matted; he hadn't been grooming himself properly. He hadn't been eating properly either, though he was regularly provided with food. Sigwide had always been so in tune with Llan; Aysun was afraid that this listlessness was the product of that bond. Was Sigwide already mourning?
The door clattered open and Rufin almost fell through it, his enormous feet tripping over the mat. He cursed loudly, barely managing to catch himself before he fell headlong to the floor. A mug he'd been carrying dropped and shattered.
Aysun sighed. If even Rufin's regular clumsiness couldn't wake his ladies, they were heavily asleep indeed.
'Still moping?' Rufin thrust the surviving mug at Aysun, scowling. The cup contained strong-smelling soup, the scent of which turned Aysun's stomach immediately.
'I am keeping them company,' he replied stiffly. 'Any moment there could be a change. Someone should stay with them.'
Rufin snorted. 'Has it escaped your notice that we're under attack? You're needed out there. Those creatures aren't done yet.'
Aysun shrugged. 'I'm not the only engineer in Glinnery.'
'Luckily for us, you're the only useless one.'
Aysun said nothing. Rufin couldn't rile him, not now.
'You going to drink that?'
'Can't. Sorry.'
Rufin held out his hand. 'Give it back then.' The gunman reclaimed the mug. He offered it perfunctorily to Pensould, who mutely shook his head. With a shrug, Rufin drained the contents in two gulps.
'Feels like a mausoleum in here,' he muttered. He turned to leave.
Blocking his exit was a tall gentleman, elderly, with a full head of white hair and a commanding air. Aysun frowned, puzzled. He hadn't heard the man come in.
'Llandry Sanfaer,' said the newcomer. 'Which one is her?'
Aysun stood up and advanced. 'Who are you? What do you want with her?'
The man merely brushed him aside. 'Never mind that. She must be removed from here, with the utmost haste. Her well-being depends on it. Which one is Miss Sanfaer?' He stared into both sleeping faces for an instant or two in turn, then pointed to Llandry. 'This one, I conclude?'
'Back off,' Aysun said, his fits clenching in anger. 'You're not taking her anywhere.'
Pensould spoke, for the first time in some hours. 'It's all right. I know this man. He intends no harm.'
Aysun's brows snapped together. 'What? Then who is he?'
A small, hopeless smile crossed Pensould's strange face. 'It would take far too long to explain.'
'And I decline to make any more explanations at present; there's been enough of that,' said the impatient and autocratic old man. 'Pensould, you'll help me.'
'You will not!' Aysun cried as Pensould rose from his chair. 'Llandry is safe here, with her family. She stays.'
The old man rounded on him. 'She isn't safe anywhere, you fool. Do you think you can protect her? You are far out of your depth, whoever you are. The only way she has a chance is if I take her. She must not be left in this Cluster of worlds.'
Aysun stared, dumbfounded, as the man turned his back on him and, with Pensould's help, picked up Llandry's sleeping form. Sigwide whimpered at his feet: Pensould stooped to collect him, too.
'Drop the young lady,' came Rufin's command. He had drawn a pistol - where he had hidden it Aysun couldn't guess, as his weapons were always stripped from him in the infirmary. The pistol was aimed at the old man's head.
'Gently,' Aysun amended.
The old man rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of pure exasperation. 'Don't be ridiculous. You drop it. Now.' He stared the gunman down, his blue eyes cold as winter.
To Aysun's complete amazement, Rufin let the pistol fall.
'Good. Any other objections?' His cold stare turned on Aysun, whose indignation and anger melted away like butter in the sun. He had tensed himself, ready to rush the man. Now his muscles relaxed, all desire to attack withering away.
'I gather you have some interest in this young lady's condition, so Pensould shall keep you informed,' the man continued, relentless. 'But with me she must indeed go. I assure you, it is the only way to preserve her life.'
Aysun's lips fought to form words, some silent command working to keep him quiet. 'Wh-where are you taking her?'
'Somewhere Other,' was all the reply he received.
'Then I go as well.'
'That is not acceptable.'
'Just try to leave without me,' Aysun growled.
The man simply ignored him.
'Pensould?' Aysun turned to the draykon-man, placing all his hopes of an explanation in the goodwill of his daughter's admirer.
'All will be well, I swear it,' Pensould replied.
Aysun grunted. Remembering the voice-box, he groped in his pocket for it and tossed it to Pensould.
'You will keep me informed,' he growled. 'If anything happens to her, it's you I'm coming after.'
Pensould merely nodded, storing the device in his own garments.
'If that's everything, it's past time to go,' said the white-haired man, his tone dripping impatience. On Pensould's nod, he secured his grip on Llandry and clamped a hand around Pensould's arm.
