It wasn’t until Sorova’s father moved them to Stoneward Hold that she learned about the limits of language. The harsh winter that descended from the north like a snarling wolf served as her teacher. Biting winds and short days taught her that there were different flavors of cold, differences that mattered that she had no words for.
Some days the air was cold enough to turn pails of water to ice in less time than it took for a watch to complete its duty, but if the sun shone bright and the wind retreated to warmer pastures, Sorova could be outside in the sun and be comfortable enough without the heavy coat that made her feel as heavy as a cow. Other days, when the unbroken fields of snow glittered like a bed of diamonds, but the wind blew hard down the mountain valleys, she knew of cold that stabbed straight to the bone no matter how many layers of clothing one wore. And finally, there were her favorite days, days that came only a few times every winter. They were the days of true cold, where the air itself was brittle, as though it would crack if one wasn’t gentle with it.
The flavors of cold were, to Sorova’s mind, as different as night and day, but adults grouped them all together under the insufficient description of “cold.”
Sorova complained as much to her father one day after they’d finished a meditation he’d taught her. He’d grinned widely at her complaint.
“Did you know the Kavenor have four different words for cold?” he asked.
Sorova shook her head.
“Language is more important than we think because the words we learn shape _how_ we think.”
He laughed at the expression on her face.
“Don’t worry. It’s a lesson most adults don’t understand.” He put away the cushions they’d been sitting on, then turned back toward her. He had the expression on his face he always had when he was about to impart “A Lesson,” but Sorova didn’t mind. His lessons were more interesting than the arithmetic Mother made her practice every morning.
“Our words are a tool to help us understand the world. Your complaint is that the word we have for cold doesn’t describe reality well enough, right?”
She nodded, pleased to be following so far.
“What you’ve just discovered on your own is the beginning of what we’d call a Calidryn’s understanding, that reality is more complex than the words we have to describe it. It’s more complicated than our eyes, ears, and fingers tell us, too, but that’s perhaps a lesson for another day.”
“You’re talking about the Dream.”
“I am, though I’m as dissatisfied with the word Dream as you are with cold. The Dream is a deeper reality, and we don’t have words for it that do it justice.”
Sorova reflected on those words often, curious beyond measure what the Dream was like that words failed to describe it.
Then, one late spring morning, she learned that cold wasn’t the only word that failed to encompass her understanding of the world.
Fear, too, was likewise deficient.
Its first iteration struck when she watched a pair of scouts riding back from their daily patrol, shouting loudly though no visible enemy pursued them. Sorova watched them from the thick stone walls of the hold, for she’d been sneaking in a practice sword lesson with Zyrelle, one of Father’s captains who not-so-secretly encouraged Sorova’s love of swordplay. Zyrelle was Sendryn, capable of touching the Dream but lacking the ability with it Calidryn possessed, and she slipped between Sorova’s wild cuts like water sliding through fingers. At the sight of the riders, Zyrelle snapped her wrist and slapped Sorova’s carved stick away. She stepped quickly to the edge of the wall.
Harshly pulled out of the illusion that she’d ever had a chance against the Sendryn, Sorova stamped her feet, but her anger vanished when she caught sight of Zyrelle’s expression, hard and sharp as the sword she carried. “What’s wrong?”
Zyrelle turned and forced a smile on her face, but Sorova was old enough to recognize a mask when she saw one, and somewhere deep in her stomach, it felt as though someone had dropped a few chunks of ice, for Zyrelle had never lied to her before, not even with an expression.
“Hopefully nothing, but it would be best if you find your mother and stay by her until we’re sure it’s safe.”
Sorova would have complained, but Zyrelle was already gone, rushing down the stone stairs to meet the riders. Sorova lingered on the wall, gaze drawn to the scene below. The riders’ reports were given too softly to reach her ears, but their faces turned pale as they pointed farther north. Sorova followed the direction of their gestures and squinted, but her young eyes spotted nothing. With a disappointed sigh, she went to find her mother, before Zyrelle caught her watching and reprimanded her.
She knew Zyrelle thought only of her safety, but life around Mother bored Sorova to tears. It was all mending and sewing and cooking and cleaning and she’d much rather be crossing imagined swords with Zyrelle or learning how to ride with Rhydorin. Still, the ice deep in her stomach persisted, and this once she decided it would be best to stay close to safety.
Their chambers, which were private thanks to Father’s command of Stoneward Hold, were quiet when she arrived. She checked the bedroom for Mother, then heard raised voices on the other side of the wall. Mother would have her hide if she learned Sorova was listening to Father and his captains meeting in the command room, but she wasn’t here, so Sorova silently scooted closer.
