Staff Spotlight: Peter Behravesh

Staff Spotlight: Peter Behravesh

Interview & Featured Work

Why did you choose Stonecoast?

I wanted an MFA program that would nurture my passion for popular fiction while still pro­vid­ing a rig­or­ous aca­d­e­m­ic expe­ri­ence. Stonecoast is the only low-res­i­den­cy program that meets these cri­te­ria. Plus, I couldn’t resist the oppor­tu­ni­ty to learn from writers like David Anthony Durham, Liz Hand, Jim Kelly, Nancy Holder, Dora Goss…the list goes on!

What do you write? 

These days, I mostly write what I like to call “Persian space fantasy.” Think Star Wars meets Arabian Nights—not quite sci-fi, not quite fantasy, but some­where in between. I prefer writing novels, but I also enjoy writing short fiction. Not too long ago, I wrote my first novella, an epis­to­lary flint­lock fantasy. I find it fun to flex dif­fer­ent cre­ative muscles.

Who is an author or artist who has influ­enced you?

Recent­ly, I’ve fallen in love with Joe Aber­crom­bie. He’s got a real flair for sub­vert­ing worn out fantasy tropes, and his char­ac­ter work is incom­pa­ra­ble. Reading him has inspired me to imbue every char­ac­ter I write with moral ambi­gu­i­ty, rather than simply casting each one as good or evil.

What is your best Stonecoast memory?

My favorite moments from my first res­i­den­cy were all the late night con­ver­sa­tions. It’s a joy to connect with other writers and talk about nar­ra­tive struc­ture, or the state of tra­di­tion­al pub­lish­ing, or the latest Ann Leckie novel. I’ve never had that before.

What do you hope to do in the future?

I have mul­ti­ple novels and short stories planned in my space fantasy series, so that should keep me busy for the fore­see­able future. I also hope to put out some new music this year.

If you could have written one book that already exists, which book would it have been?

Despite its prob­lem­at­ic treat­ment of women, I’ve got to go with “Dune.” It’s still a classic, flaws and all.


A Ravening Fire

The chapter below is an excerpt from A RAVENING FIRE, one of my works in progress. The story follows Tàl, a wolf born with golden fur, as he grap­ples with his sup­posed destiny to become a god. In this chapter, Sage and Elwyn, of the arbo­re­al people known as the Cyri, leave their home to warn Tàl of an impend­ing inva­sion, which Elwyn has fore­seen in a dream.

It should have been dark still.

Sage rolled over and groaned, tugging the bark­cloth blan­kets back up to her chin. She rubbed one slumber-crusted eye with the heel of her palm, squint­ing up as thin fingers of pale sun stole through the inter­wo­ven branch­es above. A dust­mote floated across her vision, winking in the golden light.

She blinked. “Shit.” Beside her, Suil still slept soundly. Sage prodded her in the ribs. “The sun’s coming up!”

“Mmm?” Suil propped herself on one elbow. “What’s – oh!”  She lurched to her feet, fling­ing off the tangled blan­kets. “Of all the days to over­sleep. Where in Rhi Hydd’s name is Ruis?”

“No idea.” He and Beith should have arrived an hour ago with the harts. Sage stum­bled over to the basin and splashed icy water onto her cheeks. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him to wake up on time,” she said, delib­er­ate­ly ignor­ing the irony in that state­ment as she dragged her trousers on, chin still dripping.

Suil was pacing now. Waking light chased her shadow back and forth across the floor, teasing through the chest­nut locks that tumbled down her back. “What if they were taken? What if we’ve been found out?”

“What if?” Sage fin­ished fas­ten­ing her shirt and shrugged into her aelder­bark armor, cinch­ing the belt tight. She winced as a spear of sun­light stabbed into her eye. “What if Elain takes root in the Aelder­wood again? What if Rhi Hydd rises from the sea? Don’t tell me you’re backing out now, after all that talk of solidarity.”

“I’m not. I just need a moment to think.” Suil hugged her shoul­ders, goose­flesh prick­ling her bare skin. “How could we let this happen?”

“Doesn’t matter, it hap­pened.” Sage grabbed her aelder blade from its peg, checked the edge then slung it at her hip. “We con­tin­ue as planned.” She gave Suil a peck on the lips. “Put some clothes on. I’m going to find Elwyn.” Without waiting for a reply, she snatched up her cloak, swung her legs over the ladder, and slid to the ground.

