There is a singing, a humming, a wailing that fills up the whole desert.
At first Abel thinks that he is going mad. It must be a curse from Caligo or from Solis - for surely he has sinned against both. Or perhaps it is only a result of his own grief, his own black and bloody hands, a pearl of sin that grew and grew into a black stone that sits in his mind and drags him down. It would not surprise him, to be cursed or to be mad.
It is not until he is nearly to the canyons that he remembers the stories of the Mors’ singing dunes. He’d thought them no more than the fairy-tales of Denocte - witches in the mountains, mermaids in the sea. Now, with a last bleary glance at the dunes falling away behind him, he shivers to think that those must be real, too.
And then he steps into the pathway that cuts through the canyons and he is swallowed up by silence.
But the wailing still echoes in his heart, in his blood. It beats with the words of the Ghost’s letter, ordering him to destroy the food stores of his home. It is winter, and the land is still recovering from saltwater floods and long-ago dragon-fire; to burn the food is to sentence the people to starve. His people, and Raum’s.
Dread fills up the hollows of his bones, sinks low his soul. He does not know the three he is to meet, but he distrusts them (he distrusts everyone, even himself). But he knows Denocte well, knows every shortcut and shadowed alley, knows the rounds of the guards and the ones easy enough to bribe.
Already he is walking down those paths in his mind, as his hooves echo on the red stone of the canyon. There is no wind here, and no shadow in the flat winter sunlight; it is an alien world, a tan and crimson tomb, ragged monoliths for long-dead gods.
At last he finds the cave, a yawning mouth with cool stale breath. He is the first to arrive and he stands just inside the black of the place, breathing slow, tense with disquiet, his heart closing up like a fist, like a dead baleful winter sun.
here’s a lot Toulouse still has to learn about Solterra. Even a slippery fellow like himself, slithering his way into every corner of Novus, with a hunger only secrets can satiate - still, the mysteries of Solterra evade him. It’s an ancient place, one where the shifting dunes provided excellent burial sites for all the skeletons people would rather toss from their closets. Even now, as his fetlocks sink deep into the sand, he can’t help but wonder about the bones he might be walking over.
One day, he promises the desert, I’ll unearth everything you have to offer me. It was ironic, in a way: the desert had been the thing he’d hated most about Solterra, when he first arrived. Now he is coming to appreciate its vast, rolling sands that change form in the blink of an eye. Perhaps it wasn’t as ominous as a forest - but that had always been more his brother’s scene, at the end of the day. Toulouse was a viper, a serpent; perhaps the desert was a fit match for him after all.
The sun was a watchful eye in the sky as he entered the canyons, staring unblinkingly down at the palomino’s back. He could cut the silence with a knife if he wanted, so thick and palpable that it was.
The whole world was holding its breath, as if waiting for the meeting that was to come. As the walls of sandstone rose up on either side around him, Toulouse paused.
Light glinted off each of the golden rings adorning his horns, but it was only one particular ring that caught the horned stallion’s attention. A single twist, and the jewelry began to glow; and in the blink of an eye, Toulouse disappeared from sight. The air shimmered in the place he had once stood in. Better safe than sorry.
His smile, although hidden from the world, inched across his face. He kept his footsteps soft when he began again, walking amongst the shadows the canyons cast. The trail was long and winding, but his mind is full enough to make the time fly past. The whisper of wings still echoes within his mind, the words the letter contained seared upon the inside of his skull. Richter’s Cave. Three others. Toulouse did not know which three were special enough to be sent on a mission with him; but he supposed he would find out soon enough. Already, the names and faces of the many Day court members he had met are flashing through his mind, weighing his options.
Before he knew it, the mouth of the cave appeared as a jagged hole in the sandy canyon walls. He can see a figure, blacker than the shadows, outlined within.
His smile was gone in an instant.
“I know you,” he spoke, voice quiet, stepping into the darkness of the cave. His eyes a flash of green against the pale white of his face, flickering into existence with the rest of his body as he cast off the charm that had concealed him. “You came to Solterra with Raum.” An errand boy, he had assumed, trailing in the shadow of his king, fleeing from Denocte. Or was it his past he fled from? Toulouse had always wondered, but had never asked.
“Did he send a crow for you as well?”
The silver ribbon is still hidden within one of the pockets of his scarves, tied around a single, lonesome feather that was as black as the night skies of the Night court.
Follow the bird. He had to be crazy. When the raven had to come Rufio with a letter tied to its foot like some sort of messenger, Rufio had thought himself quite important. After all, why else would the king have summoned him to do his bidding. Thinking of his first fateful meeting with Raum in the desert, the boy stallion had to wonder if perhaps the king himself was mad. He had half a mind to ignore the summons, but if anything, it was an excuse to get out of this hellhole… and that – that was enticing. So curiosity had led him here.
He didn’t give two fucks about Denocte or their plight. This war wasn’t his war to fight, and he didn’t have a dog in the fight. Though there is a nagging thought in the back of his mind that promises it would become his fight, should he get involved, Rufio pushes the concern away. After all, he needed a little adventure and mischief in his life. If nothing else, it would liven things up. And if it bought him favor with the king, win win. Maybe if he appeased the desert heathens, they’d lead him back to where he came from.