Father’s voice came through clearly. “You’re absolutely certain?”
“I am, sir.”
A moment of silence caused Sorova to lean forward, then Father said, “Opinions, please.”
Zyrelle spoke first. “We can’t hold against them, but we can make them pay dearly.”
“Can we, though?” Father challenged. “We don’t have an accurate count of Bloodstalkers, but if they have the proportion we’d expect given these numbers, the Hold means nothing.”
“You can’t possibly be considering retreat, can you?” Zyrelle asked.
“Along with many other options. Stoneward was never built to repel what’s coming. There’s no point wasting lives when we might need every strong arm we can find.”
Father paused, then spoke again. “Send out two scouts. I want Rhydorin to be one of them, so I have a sense of how many Bloodstalkers they’re fielding. Send birds to Duskmere and Eldroska. They can pass the message on. And order the non-combatants to prepare the hold for battle. Once that’s done, we’ll send everyone nonessential to Duskmere. They’ll be safer there.”
A chorus of assent greeted the orders, and many pairs of boots shuffled from the command room. The cold feeling in Sorova’s stomach had only grown stronger, to the point she feared she might soon be sick. Bloodstalkers were the Kavenori equivalent of Calidryn, though more fierce, to hear Father speak of them. Were they about to be attacked?
The only pair of footsteps in the command room were unmistakably Father’s, and he stopped on the other side of the wall. “You shouldn’t be listening in, little one.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I saw the riders and how Zyrelle reacted. What’s happening?”
Father wasn’t one for secrets, and he didn’t keep them now. “It’s the Kavenor. They’re marching south in numbers we’ve never seen before. It looks like they’re heading this way, and if they are, there isn’t much we can do to stop them. I don’t have the numbers.”
“Are we in danger?”
Father paused, as he often did when she asked a question he wanted to answer carefully. “There is danger, yes, but I don’t think you need to worry much. It takes time to march the many miles that lie between us, and we’ll likely retreat before then. It’s my duty to keep you and your mother safe. Have I ever failed?”
“No, Father.”
“I won’t today, either. Find your mother and listen to her. This isn’t the time for any of your own ideas. Listen well, and we’ll keep you safe.”
“Yes, Father.”
Some ice in her stomach remained, but the warmth of Father’s love melted most of it. She ran from the bedroom to find her mother.
+
Rhydorin and the other scouts returned before the sun fell. Sweat darkened the hides of their horses, and their mounts’ heads hung low, nostrils wide as they fought for breath. Sorova was carrying loads of arrows to the wall when they rode into the courtyard. Rhydorin’s sunken eyes and gaunt expression made him look almost as exhausted as the horses. No doubt the Calidryn had granted the horses endurance beyond what mortal hooves could endure, but even so, horse and rider had returned on the brink of self-destruction.
The scout slid off the horse, but only made it a few steps before Father reached him. Rhydorin whispered something in Father’s ear, and though Sorova couldn’t hear, she saw the way Father’s face paled.
Father whispered a question, setting off a quick exchange of nearly silent words. Then the two men broke apart and Father called for the captains to meet in the command room. Sorova was halfway to their quarters, arrows still in hand, when Father stopped her. “You’re not to listen, little one. But don’t worry, I expect you’ll hear the news soon enough. Take those arrows to the stable instead of to the walls. We’re going to want them when we ride.”
Sorova started to ask why, but Father was already gone, striding toward the command room with a straight back that seemed exaggerated. She cursed silently but obeyed. Father was lenient about most of her adventures, but if she disobeyed a direct order, she wouldn’t sit without pain for days. She delivered the arrows to a perplexed stablehand, then went to the armory to pick up another bundle. By the time she’d delivered that one, the captains were already emerging from Father’s study. Any desire to ask them what had happened vanished at the sight of their expressions.
She didn’t have to wonder long. Father’s orders burned through the hold like wildfire. The noncombatants had already been preparing to leave at first light. Now they learned they were to be joined by the Hold’s entire complement of warriors.
The Kavenor were coming faster than was humanly possible, and instead of fighting, Father chose to run.
+
Sorova’s eyes drooped, but she wasn’t yet ready for bed. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep despite the fact she barely had the strength to stand. That ice in her stomach had never fully melted, and as she’d observed the tight-lipped faces of veteran warriors, and as she’d caught the quick glances north toward an enemy they couldn’t yet see, she felt it solidifying again. The cold stretched from her core outward, as though the bones in her arms and legs were being replaced by ice. So long as she kept moving she could ignore the feelings, but if she were to lay down, no number of blankets would drive the chill away.