Though dawn trem­bled over the eastern edge of the Aelder­wood, few Cyri yet stirred. Nev­er­the­less, Sage crept cau­tious­ly across the tat­tered grass and scat­tered ferns of the forest floor. A chill lin­gered in the still air, despite the sun’s warm rays. It must have rained some­time during the night. Thick mist infil­trat­ed the valley, sending quest­ing ten­drils through the trees – wrin­kled ghosts that hung low and lonely among the dark limbs, shied away the moment Sage drew close.

She splashed across a shallow stream, the cours­ing water cool on her bare feet. An image appeared in her mind, sudden and sharp, of an owl snatch­ing a stag beetle out of the air – a  message from Scry, both greet­ing and boast, telling her he’d eaten. A moment later he landed on her shoul­der, tiny talons digging into her armor. She smiled in spite of her anxiety, and sent him an image of a pair of Cyri stum­bling from their beds, yawning and rubbing their eyes. She wasn’t sure scout owls under­stood the concept of late­ness, but he nibbled her ear in sym­pa­thy all the same.

A famil­iar wave of sorrow washed over her as her parents’ aelder came in sight. Elwyn’s aelder now, she cor­rect­ed herself. Her brother was already up, huddled against the trunk of the great tree, as if willing it to protect him from the morning’s damp. He looked even gaunter than he had last night, if that was pos­si­ble. Dark patches gath­ered under his mossy eyes, and a slash of sun fell across his face, lending him a haunted mien. His pack lay half open on the ground beside him.

“What took you so long?”

“I over­slept,” said Sage. “You could have come for me, you know.”

“And risk Ruis’s wrath if I wasn’t here when he arrived?” Elwyn snorted. “I’m no fool.”

“Where is he?”

Elwyn scowled at her. “How should I know? When has he ever spared two words for me that weren’t strung togeth­er in anger?”

Sage blew out a loud breath. “Some plan. Barely an hour in and already the threads are unrav­el­ing. At this rate, we’ll be lucky if we make it out of the valley by night­fall.” She looked down at her brother – really  looked. A deep fear lurked behind the defi­ance in his eyes. “Are you sure you still want to go through with this?”

“What choice do we have?” He began to tremble.

Sage straight­ened his cloak, wrap­ping it closer about him. “What is it?”

“I had the dream again last night.” He shook harder, sweat spring­ing out on his brow, despite the chill in the air. “Every­thing was the same – the  swarm of birds, the burning valley, the wolf with fur like golden flame. Only this time, he lay fallen on a bed of frost.”

“Was he dead? Is that what will happen if we don’t reach him in time?”

“I don’t know.” Elwyn pulled away from her. “I don’t know what will happen. Only what I saw.” He sank to the wet earth, drawing his knees up to his chest. His dark hair spilled down, draping his face in shadow. He looked so small and insignif­i­cant next to the gnarled roots of their parents’ aelder – like  a sapling, shel­ter­ing in its sire’s shadow.

“It’s not too late to back out, you know. If we’re caught—”

“I know!” He turned his face away. “We’ll be exiled.”

Exiled if we’re lucky. Sage ran a hand through her tangled hair. It really wasn’t too late. If they found Ruis in time, they could chalk last night’s talk up to too much aelder­ber­ry wine. But that’s not what their mother would have done. Mother had never hes­i­tat­ed to help those in need.

A twig snapped, echoing off the trees. Sage spun, heart ham­mer­ing, her blade hissing from its sheath.

“Easy,” said Suil. “It’s only me.” She wore an aelder blade on one hip, her map case on the other. Though she’d dressed and donned her armor, she evi­dent­ly hadn’t had time to prop­er­ly bind her hair. A few wayward wisps already wrig­gled free, dancing in the breeze. Root and branch, but she looked beau­ti­ful. “You blush when you’re star­tled. Did you know? It’s cute.”

Sage felt herself flush even deeper. She slid her blade back into its sheath.

“Morning, little one.” Suil reached over and stroked the top of Scry’s head with one finger. She glanced down at Elwyn. “Morning to you, too.”

“Morning,” he grunted, not both­er­ing to look up.