Released from the old man's stare, Aysun regained his will. He prepared himself, standing ready to follow the group as they left. He couldn't be kept from accompanying Llandry: he refused to be left behind.
But then they vanished.
Aysun stood dumb with shock. It was a true vanishment: there one instant, gone the next, while he had been watching them closely enough to detect any trickery.
'Huh?' Rufin rushed past him to stand where the three had been only moments before. He walked in circles, sweeping his hands through the air, as if to discover by that means some manner of trickery.
Finding nothing, he stared incredulously at Aysun.
Unease spread rapidly through Aysun's body, choking his breath and sending his stomach clenching with trepidation.
Whatever his Llandry had got herself into, it was clearly far beyond his power to comprehend.
'You'd better keep her safe,' he muttered to the empty air, trying desperately to trust in Pensould's confident endorsement of the man.
Taking up his seat by Ynara's side, Aysun took his wife's hand. Still cold; still senseless.
Cold metal touched his temple, startling him. Rufin stood over him, his pistol retrieved and once more in his hand. The barrel of it was pointed at Aysun's head.
Aysun slowly lifted his brows at his friend.
'Can't let you waste any more time sitting here like a gormless idiot,' Rufin explained. 'I mean, yeah, that was freaky beyond all reason, but you're needed.'
'Ynara needs me,' he replied.
Rufin waved the pistol at her. 'How? She doesn't even know you're there. And what are you going to do to protect her when the next attack comes?'
'Put it down, Ruf. You're not going to shoot me.'
Rufin hesitated, then lowered the weapon. 'Reckon you're right, though you deserve it.'
His old friend was right, of course. Much as it pained him to be torn from Ynara's side, he ought to do more. He must do more.
But he wouldn't leave Ynara unattended either.
'One hour, Rufin. Give me one more hour and I'll join you.'
Rufin grinned. 'I'll be back if you don't.' He swaggered off.
Leaving a final kiss on his wife's brow, Aysun stood and left the infirmary room. He needed to find Nyra. If his father's house in the Uppers was safe enough for Orillin Vanse, it was safe enough for Ynara, too. He would ask Nyra to take them both up to Rheas's house. He knew he could rely on her and Mags to tend to his wife and keep her company, and his father and Eyas would protect them all.
Or they'd better.
If the attack came as Rufin predicted, he could bear it better knowing that his wife - and, he hoped, his daughter - were out of harm's way.
***
Eva paced outside the door to Tren's room, afraid to go inside. He was alive, so Limbane had said, but his condition was not good. It had not been easy to save him. He had lost a great deal of blood, and while Limbane's healing skills were beyond anything seen in her own world, that was one problem he could not resolve.
It was her fault that Tren had been so severely weakened. She should have listened to him to begin with, for he'd been right, entirely right. She was incapable of healing him. The journey to the Library had been hard on him, but if she had done it right away, he would probably have been in better shape for it.
Now she feared the worst. Tren's wound had been closed and healed, but he was still desperately weak, and he would have to rely largely on his own strength to recover. How strong was he? He was young and fit, true, but would it be enough?
Steeling herself, she quietly opened the door and went in. The room was almost completely dark, though enough faint light was present to allow her sensitive night-eyes to make out the details of Tren's form, lying still in a large bed in the centre of the room. Approaching with care - she didn't wish to wake him if he was sleeping - she surveyed his face.
So pale, and his eyes smudged with shadows. But he breathed still, and his face lacked the pallor of death.
'You're too late,' he murmured without opening his eyes. 'For I am dead and gone, slain by wayward pride.'
Eva flinched and stepped back. She knew she deserved some recrimination, but it still hurt to hear it.
'Tren, I'm sorry. I feared for the journey -'
He opened his eyes and looked at her gravely. 'That might be true, but is it also fair to say you were competing with yourself? I know how you dislike to fail.'
She took a pained breath. 'Yes,' she said shakily. 'I really thought that I could make it work, somehow. I was determined.'
He gazed at her for a moment longer with that detestable gravity. Then, suddenly, he grinned.
'You did it because you care. Aren't I right? Admit it.'
Relief weakened her knees. She pulled up a chair and sat at his side.
'Perfectly true: it cannot be denied.' She took his hand and folded it in her own.
'You'll have to make it up to me,' he said, returning the pressure of her fingers.
'How would you like me to atone?'
He made a show of thinking it over.
'I think I have earned a kiss,' he decided. 'I wasn't in a position to properly enjoy the last one.'
Eva complied, thoroughly and without hesitation.
'Curse my weakness,' he said somewhat later. 'Now would be the perfect time to - well, to -'
She opened her eyes very wide. 'To what?'
'Uh. Never mind,' he said lamely.
'Later,' she promised. 'You'd better work on getting well, as fast as you can.'
His eyes widened. 'I wasn't - I mean I was serious but not - I didn't think you'd – um.' He blinked a few times. 'Why the change of heart?'