Mother was in their quarters and Father in the command room, and she had some time before either started asking where she was. The walls of Stoneward Hold suffocated her with their closeness, but the gates were shut so she could take no relief with a quick walk outside. Instead, she ran up the stairs to the top of the wall, ignoring the questioning glances Father’s soldiers gave her. She’d long ago come to understand that so long as you walked with a determined stride, few would bother you. It didn’t hurt that she was the commander’s daughter, either.
She found Zyrelle standing on the northern wall, eyes focused on the distant horizon. Without turning, she said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Sorova didn’t bother denying it, her father’s honesty embedded deep in her own character. “I don’t think I could go to sleep even if I tried, and I needed some fresh air.”
Zyrelle snorted and glanced down. “You sound like an Eranoran soldier.”
Sorova shrugged. She’d been surrounded by them since she was little, so it didn’t strike her as odd that she’d sound like one.
Zyrelle gestured north, and Sorova looked out. The ice slowly growing throughout her body expanded instantly, until she was frozen solid and she was certain she’d never move again. Far off in the distance, still many miles away, there were lights. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. It was almost as if part of the night sky had fallen down on Kavenor and the stars still burned.
In time, her jaw worked again. “That’s them?”
“More than I’ve ever seen in one place. More than anyone has, I think. And they’re moving quick. Those are campfires, but they should still be below the curve of the horizon. Whoever’s commanding them is pushing them dangerously hard.”
“Will they attack tonight?” Sorova asked.
Zyrelle’s eyes narrowed, as though she searched the darkness for approaching enemies. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. Those are campfires, and they must have done nearly thirty miles today. Any wise commander would rest their troops.”
Sorova caught the doubt in Zyrelle’s voice, though, and the fear that had frozen her in place transformed yet again, becoming a stone deep in her core. Her hands shook and she stuffed them in the pockets of her dress.
She stared with Zyrelle. For a time, she tried to count the lights, but they were too numerous, and it was too difficult to remember what she’d counted and what she hadn’t. This far away they looked pretty, very much like stars that flickered brighter than most. Part of her found it hard to believe in the danger that lurked around those campfires. Another part found it all too easy to imagine the Kavenor stalking close, even as she stood upon the wall, their spears hungry for blood.
“I really should return to our quarters,” Sorova said, trying to sound as though she was simply obeying the dictates of reason instead of fleeing the sight of those campfires.
Zyrelle’s look told Sorova the warrior wasn’t fooled in the least, but she did Sorova the honor of pretending that she was. “A wise choice, my young friend. Get some rest, for tomorrow will be a long and hard day.”
Sorova bowed deeply, then returned to her quarters. Mother greeted her with an embrace, and Sorova welcomed it, but not as much as she welcomed the thick walls that protected her from the Kavenor advance.
+
She woke to Mother’s hand on her shoulder. Given how little she felt as though she’d slept, Sorova guessed the hour was early. “Up quickly, Sorova. We’re leaving.”
Mother’s voice cracked as she spoke, and all Sorova’s fears returned, as though they, too, had been only lightly dozing within her spirit. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The Kavenor are moving, so it’s time we do, too.”
“Isn’t it early?”
“The sun isn’t yet up, but it’s no time for questions. You need to move now.”
Sorova didn’t require further instruction. She rolled out of bed and dressed in her warm traveling clothes while Mother packed the last of the goods that would travel with them.
As Mother looked around the room, Sorova realized for the first time this might be the last time she was here. If Father was abandoning the hold without a fight, the Kavenor would control it by midday, and what were the odds she’d ever return? She’d always been loathe to call the stone walls and barren north home, but now that she was forced to abandon it, she thought of a dozen small details she would miss.
Mother didn’t give her time to say goodbye. Once Sorova was ready, she was nearly pulled from their quarters and placed on a horse. The sky was still dark above, though directly over the eastern mountains it had begun to lighten. Families poured through the southern gate, most of them on foot. Whenever Sorova had visited the stables, she’d felt as though Stoneward had more horses than people, but her foolishness was apparent this morning. Mounts had become even more precious than usual, and everything that could pull a cart or carry a human had been harnessed. Sorova and Mother joined the line and passed underneath the stone arches before the line of the sun broke over the horizon.
Though it wasn’t in Sorova’s nature to cry, tears blurred her vision. “Where’s Father?”
“He’ll be one of the last to leave. It’s his duty to ensure everyone gets out safely.”
Sorova almost asked if Father would be in danger, but stopped herself before the words escaped her lips. They were all in danger, and Father most of all. But he was strong, and he’d promised to keep them safe.