“Here.” Suil pressed a sheathed aelder blade into Sage’s hands. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks.” Sage held the blade a moment, feeling its weight. A neces­si­ty, she told herself. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. She passed the blade to Elwyn. “Just in case.”

He took it without a word and shoved it into his pack.

She knelt beside him. “I don’t know what dangers lie ahead,” she said. “But if it comes to it, leave the fight­ing to those of us with experience.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” The hard glint in Elwyn’s eyes was enough to make her regret giving him the blade already.

“Still no sign of Ruis?” Suil patted the side of her head, noticed the stray strands, and pulled the whole mess free. She began metic­u­lous­ly piling the hair back up again, a length of twine clenched between her teeth.

Sage shook her head as she stood. “None.”

“So what’s our move?” Suil asked, around the twine. “Head to the stables, or keep waiting?”

Sage chewed her lip. The longer they delayed, the harder it would be to leave the valley unno­ticed. “We’ve waited long enough. Let’s go find them. If anyone asks, we’ll say Bryn is sending us out on an early patrol.”

“On a rest day?”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“What if we run into Bryn?”

Sage hauled Elwyn to his feet. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

Suil rolled her eyes, tying up the last bit of hair. “You sure know how to lift a lady’s confidence.”

#

Speck­led light spilled through the trees as the three Cyri crossed into the deepest part of the valley, the clammy reek of cold rain giving way to the com­fort­ing scents of pine and aelder. The morning promised to be warm – Scry  dozed on Sage’s shoul­der, Suil danced through patches of sun-dappled grass – yet  Elwyn still shiv­ered beneath his cloak.

The Aelder­wood woke to the songs of larks and star­lings, and the grumble of beasts scuf­fling in the under­growth. A few Cyri had risen at last – farmers  tended forest goats, car­pen­ters col­lect­ed fallen limbs, and smiths stoked their forges. Sage forced herself to breathe. Rest day or not, no one had reason to ques­tion them. As long as they didn’t draw any attention—

“Shit,” hissed Suil. “Is that Rowyn? What’s he doing up?”

A spindly figure in rumpled robes lounged against the black trunk of an aelder, study­ing a piece of leaf­pa­per with a strange symbol scrawled in char­coal on the back – three  spirals, joined as one.

Sage inhaled sharply. “Stay calm.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Bryn’s sending us out on patrol, remember?”

“Rowyn’s no fool,” said Suil. “He’ll see right through us. Plus, why would we bring Elwyn?”

“Just shut up and let me handle it.”

“Sage!” Rowyn called, tucking the paper into his sleeve.

“Uncle!” Sage called back.

Rowyn rose slowly. “You’re up early.” A smile creased his wrin­kled face. His bushy hair had long since faded to gray, but his emerald eyes still sparkled with the mis­chief of youth. “On a rest day, no less.”

“So are you,” blurted Elwyn. Sage elbowed him, hard.

Rowyn waved a dis­mis­sive hand. “I never sleep more than a few hours these days. Where are you three off to, all armed and armored?”

“Bryn’s sending us on patrol,” said Sage. The lie came easily enough.

“Is she now?” Rowyn’s eyes nar­rowed. “Well, I suppose it will be good to get your minds off the Court’s deci­sion. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak after yesterday’s assem­bly. I wanted to explain—”

“I under­stand.” Sage brushed an imag­i­nary speck of dirt off her trousers. “You have to con­sid­er what’s best for everyone.”

“Aye.” Rowyn nodded. “And Cyriu can’t be respon­si­ble for break­ing the peace with the Edael—”

Sage cleared her throat before he could say, again. “Well, we’d better be going. Bryn will have our skins if we keep her waiting.” She tugged her brother’s cloak to get him moving. Suil was already three strides away, heading toward the stables.

“And where are you going, Elwyn?” Rowyn frowned as his eyes fell on the blade hilt poking out of Elwyn’s pack. “I know Arch Elder Nuin didn’t give you the day off.”

Sage froze. “I thought I’d let him help me saddle Aderyn before his lessons. You know, get his mind off things, like you said.” Damn. That didn’t sound even remote­ly credible.

But Rowyn seemed more con­cerned with Elwyn’s mood than Sage’s expla­na­tions. He squat­ted, knees crack­ing. “I hope you aren’t too dis­ap­point­ed, little leaf. But we just couldn’t risk sending the hart riders north. Not after what hap­pened to your parents.”

