Читать книгу Enchanter: Book Two of the Axis Trilogy - Sara Douglass - Страница 11

Azhure walked through the confusing maze of corridors in the Talon Spike complex, hoping she had remembered EvenSong’s instructions correctly. Over at least a thousand years the Icarii had tunnelled and excavated the mountain into myriad chambers, connecting corridors and shafts. The Icarii not only used horizontal corridors, but also vertical shafts – foot travellers needed to be wary of wells opening abruptly at their feet.

Azhure paused at one of the main connecting shafts of Talon Spike, which not only extended up to the very peak of the mountain, but also fell into its dizzying depths. She grasped the waist-high guard rail and peered down. Two Icarii, already several levels below her, slowly spiralled down through the shaft side by side. Both had gorgeously dyed emerald and blue wings, and the soft enchanted light of the shaft shimmered across their jewel-bright feathers. Azhure had to blink back tears at their loveliness. Nothing in her previous life in Smyrton had prepared her for the beauty and passion of life among the Icarii of Talon Spike.

On her arrival six weeks ago Azhure had wondered at the height and width of the corridors – but their spaciousness was explained the moment she saw several Icarii wing their graceful way along the corridor, several paces above her head. Fortunately for her, the complex also had stairs that wound about the walls of the vertical shafts. Icarii children did not develop wings until they were four or five years of age, and did not learn to fly well until they were eight or nine. And occasionally an Icarii who injured a wing might have to walk the corridors or climb the stairs. MorningStar, StarDrifter’s mother, was such a one. She had been unable to attend the Yuletide rites in the Earth Tree Grove after snapping a tendon in her left wing, and was still grumbling about the indignity of having to use the stairs.

Leaving the shaft, Azhure passed the doors to the massive Talon Spike Library. The Avar Bane Raum spent most of his days here, teaching the wingless youngsters about the Avar and their forest home. Azhure’s thoughts drifted to Rivkah as she walked. Over the many years that Azhure had known Rivkah – or GoldFeather as she had been called until recently – she had never known her so at peace with herself as she had been since Axis’ arrival. Rivkah might yet have her unhappinesses with StarDrifter, but the reunion with the son she had long thought dead had healed a festering wound in Rivkah’s heart. She spent many hours each day guiding Azhure through the intricacies of Icarii society, teasing the young woman mercilessly when she gaped open-mouthed at some of the more permissive practices of the Icarii.

“You are already a much sought-after prize, Azhure Groundwalker, with your raven-black hair and mysterious smoke-filled eyes,” Rivkah had said only this morning. “Will you survive the Beltide festivities without being cradled within some lover’s wings?”

Azhure had blushed and turned away, thinking uncomfortably of the way StarDrifter had begun to watch her recently. The last thing she wanted to do was come between StarDrifter and Rivkah, who was rapidly filling the void caused by the loss of Azhure’s mother so early in life. Azhure couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t woken several nights a week, her cheeks wet with tears of loss; but now she slept soundly, and the unsettling dreams that had troubled her for more than twenty years had vanished entirely.

Azhure abruptly realised that for the past five or six weeks she had been constantly happy. Never had she been accepted before, and the Icarii not only seemed to accept her for who she was, but they actually liked her.

She nodded to an Icarii passing overhead, her thoughts returning to EvenSong. Azhure had so far resisted the urge to join the Strike Force in weapons training for fear of giving in to the violent streak the Avar claimed she possessed. She shuddered, remembering how after she had seized the arrow and killed her first Skraeling, she had been consumed with the desire to kill. Perhaps the Avar were right to regard her with some degree of apprehension.

But Azhure had made up her mind. Axis was right; she should seek her own path. If her path lay in violence, then perhaps she should simply accept that. Accept the blood and turn it into a mark of respect, not of reproach.

She turned down a corridor to her left, then ran lightly down several levels of stairs, her grace causing the Icarii birdman who soared past her to turn his head and watch for long moments until the Groundwalker woman disappeared into a corridor far below.