The line of fleeing Eranorans stretched longer than Sorova would have guessed, and she was amazed that so many people had been within the Hold. She knew almost everyone, of course, but never saw them all at once, stretched out in the open like this.
They passed through the fields that their farmers had labored in all spring to prepare, the seeds within the soil now no more than food for their enemies. The soil of this narrow valley had been fertile, and despite Stoneward Hold’s remote location, they’d never wanted for food in the years Sorova had lived there.
By midmorning, the last of Stoneward Hold’s residents was more than two miles away from the gates, but Sorova still heard the celebrations of the Kavenor carry on the wind. Balls of red light exploded in the sky, launched by Bloodstalkers and carrying a message Sorova guessed meant that the hold had fallen. She turned her back and swore that she wouldn’t look again.
Her promise to herself didn’t last long. She turned back often, always certain that when she did, she would see the Kavenor in fierce pursuit. It didn’t take long for her fears to become reality.
Soldiers raced their horses down the line, urging families to walk faster and calling the warriors to arms. Bows were unlimbered and swords tested to ensure they cleared their sheaths.
“Is there anything we can do?” she asked Mother.
“This battle is not ours. All we can do is ride with our heads tall, so that others know that they have nothing to fear.”
It was pitifully little, but Father’s words of warning echoed still in her memory, and she obeyed, pretending that she and Mother were simply out for a morning ride.
Soon, even that became difficult. Kavenori riders pulled even on both the east and the west to where Sorova and her mother were in line, though they kept well out of bow range. There weren’t many that Sorova could see, no more than two dozen or so, but they shouted and whooped as though they singlehandedly had the Eranorans on the run.
Sorova’s heart pounded in her chest and she found it difficult to breathe, as fear once again revealed a new aspect. She searched the sky for the arrow she was certain was falling toward her, but the cloudless blue expanse mocked her with its emptiness.
The presence of the Kavenor spurred the families to greater speed, though it didn’t matter. No family on foot could outrun a Kavenor on horseback. A Bloodstalker among the western group of riders weaved threads of power together and unleashed them, speeding toward the Eranorans like spears thrown with impossible strength.
Rhydorin was close, though, and created a barrier that the Bloodstalker’s projections thundered helplessly against. One family’s horse a few people ahead of Sorova reared in fright, throwing the children from its back. Neighbors rushed to help, and Sorova said a quick prayer of thanks to the Nine when it appeared both children were bruised but otherwise unharmed.
The Bloodstalker was not so easily dissuaded, though, and he rode his horse closer so that he could unleash a stronger attack. One rider next to Rhydorin launched a hopeful arrow into the air, but it fell thirty paces too short. The Bloodstalker weaved another attack, but Sorova’s head turned sharply when she sensed another strength gathering power on the east side of the line.
Rhydorin raised a barrier against the first Bloodstalker, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight two at once. Projections hammered into Rhydorin’s defense, but none broke through. The eastern Bloodstalker, though, struck the line of refugees with the full force of his gathered strength. The ground erupted beneath the feet of families and horses, cartwheeling bodies high through the air.
Sorova squeezed her eyes shut as Mother fought to keep their horse under control. Like all Father’s horses, it had been bred and trained for the trials of combat, but even that training failed when exposed to such deadly power. Dirt rained down and dust choked the air, but Sorova still sensed the next attack coming, a gathering of strength only a Bloodstalker was capable of.
They weren’t the only powers on the field, though, and Father’s soldiers responded with the coordination Sorova had watched them practice so often from the walls of Stoneward Hold. Barriers rose to protect the non-combatants, and though the Bloodstalkers continued to probe, they found no further gaps.
Sorova opened her eyes and watched as Father’s Calidryn stood against the Bloodstalkers. Their dark blue robes marked them as special, and the Bloodstalkers focused their efforts upon them, eager to claim such a valuable head. Their projections, though, fell upon sturdy barriers, and though the air thundered and shook, no more hostile power reached the line.
Healers descended upon the wounded, but the line didn’t stop. Duskmere was considered a two-day’s journey, but with their early departure and pace, Sorova suspected they’d push to make it in one long day. She closed her eyes as they trotted past the place where the attack had landed, only opening them again once she was sure they were well past.
Father’s Calidryn counterattacked the Kavenor with projections of their own, and the Bloodstalkers were forced to defend their warriors. They endured for a time, then wheeled their horses around and retreated. No cheers rang out from Father’s troops, though.
+
They reached the lights of Duskmere well after dark, and Sorova had never seen such a welcoming sight. It was small by Eranoran standards, but its location made it crucial to the area. It sat on the southern end of the long narrow valley that Stoneward Hold had guarded the northern end of. Woodcutters and miners who worked in the foothills of the valley sent their goods through Duskmere, where traders were more than willing to bring it to Eldroska, a large town about six days south that served as the origin of most major trade caravans.