Elwyn trem­bled. “I still dream about them,” he said, his voice cold and distant.

Rowyn laid a hand on Elwyn’s shoul­der. “We all miss them ter­ri­bly. At least in dreams, we have a way of keeping their memory alive.”

“They’re not those kind of dreams,” said Elwyn. “They’re the other kind.”

Rowyn sighed. “Elwyn, we’ve been through this. Dream­ing a thing doesn’t make it real. I loved your parents like they were my own brother and sister. But what hap­pened to them was an acci­dent. A tragic acci­dent, to be sure, but an acci­dent all the same.” An acci­dent of their own making, he could have said, if he wanted to be cruel. “There’s nothing you or I or anyone else could have done to prevent it.”

“But I saw them burn!” Elwyn insist­ed. “Just like I saw the birds, and the valley, and the golden wolf! If you had only lis­tened to me—”

“I won’t be drawn into another quarrel,” said Rowyn, stand­ing as quickly as his old bones would allow. “I thought Nuin had spoken to you about this.”

“We should be going anyway,” said Sage. “Right, Elwyn?” She gave his cloak another tug.

But her brother wouldn’t budge. “You say you loved our parents?” He glow­ered up at Rowyn. “Then tell the Arch Elder to recon­sid­er. You can do that at least, can’t you? Or would stand­ing up for someone other than your­self be too much to ask?”

Rage twisted across Rowyn’s face, and for a hor­ri­ble moment, Sage feared he might actu­al­ly strike her brother. She thrust herself in front of Elwyn, shoving him back. Scry, star­tled from his slumber, beat his wings against the air, hooting loudly.

But Rowyn only sighed. “You sound just like your mother,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ll speak with Nuin, but I promise you, nothing will come of it. Once she makes up her mind, she’s as stub­born as a hind in heat.” He may as well have been describ­ing himself.

“Thank you, uncle,” said Sage, her voice even. “Don’t let us keep you.”

Rowyn offered Elwyn one final frown, then trudged off toward the south­ern end of the valley.

When he was out of earshot, Sage rounded on her brother. “What the hell was that?”

Elwyn shrugged. “It’ll keep him busy, won’t it?”

“Only until he and Nuin start won­der­ing why you haven’t shown up for your lessons.” She pushed him toward Suil. “Come on. Let’s get to the stables before half the valley knows what we’re up to.”

Scry, sensing the excite­ment was over, settled back onto her shoul­der and fell asleep.

#

The harts’ stables lay on the far side of the River Hafrian, nestled among half a dozen of the tallest aelders in the valley. Bryn kept the hinds and foals in a sep­a­rate pen upriver, where the current wasn’t quite so strong. But down here, the water ran swift and deep, filling the still air with its playful cadence.

The three Cyri crossed along a creak­ing wooden bridge, and soon the gentle snort and whicker of the harts floated over to them through the trees. Most rested in their stalls – nib­bling  at their brim­ming troughs, rubbing their antlers against the worn trunks, impa­tient­ly pawing the moss covered earth – but  four had been saddled, laden with bedrolls and pro­vi­sions, and hitched to a nearby aelder. Sage’s own hart, Aderyn, was among them. He bobbed his head in greet­ing when he saw her.

“Is it them?” a voice whispered.

“It’s them.”

A thick­set figure stepped from the trees. He wasn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly tall, but he was solidly built, muscles rip­pling over his burly frame, a lichen-black tangle of beard splashed across his nut brown jaw. He wore armor like Sage’s, forged from strips of lat­ticed aelder­bark, and held a greatsword in one hand.

“Sage.” Ruis’s deep voice carried an edge of anger under its usual warmth. “Where in Rhi Hydd’s name have you been?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She wasn’t about to tell him they’d over­slept. That would only anger him more. “Where’s your better half?”

“I’m here.” Beith appeared from behind one of the other aelders, pale hair falling like willow blos­soms against her dark cheeks. She wrapped Sage in a tight embrace, jostling the bow slung over her shoulder.

“What hap­pened?” Sage asked as they parted.

“Bryn saw us,” said Beith. “She was feeding the harts when we arrived.”