EvenSong had a leather thong tied about her pale-skinned forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes. She had turned twenty-five on the day after Yuletide, and had immediately joined the Strike Force for her five years of compulsory military service.

She grunted as she parried a blow from her sparring partner. She did not like to sweat and thought longingly of the relaxing hot waters of the Chamber of Steaming Water. Once she had looked forward to her years in the Strike Force, but that was only because she had believed she would spend those years with her cousin FreeFall. Born only two months apart, she and FreeFall had grown up together, planned their lives together, and mused over what it would be like when he became Talon. It was not unusual for Icarii to marry or form sexual relationships with close relatives, and FreeFall and EvenSong had become lovers at thirteen.

Of course, neither EvenSong nor FreeFall had considered the possibility that he would be so cruelly murdered at such a young age. EvenSong daily bewailed not only the loss of her friend and lover, but also the prospect of spending the rest of her long life alone.

Her sparring partner and Wing-Leader, SpikeFeather TrueSong, slipped his stave under EvenSong’s guard and dealt her a heavy blow to the ribs. She dropped her staff and fell to her knees, badly winded.

“Pay attention,” SpikeFeather hissed viciously. “In battle – even in a tavern brawl – you would be dead now! We cannot afford to lose any more SunSoars.”

EvenSong glared at him, her hand clutched to her ribs. “Like you lost FreeFall?” SpikeFeather had flown with FreeFall and HoverEye BlackWing to meet Axis atop Gorkenfort’s roof. But their mission had ended in tragedy when Borneheld murdered FreeFall.

SpikeFeather swore and seized EvenSong by her short curls, hauling her to her feet. She winced and tried to twist free, but SpikeFeather’s grip was too strong.

“FreeFall had the courage to face life, EvenSong, even when it led him to death. Think how he would frown to see you use his death to give up on life itself!”

The ten other members of the Wing had stopped sparring and watched SpikeFeather and EvenSong soberly. Ever since the disaster of Yuletide, training had taken on a much more serious aspect. Where once good humour and enjoyment had pervaded weapons practice, now the expectation of an eventual conflict with Gorgrael’s forces dominated everyone’s thoughts.

SpikeFeather let EvenSong’s hair go, then stepped back and glared at the rest of his command. He was an experienced Wing-Leader, but in these difficult times his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. And despite what EvenSong apparently thought, SpikeFeather agonised daily over his inability to act quickly enough to save FreeFall. EvenSong seemed to have no heart since FreeFall’s murder, and SpikeFeather knew that the inattention of a single member could bring ruin to his entire Wing in battle.

To add to SpikeFeather’s woes, all of the Strike Force were on edge, and not simply because of the battle at Earth Tree Grove or the inevitable battle to come with Gorgrael’s forces. From the most senior Crest-Leader, FarSight CutSpur, to the lowliest recruit, the Strike Force was keenly aware of the presence of Axis SunSoar in Talon Spike. The Icarii Assembly had agreed to StarDrifter’s request to help his son in Gorkenfort partly because after a thousand years of relative peace they needed a true war leader. Someone who actually had experience of battle.

Yet Axis SunSoar, one-time BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders, the force that had been largely responsible for the thousand-year exile of the Icarii in Talon Spike, had shown not an iota of interest in the Strike Force in the month since he’d been in Talon Spike. As much as SpikeFeather, or any other member of the Strike Force, might tell himself that Axis was preoccupied with learning the skills of Enchanter from his father, his lack of interest had stung. When would Axis visit the training chambers? When would he deign to visit the Strike Force? And what would he say when he saw them train? What would he think? Would he praise, or deride?

SpikeFeather was about to call a halt to their afternoon training when a movement at the edge of his vision stopped him. Azhure stood leaning over the balcony rail of the observation gallery, watching them gravely.

“Azhure!” EvenSong exclaimed, and SpikeFeather hoped she felt just a little ashamed that her friend might have witnessed her poor behaviour.