She countered that with another question. 'Why did you get yourself stabbed?'
He tried to shrug but it obviously hurt somewhere, for he winced in pain. 'If one of us is going to get stabbed, it had better be me.'
'Why?'
'Because your being hurt is not an option.'
She smiled at that. 'I find it hard to believe that even I could mesmerise someone into risking their life for me. It occurred to me that maybe you weren't talking complete nonsense after all.'
'Hey. I know my own mind, my lady. You're insulting.'
'Of course you do.' She adopted the soothing tone that adults use to reassure children.
Tren scowled at her. 'I can't think why I love you. You're perfectly horrible.'
'I know,' she said placidly. Abandoning her chair, she lay down next to him. They lay in silence for a while as Tren gathered his strength and regained his breath.
'So,' he murmured eventually. 'What are we doing next?'
'You're getting well,' she replied. 'Then we're going with Limbane to Ullarn. He's after Krays's workshops.'
'Right. Excellent. But what I actually meant was, what are we doing next? Is it too soon to think about children? Because I think our babies would be too gorgeous for this world.'
She laughed at that and kissed him. 'Ask me again when you're well.'
A week or so after the removal of his wife from Glinnery, Aysun Sanfaer stood at the top of the tallest glissenwol tree in Waeverleyne. A structure had been hastily erected, large and sturdy enough to accommodate the considerable bulk and weight of his new war machines.
The monstrous contraptions were wrought from steel and pale tayn wood brought from Irbel. It was the hardest, strongest wood available and it needed to be, for these machines were built to hurl the heaviest of missiles at intruders from the air.
One was equipped to hurl rocks. Ammunition was being brought up by pulley; a stack of at least thirty waited to be loaded into the machine.
The other was fitted to hurl something more deadly. Globes of hide rested, seemingly innocuous, in a great container at the base of the machine. They were designed to break on impact: inside was a chemical concoction that would burst into flame when disturbed, engulfing the enemy in a conflagration.
Or so he hoped.
Similar towers had been erected all over Glinnery. Every major settlement had at least three towers, and many of the smaller ones now had one at their defence. But they were not working fast enough. Aysun knew that the delay was far from promising. While they worked feverishly to prepare their defences, the draykoni were doubtless working to improve their numbers. It was impossible to guess how many would eventually come at them: the best they could do was work fast and hard and hope for the best.
It wasn't Aysun's favourite approach.
This tower was almost complete. Two machines stood ready, with full complements of ammunition. More would be delivered when they became available; since the Council of Elders had converted many of the realm's businesses to the production of weapons, war machines and ammo, Aysun hoped those deliveries would be arriving soon.
In the meantime, there were more towers to be built. He began, wearily, to clamber down the side of the tree. He hoped to be able to construct elevators at each of these defence points, but at present the engineers lacked either time or resources. A mere ladder had been built instead, wide enough for two to ascend or descend at once but shockingly vulnerable to attack. It was yet another important item on his agenda.
'Ah, sir?' a voice said, halting his progress. He looked up at the man questioningly, but the engineer wasn't looking at him. He was staring out beyond the borders of Waeverleyne, the height of this tree allowing a long view over the horizon.
The younger man jabbed a finger at the skies. 'What does that look like to you?'
Aysun climbed back up the ladder and hauled himself onto the platform. Taking his station by the young engineer's side, he squinted into the sun.
Dark patches of colour blotted the serene beauty of the horizon, rapidly growing in size. As he watched, the foremost of them began to resolve into a definite shape: he saw outstretched wings and long necks and tails.
'Looks like they're here,' he replied, quiet and grim. 'Sound the warning, Ven.'
Every tower had been given an alarm, each fairly simplistic in nature but effective. Ven pulled a lever sharply down and sound blasted out of the clumsy device, shrieking a splitting warning across the buildings of Waeverleyne. Moments later another alarm was sounded, and another. The noise was deafening.
The first draykons were now in clear view. Aysun recognised the dark red beast of whom he'd heard - the one who had led the previous attack. The one who had injured, maybe destroyed, his wife.
She didn't seem to be the leader now. She flew at the side of another draykon, an impossibly large creature with scales of deep green hue flecked with white. This one bore itself with the pride and fury of a monarch.
Behind these two flew draykon after draykon. Aysun estimated that at least twenty were so far visible; more may yet be concealed in the sun's glare.
As the draykon's shrieks competed with the din of the alarms and rocks and fire began to fly, Aysun had barely a moment to feel relief that his wife and daughter were not in the realm.
Then he strode to the nearest of his new war machines. Ven took up a position at the other as soldiers and engineers swarmed up the ladder, ready to man the tower.
'Well,' he said to no one in particular. 'Here we go.'