“I thought Rose was on duty this morning,” said Suil. They’d been count­ing on her to forget, like she always did.

“Appar­ent­ly Bryn doesn’t trust her any more than we do,” Ruis grum­bled, sliding his greatsword into its sheath. “Not on a rest day, anyway.”

“Why is every­one up so damned early this morning?” Sage fumed. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth,” said Ruis. “I told her we were taking our harts out for a ride.”

Sage raised an eyebrow. No rider in her right mind would give up a rest day for such a ridicu­lous reason.

“What was I sup­posed to say?” Ruis growled. “I wasn’t expect­ing to run into her, was I?”

“Well, did she believe you?”

He scratched at his beard. “I think so, but it was a close thing.”

“Lucky she trusts Beith,” said Sage. “Lucky you didn’t give us all away.”

“You’re one to talk,” snapped Ruis. “If you’d gotten here an hour ago—”

“We ran into Rowyn,” said Suil.

Ruis’s eyes widened. “Shit. You think he sus­pects anything?”

“I don’t know,” said Sage. “I can never tell with him. But either way we need to put the valley behind us by dusk. I mean to cross the Edelydd tonight, and I don’t want us thrash­ing about the Aelder­wood in the dark.”

“Do you have the maps?” Beith asked.

Suil tapped the case at her hip. “Don’t worry. I won’t get us lost.” Despite the con­fi­dence in her voice, her lip quiv­ered as she said this. She’d never trav­eled beyond the Edelydd. None of them had. This was all start­ing to feel far more real in the sober light of day.

Sage slipped her hand into Suil’s and gave it a squeeze. “If anyone wants out,” she said, “now’s your last chance. Once we leave Cyriu, there’s no turning back. Even if we succeed, even if we make it to Foriu and find this golden wolf, there’ll be no place for us here anymore.”

Ruis folded his arms, frown­ing down at Elwyn. “We’re risking a hell of a lot on this dream of yours.”

“I know what I saw,” said Elwyn.

Ruis turned to Sage. “You’re still com­mit­ted to this madness?”

She nodded. “We might not be able to bring an army like we hoped, but we can at least bring a warning. It’s what our parents would have done.”

“Then let’s have no more talk of backing out,” said Ruis. “We’re with you. To the end.” Sage allowed herself a smile. For all his bluster, Ruis was unfail­ing­ly loyal.

“Now that the sun’s up, how do you plan on reach­ing the Edelydd unno­ticed?” Beith asked.

“We’ll have to cross through Cynan­dau Grove,” said Sage, to groans of protest. She held up a hand for silence. “This isn’t the time for silly super­sti­tions.” Though even she had to admit feeling a bit of dread at the thought of cross­ing through the grove. “We’ll walk the harts for now, at least until we reach the Edelydd. Except you, Elwyn. You’re riding.” Her brother was too small to tire Aderyn much, and he’d only slow them on foot.

The Cyri began making last minute adjust­ments to their saddles, armor, and weapons. All save Elwyn, who stood apart, staring off into the distance.

Sage waved him over to Aderyn. “Give me your pack.” As she secured it behind the bedrolls, she noticed a small shirt of aelder­bark armor – just  Elwyn’s size – tied  up with the pro­vi­sions. Ruis must have lib­er­at­ed it from the armory. She shook her head as she helped her brother into the saddle. It won’t come to that.

Elwyn caught her arm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For believ­ing me.”

She patted his leg. “Save your thanks. We’ve a long road ahead.” She spared a glance back to make sure the others were ready, then unhitched Aderyn’s reins and led him north into the trees.

#

The Cyri stole through the under­growth, silent as shadows, their harts plod­ding along obe­di­ent­ly behind them. An oppres­sive seren­i­ty had settled over the valley. Limbs shook with the grumble of distant thunder. Leaves rustled as the wind whis­pered through them. The sky spoke, and the forest trembled.

They reached Cynan­dau Grove without inci­dent. The aelders here stood tall and proud, their bark a deep, dig­ni­fied black. Each had grown from the grave of a fallen hart-rider – or  at least, those Rhi Hydd found worthy. Some claimed the spirits of the dead haunted this part of the valley. Utter rubbish, of course. But Sage felt a chill ripple down her spine all the same.

Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. But the sense of dread only grew stronger with each step. As they pressed toward the center of the grove, the trees shifted notice­ably, becom­ing younger, less bent and weather worn. Sage slowed. Coming this way was a mistake. She wasn’t ready – might  never be ready.

The grove opened out into a large circle of bare earth where Elain, the Eternal Tree, had once stood. Nothing grew here now. No brush or bramble, not even a blade of grass. But just at the edge of the circle, two saplings pushed up from the leaf strewn earth, side by side. So small. So frail. The breath caught in Sage’s throat. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and rubbed it away hastily.

“We can stop if you like.” Suil spoke low, so the others couldn’t hear. “You know, say a few words.”

“There’s no time.” Sage’s voice came out a croak. She didn’t know what words she had in her. Only that they’d be inad­e­quate. She tore her eyes away from the saplings and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, leading Aderyn around the edge of the circle.

“Shouldn’t we at least say a prayer over the journey ahead?” Beith asked.

Sage doubted any amount of prayer would help them where they were going, but she didn’t want to appear cruel. “Make it quick.”

Beith tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Will you honor us, Elwyn?”

He nodded. “Mer­ci­ful Elain, take root in our hearts—”

Sage bowed her head with the others, but she hardly heard a word. She stared at her ragged fin­ger­nails, her dirt-smudged toes – at  any­thing but the two young trees no more than a few strides away. Leaving Cyriu meant she’d prob­a­bly never see them again. Never watch them grow tall. Never bask in their shade.

“—we pray this in the name of Elain, the Once-Eternal, whose roots and branch­es are one,” Elwyn finished.

“Amen,” said Beith.

“Amen,” Suil echoed.

Sage said nothing. She just turned away, drag­ging Aderyn with her into the trees.

#

“Quiet!” Ruis’s insis­tent whisper cut through the hushed wood. “Do you hear that?”

Sage tossed her reins to Suil and crept back through the trees, wincing at the cacoph­o­ny of crunch­ing leaves under­foot. “What is it?”

“I think we’re being followed.”

They’d been walking for hours, stop­ping only once to water the harts and eat a little food. Morning slid into after­noon, after­noon inched toward evening, and the once distant thunder rumbled closer with every passing minute, muf­fling all but their foot­falls. Yet sure enough, if Sage strained her ears, she could just make out the unmis­tak­able tread of harts’ hooves thud­ding through the undergrowth.

“What do we do?” asked Suil, creep­ing up behind them.

Sage glanced back at Elwyn, wide-eyed and shaking in Aderyn’s saddle. She wasn’t about to put him – or any of them – in danger unless she had to. Scry was awake now, perched on her brother’s shoul­der. The tiny owl cocked his head at her. She sent him a mental command and he took to the air, flit­ting back the way they’d come.

“Scry’s going to find out how many there are.” Sage kept her voice low as she walked back to the harts. The sun had slipped behind the western moun­tains, steep­ing the whole forest in hazy light. “If there’s only a handful, we can prob­a­bly outrun them. We’re almost to the Edelydd anyway. But if there’s more—” She let the thought hang. If there were more than half a dozen, she didn’t like their chances. “We should con­sid­er throw­ing our­selves on the Court’s mercy.”

Elwyn’s face dark­ened. “What about the golden wolf?”

“I’m not saying it’s my first choice—”

“Mother would never have given up so easily.” The ice in Elwyn’s words cut deeper than any blade.

“There’s another option,” said Ruis, letting one hand fall to the pommel of his greatsword.

“You can’t be serious,” said Suil.

“I’m sure as hell not going to die a traitor.” He grabbed his antlered helm from his saddle.

Suil caught his arm. “You’d rather die a kinslayer?”

“Only if I have to,” Ruis grunted, twist­ing free and slip­ping the helm over his head. “We talked about this pos­si­bil­i­ty last night.”

“We said a lot of things last night!”

“Leave it!” hissed Sage. “No one’s killing anyone! It was a good plan, but we failed. We’ll take what­ev­er pun­ish­ment the Court hands out. But we’re not about to drag anyone else down with us.”

An image took shape in her mind, bright and urgent – a  dozen hart riders, armed, armored, and mounted, no more than a hundred strides away. A moment later, Scry landed on her shoulder.

“Shit,” Sage mut­tered under her breath.