“I do not want to interrupt, SpikeFeather TrueSong,” Azhure said courteously, “and if I have broken your concentration then I apologise to you and to your command.” One of the first things Azhure had learned in Talon Spike was that the Icarii valued politeness and correct etiquette extremely highly. Two Icarii could get themselves into a murderous argument and never raise their voices or transgress the bounds of civilised language. The scene she had just witnessed between SpikeFeather and EvenSong was extraordinary, and bespoke the tension within the Strike Force.

“I have decided to accept your offer to teach me the use of the bow and arrow, SpikeFeather.”

SpikeFeather swept his wings behind him in the traditional Icarii gesture of welcome and goodwill. “You are welcomed, Azhure. And I regret that my command is not at its best this afternoon.”

EvenSong reddened.

SpikeFeather ignored her. “Both myself and my Wing would be pleased if you joined us, Azhure. We are all beholden to you for your bravery at Yuletide, the SunSoar family perhaps more than most.” Another barb for EvenSong. SpikeFeather was truly exasperated with her.

Azhure stepped down from the ladder, took off her boots, and walked across the floor of the spacious training chamber towards the Wing. Soft mats covered every part of the floor, while from the high roof hung several brightly coloured orbs that served as archery targets. Weapon racks and cupboards lined the lower walls.

“I am not dressed for combat, SpikeFeather. Please do not aim any arrows my way.” She grinned at the Wing commander, her hand indicating her Avar clothing and bare feet. All the Icarii present, both female and male, wore light leather training armour over brief loin cloths – although the armour did not protect against serious blows. They were sweating after their exertions, and Azhure noticed that several had abrasions and dark bruises on their unprotected arms and legs. Feathers lay scattered across the floor mats.

“I would be hounded from Talon Spike should I land an arrow in a guest, and such an admired guest at that,” SpikeFeather said gravely, then turned to one of the members of his Wing. “TrueFlight, would you lift the Wolven from the rack and select a quiver of arrows?” He paused dramatically, ignoring the collective gasp of the Wing.

Azhure watched curiously as TrueFlight retrieved a beautiful bow and a quiver of arrows and handed them to SpikeFeather, who slung the quiver over his shoulder.

“As creatures of the air ourselves we have a special affinity with weapons of flight,” SpikeFeather explained as he notched an arrow into the bow. “See.”

In one liquid movement, so fast Azhure found it difficult to follow, SpikeFeather lifted the bow, aimed, and loosed the arrow. It soared towards the ceiling and lodged in a small scarlet target ball suspended sixty paces above their heads.

“The stories of your ability don’t do you justice, SpikeFeather,” Azhure said. “Can I try that bow?” The bow SpikeFeather held was a weapon of elegance as well as of skill, and Azhure found its lure almost irresistible.

SpikeFeather studied her. Since the Wolven’s creator had died four thousand years ago, only he had been able to master it. The Icarii had extraordinarily powerful flight muscles in their chests and backs, and SpikeFeather doubted whether Azhure, despite her height and obvious fitness, would even have the strength to draw a notched arrow back in a normal Icarii bow, let alone the Wolven.

He finally shrugged. What would it hurt? He picked another arrow from his quiver and handed the bow to Azhure. Tall, but made of surprisingly light ivory wood, it was patterned with golden tracery and strung and tasselled in vivid blues and scarlets. It was as beautiful as it was deadly.

“Here,” SpikeFeather said, showing Azhure how to place her hands, then notching the arrow. Standing behind her, he curled her fingers around the arrow. “Let me help you to …”

“No,” Azhure said, stepping away from him slightly. “Let me try first, SpikeFeather. What should I aim for?”

SpikeFeather smiled indulgently. “Aim high, Azhure, at any of the targets suspended from the ceiling. If you hit one I will make you a gift of the Wolven itself as a mark of Icarii admiration and fashion you a quiver with my own hands.”

Azhure looked at the targets hanging from the ceiling. Then, without lowering her eyes, she raised the bow and started to draw the arrow back.

SpikeFeather saw the exact moment when Azhure found that the Wolven required extraordinary strength. Her shoulders, back, and arms suddenly tensed, and her hands quavered so badly that SpikeFeather was sure she would drop the bow or let the arrow tumble to the floor. He started as if to step forward and help her, but EvenSong caught his elbow. “Let her try for herself,” she whispered, and SpikeFeather subsided, although a frown of worry creased his face. What if she couldn’t control the flight of the arrow, and skewered one of his command? None of them wore armour that could withstand a loose Icarii arrow.