Sorova remembered little of their arrival. By the time the lights of the village surrounded her, she was close to asleep in the saddle, her only thoughts focused on the burning of her thighs from a longer day of riding than she’d ever endured. She didn’t complain, aware those on foot had suffered much more, with many still miles behind. The line had lost its cohesion in the evening as those with horses pushed ahead.
Their arrival caused an enormous commotion. Father argued with Duskmere’s council, but the words washed over Sorova like water. Thanks to Father’s station, they were granted a room at the village inn. Mother carried her to a bed, and as soon as her head hit the pillow, Sorova crashed into sleep.
She woke earlier than she would have thought, only the barest slivers of light coming through the window, but her rest had done her good. She sat up and looked around, taking in her lodgings for the first time. The warm and cozy room she’d so looked forward to the night before lost much of its appeal in the light of day. Duskmere Inn’s best days had been years before, and the stained floor and creaky furniture encouraged her to get out of bed and her room.
Sorova sensed Father downstairs, so she walked toward the stairwell. She paused at the top when she heard raised voices.
“You surrendered Stoneward without so much as a fight!”
Father’s calm voice answered. “And as I explained, there was no chance of defending the hold. They had enough Bloodstalkers to simply roll over any defense I would have put together. I judged—”
“You judged wrong! If you and your soldiers aren’t on the march by noon, I’ll consider you guilty of treason against Eranor.”
“Sir, to ride out against them now is suicide. Not only do they have an enormous number of Bloodstalkers, they have the walls.”
“That should have been your logic when you abandoned Eranor’s outpost. My orders are final.”
Boots stomped through the inn, and the front door opened and slammed shut. The silence that followed twisted Sorova’s stomach into knots.
Father’s voice was barely loud enough for her to hear. “Zyrelle, gather the troops. Tell them the orders. Have them pack and prepare for the hills. No uniforms. As much food as they can safely scrounge up.”
“Sir, you can’t possibly be planning on obeying that order.” Zyrelle’s voice quivered.
“What choice do we have? It was given in front of plenty of witnesses.”
Zyrelle whispered something too softly for Sorova to catch, but Father’s answer was firm. “No. I won’t abandon my honor like that, and you should be ashamed to have even harbored the thought.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be. I understand your feelings well enough. We’ll obey his orders, but not the way he imagines. We’ll take to the foothills and worry at the clans, hitting them and then vanishing into the undergrowth, the same way they like to attack us when we’re in their territory. It’s about time we returned the favor.”
“You’re not going to attack the hold?”
“I’m not that eager to die, captain. I’ve got a daughter to return to. We’ll harry them as well as we’re able, and if we’re lucky, we can slow their progress long enough for help to arrive.”
“That might be a while. Commander Valinor recently arrived at Duskmere with his small troop, and they’ll not be able to hold off the Kavenor any better than we could.”
Father wasn’t deterred. “Then we plan on staying in the woods for a while. We can make this happen, Zyrelle.”
Whatever hesitations Zyrelle had harbored seemed to be gone, for that was one of Father’s gifts. Somehow, he always found the way to transform fear into courage.
+
Father came to see Sorova before he left. She was with Mother, back in their room at the inn, working on her letters and writing. Father studied her progress and she tried to still her hand from shaking.
“You might very well become a talented scribe some day,” Father said.
“I’d rather become a Calidryn.”
“I’ll be proud of you then, too.”
Father squatted down beside her. “I have to go now, and I may not be back for a while. There’s some fighting that needs to happen.”
She didn’t want him to go. It was better when the three of them were together. Mother could teach her letters, and Father could teach her the sword and the mysteries. But she knew, deep in her heart, Father needed something from her at this moment, and it wasn’t her childish daydreams.
She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face close to his. He hadn’t shaved this morning and his cheeks were uncomfortably scruffy, but he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He smelled of sweat and horse, and Sorova thought he smelled like home.
“I’ll miss you and I’ll be waiting for you,” she said.
She felt his tear as it trickled down the side of his face. “I love you, too, little one. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, though you’ll have to agree not to tell Mother on me.”
She squeezed as tight as she could. “It will be our secret.”
“Good. Our secret. I like that. I love you.”
Sorova held tight for another moment, then let herself drop from his neck. He kissed Mother, and then she nodded, as though he’d said everything she needed to hear. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Stay safe, please,” Father said.
Mother nodded again, and with that, Father rested his hand once more on Sorova’s shoulder, then left the room and his family behind.