“Well?” Ruis demand­ed. “How many?”

“Too many,” said Sage. “But there’s still time for the four of you to get to the Edelydd. I’ll stall them.”

No one moved.

“Go!” said Sage. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’ve never asked anyone to die for me,” said Ruis, folding his arms, “and I’m sure as hell not start­ing now. What­ev­er happens to one of us, happens to all.”

Sage looked from Ruis to Beith, from Suil to Elwyn, and found the same grim deter­mi­na­tion etched on every face. She shook her head, an absurd smirk tugging one corner of her mouth. “What a pack of fools.”

A dozen harts burst from the trees, antlers gleam­ing, russet coats glim­mer­ing in the fading sun. Half the riders carried bows, arrows loosely nocked. The other half bran­dished aelder blades. Sage knew each and every one of their faces. These were Cyri she’d ridden with. Cyri she trusted. Bryn rode at their head, her blade still sheathed. Rowyn rode beside her, unarmed.

“Didn’t think this through, did you, Sage?” Rowyn slid from the saddle with some difficulty.

“Hello, uncle,” said Sage. “We were just enjoy­ing the autumn air. Care to join us?”

Rowyn strode stiffly over, his mouth a tight line. “This is hardly the time for jests. Do you realize what you’ve done? The Court will burn you for this!”

Sage bit back another glib reply. She’d known the pyre was a pos­si­bilty, but she hadn’t thought the Court would seri­ous­ly con­sid­er it. The idea of being con­sumed in a blaze of smoke and flame, as help­less as a branch in a brush­fire, ter­ri­fied her. She couldn’t go out like that. Not like them.

“There’s no need for threats.” Bryn’s coarse voice broke the silence as she swung from her saddle, the dying light catch­ing every pock and crater on her craggy face. “Why are you doing this, Sage?”

“I told you at the assem­bly,” said Sage. “The Edael mean to invade Foriu. Elwyn has seen it. We have to find this golden wolf. We have to warn the Fhaolan Clannes!”

Rowyn sneered. “You’d throw your future away on a dream?”

“Elwyn’s dreams don’t lie.” Sage forced the words through gritted teeth. “If we don’t bring warning, the Fhaolan will fall.”

“That’s none of our concern,” said Rowyn.

Sage fought the urge to grab his shoul­ders and shake some sense into him. “How can you be so thick-headed? We can’t keep pre­tend­ing that wars beyond our borders mean nothing. What happens after the Edael slaugh­ter every wolf and cub in Foriu? When they turn their eyes west? What then?”

A dan­ger­ous light danced in Rowyn’s eyes. “Don’t you dare lecture me about thick-head­ed­ness.” Sage opened her mouth to protest, but Rowyn pressed on. “Even if the Edael were invad­ing Foriu, you’d still be delib­er­ate­ly dis­obey­ing the Aelder Court. You need to put emotion aside and show some humil­i­ty in the face of authority!”

Sage worked her jaw. “Author­i­ty is fal­li­ble. My parents taught me that.”

Rowyn rubbed at his eyes with thumb and fore­fin­ger. “Your parents thought they could take the weight of the Isles on their shoul­ders, and they burned for it. I’m not about to let the same thing happen to you.”

“Fine.” Sage glared at him, offer­ing her wrists. “Take me in. But let my friends go. This was my idea. Mine alone.” She heard Suil shift uncom­fort­ably beside her.

“We’re bring­ing you all back,” said Rowyn, “for your own safety. If you come with us now, we can pretend this never hap­pened.” He ges­tured to the hart-riders. “Take them.”

“Stand fast,” Bryn commanded.

“What in Rhi Hydd’s—” Rowyn began.

Bryn cut him off with a firm hand on his shoul­der. “She’s right, Rowyn. Sooner or later, some­thing will have to be done about the Edael. It’s only a matter of time before they get it into their heads to come charg­ing across the Edelydd.”

Rowyn snorted. “That’s not going to happen unless we break the peace again by doing some­thing foolish…like allow­ing five head­strong young Cyri to cross into Edael territory!”

“Don’t be naive,” said Bryn. “The peace means nothing to the Edael. If Gwyn and Cildyn’s deaths didn’t con­vince you, I don’t know what will.” She turned to Sage, giving her an apprais­ing look. “I’m sure you know your mother could be quite…impetuous when the mood struck her. I’m glad to see you can be, too. You’ll need all the fire you can muster to reach Foriu in one piece.”