But Azhure managed to retain control, although SpikeFeather could see what a supreme effort it cost her. Gradually her hands steadied and her back straightened. Then she took a deep breath and pulled the arrow all the way back, raising the bow to her face and sighting along the shaft of the arrow.

SpikeFeather’s eyes widened in amazement. Where did she find the strength to control the bow? A human woman?

Azhure, as taut and tense as the Wolven itself, finally let fly the arrow in as good an imitation of SpikeFeather’s action as she could manage.

As one the Icarii watched the flight of the arrow.

It flew straight and true, striking a golden target the size of a man’s head. But Azhure, for all her effort in drawing, aiming and releasing the arrow, could not give the arrow the same power as SpikeFeather had, and the arrow head only penetrated the target superficially. It hung there for a long moment, then slowly slipped from the target and tumbled to the floor.

“I hit it!” Azhure cried triumphantly, lowering the bow and turning to SpikeFeather, who stood with an expression of absolute amazement on his face. “It stuck for a moment. It did!” She laughed with joy. “Is the bow mine, SpikeFeather?”

She spun around in an excited circle until she faced SpikeFeather again. “Well?”

SpikeFeather lowered his eyes to the woman before him. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself he would never have believed it. It wasn’t simply Azhure’s strength in drawing the bow and loosing the arrow, it was also the fact that she had actually hit the target she’d aimed at. It usually took a novice Icarii archer several weeks of practice before they even got an arrow within spitting distance of a ceiling target – and the Icarii were flight intuitive. Was it simply luck?

SpikeFeather looked at the magnificent bow that Azhure clutched possessively to her side. It was one of the most valuable and treasured items in the Strike Force’s arsenal. What had he done?

Azhure’s smile died and her eyes narrowed as she watched the welter of emotions play across SpikeFeather’s face; emotions mirrored on the faces of the eleven Icarii who stood at his back. EvenSong looked as though she had swallowed the arrow instead of simply watching it hit the target.

Azhure stepped over and lifted another arrow from the quiver on SpikeFeather’s back. He flinched a little as her hand brushed the downy red feathers on the back of his neck.

“No fluke,” she said, her eyes unexpectedly dark as she stared into SpikeFeather’s face. “If I miss this time then I will return the bow. But if I hit the target, then you will not only fashion me the quiver to sling across my back, but fletch the arrows to go in it with your own flight feathers, SpikeFeather TrueSong. Dyed the same blue as my eyes, I think.”

Then, in a movement almost as elegant as SpikeFeather’s, Azhure notched the arrow, raised the bow, sighted, and loosed the arrow. This time it struck the target true, the solid thunk as it penetrated deep into the golden orb audible around the chamber.

“The Wolven is mine,” Azhure said into the utter silence. “I think it likes me. It felt easier the second time.”

SpikeFeather dropped his eyes to Azhure, then bowed deep before her, his wings sweeping a wide arc on the floor behind him. When he straightened, his eyes were solemn. “The Wolven is yours, Azhure. I will fashion you a quiver to hold arrows fletched with feathers from my own wings. You are an archer-born, Azhure, and I will welcome you whenever you wish to train with my Wing.”

“Yes,” Azhure said to the handsome birdman. “I would like to return and train with your command, SpikeFeather TrueSong.”

“Then make sure that when the time arrives, you deal death with the Wolven, Azhure. That is why it was crafted.”

Later, the muscles in her back, arms and chest burning with the effort required to use the bow, Azhure mounted the ladder, the bow slung across her back. SpikeFeather caught her arm. “Azhure, you speak to Axis SunSoar more than most. When will he visit the Strike Force? When?”

Azhure stepped down from the ladder and turned to face him. “I do not know, SpikeFeather. He is consumed by his need for his father now, and by his need to discover what lies beneath his surface. Wait. He will come.”