Sage gaped at Bryn. “You’re letting us go?”

“I needed to know you were doing this for the right reasons,” said Bryn. “Your little speech just now con­vinced me.”

“When the Arch Elder hears about this—” Rowyn spluttered.

“She’ll be furious,” said Bryn. “But that’s my burden to bear. And unless you can per­suade my riders to start taking orders from you, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“You should come with us,” said Sage. “We could use your experience.”

Bryn shook her head. “Someone needs to stay here and smooth things over with the Court – make  sure you lot still have a home to come back to. I can’t promise the Arch Elder will be lenient, but I should be able to keep you off the pyre.”

“This is a mistake,” said Rowyn. “Beyond our borders, any Edael you run into will try to kill you, peace or no peace.”

“I know, uncle,” said Sage. “We’ll be careful.”

Rowyn sighed, a trace of genuine concern creep­ing into his voice. “Just…don’t let thoughts of revenge cloud your judg­ment. I’d never forgive myself if some­thing hap­pened to you.”

“If anyone can get this lot to Foriu and back, it’s Sage.” Bryn released her grip on Rowyn’s shoul­der and beck­oned. “A word?”

Sage fol­lowed her into the trees, leaving Rowyn and the others in awkward silence.

Bryn leaned against the trunk of a tow­er­ing pine, and pulled a thin aelder blade from her belt, twirling it between her fingers. “This belonged to your mother. I found it next to—” She cleared her throat. Her voice had more grit in it than usual. “Your father gave it to her, you know, the night they pledged their troth. I’d planned to give it to you when you and Suil pledged yours. But now seems as good a time as any.” She offered it to Sage.

The blade was carved from the darkest aelder wood Sage had ever seen, its edge as keen as any iron-forged Edael sword. Sage remem­bered her mother wearing it, though the memory was worn at the edges like an old blanket, thin and thread­bare from too much use. She swal­lowed the lump in her throat and slid the blade into her belt.

“Thank you.”

Bryn wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “I’m proud of you, no matter what happens.” There were tears on her pitted cheeks. For the first time, Sage noticed the deep creases around her eyes, the silver streaks in her mossy hair. When had she aged so? “Rowyn is, too. In his way.”

“I know.” Sage blinked away tears of her own.

They drifted back to the others under a swiftly pur­pling sky. Beith, Ruis, and Suil had mounted their harts and were looking to Sage expec­tant­ly. Rowyn stood apart, halfway between them and the rest of the riders, a look of con­tempt on his lined face.

Sage gave him a hug. “Cheer up, uncle. We’ll be back to irri­tate you before you know it.”

He returned the embrace after a moment’s hes­i­ta­tion. “Watch out for Elwyn,” he said. “Keep him safe.”

“I will.” She clam­bered up onto Aderyn’s saddle in front of her brother. “Every­one ready?”

Suil winked at Sage. “After you, fear­less leader.”

“Elwyn?” Sage reached back and squeezed his hand.

“I’m ready.”

She flicked the reins, guiding Aderyn east. When she looked back, Rowyn, Bryn, and the other riders were indis­tin­guish­able from the trees.

#

The Aelder­wood fell away in a matter of minutes, and the Cyri found them­selves facing the Edelydd – leagues  upon leagues of des­o­late hills stretch­ing to the unseen horizon. Some­where in the dis­tance, light­ning crackled.

For a moment, Sage felt as though the earth had opened up in front her, and one more step would send her plung­ing head­long into the abyss. Then she thought of the two saplings at the edge of Cynan­dau Grove, and the legacy her parents had left behind. She nudged Aderyn out onto the barren breadth of the Edelydd and into the swal­low­ing darkness.


Peter Adrian Behravesh has a B.A. in Con­tem­po­rary Music and Record­ing from Eastern Nazarene College, and a Master Cer­tifi­cate in Song­writ­ing and Guitar from Berklee College of Music. He is cur­rent­ly earning his MFA in Cre­ative Writing from the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Maine. Peter spends his time writing science fiction and fantasy stories, poems, and songs.

Website: peteradrianbehravesh.com

Twitter: @pabehravesh



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