He walks through the canyon, finally finding the cave that lay hidden at the end. Of course, it would be as far away from his previous location as could be, and he grumbled a bit as he chains shifted and he ducked into the mouth of the cave. Eyes focusing in the darkness , he made out the forms of Abel and Tuolouse, just catching the second male’s words and noting his tone with a quirked eyebrow. For a moment, there is enough tension that you could palpably feel it, but Rufio shrugs it off and clears his throat to alert the others of his presence.
Seems like we’re missing one more. His voice is harsh and grating, unlike his usual tone, dry from disuse and scratchy from the austerity of this climate. One more reason to leave. He shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable waiting with strangers in the darkness of the cave, but ignoring the nagging sensation at the back of his neck – that something dangerous was soon to find them. It would be something they brought on themselves, he knew… but he didn’t care. All Rufio wanted was a change from the monotony of his life in Solterra.
Training his eye on the mouth of the cave, he waits to see if the fourth will show, eager to begin the task at hand.
At first she is surprised by receiving Raum’s letter, but soon the surprise fades and she begins to realize that perhaps she deserved that letter. After all, she had told him that she was an agent of chaos. What she hadn’t told him was that she had to do things for a purpose. She wanted to know why he had asked her to destroy the food stores, what purpose did it have? Targwyn had never once turned down an opportunity to cause anarchy and distrust, but she was having a hard time figuring out why he wanted to destroy the food stores of a kingdom that is not his own. Targwyn doesn’t know he came from Denocte, that he is an outsider and a traitor. Yes, she’d heard the rumors, but Targwyn is not one to act on hearsay.
So as she meanders through the canyon, she ponders these things, to see if it is truly something that she is interested in doing. Raum offers no explanation, no benefit. He is treating them like his minions that he can simply order around. Targwyn is no such mare. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she follows the disturbed sand, following the footsteps of others as they too meandered into the hidden cave.
It is there that she sees the three others gathered, the three others that Raum has said she was to meet. All males - go figure. She swore it was like a pissing contest to see who’s stream went the farthest, or perhaps even a “who’s dick is bigger than who’s” contest. If she were honest with herself, she had the biggest dick of them all.
Eyes looked to all those gathered, slowing passing over each one to remember their faces. She didn’t necessarily care about their names, names they wouldn’t be using anyway. She settles amongst them, her eyes full of determination and agitation. She had been waiting for a moment such as this. Perhaps this moment was what had drawn her to Solterra for the time being. She had no allegiance to anyone. Right now, Raum’s agenda was her own. “You must all be the three stooges I was told to meet.” Her words are harsh, as if she has a voice that hasn’t been used in days. It’s scratchy and irritated, but it gets the job done.
The only time he is surprised is when the man blinks into existence beside him.
It went like this: first nothing but the ghost of a breeze, and a strange scent riding on it; then a a voice, a man. Abel starts, but only once; his eyes show their whites when he glances at him, and recognizes one of the faces from that first meeting in the Solterran courtyard.
To disappear is a useful trick, one he wishes he possessed.
“Yes,” Abel says, and is serves as answer to all the golden man has spoken.
He says nothing else as the others filter in, only watches with his eyes dark and impassive, a thing watching from the shadows beneath a stone. None of them do anything to settle his anxiety. The other boy is brusque, loud with his chains and rough of his grating voice. The mare - she looks like trouble, like danger, with her foolish words and her mad and recognizable face.
Of course, he does not say. Why else would we be standing in this cave at this hour with this look in our eyes.
Perhaps they will all be caught and killed. Perhaps that is a relief.
Or, he thinks (and as he thinks it, it becomes more than that - it becomes a thing he knows, down between the spaces of his bones, down in the darkness of his heart) it is a test that Raum has set them. They will pass and live or fail and die and the Ghost does not care which. It makes Abel think too much of the gods, who the people of Novus served and served and were smote by anyway, dying like mayflies with prayers still in their mouths.
Abel had thought it would be different, serving such a man, with fervor and faith in his burning blue gaze. Raum had saved him, Raum had fed him, and Abel had thought - he had thought -
(well, it is not the first time the world has proven him a fool and a child).
Like the others he cares nothing for names; for a moment he only considers them all and wonders who is to lead. When no one else speaks he does, his voice soft as a blanket of dust in the echoing dark of the cave, flat as an alter-stone.
“There is a point just after dusk where the guard shifts. When I left,” (he does not say the name of his home; he might choke on it, it might catch like grit and sand between his teeth) “there were only two of them, but there may be more now.”
His lips press tightly together when he scans their faces again, two pale as moons, one shadow-dark as his own. It is not failure he thinks of; it is of a people in the heart of winter with no food. Abel licks his teeth and says, “I know the secret pathways of Denocte. If we are swift - if we are not stupid - we should not fail.”
t did not take long for the others to arrive - it would seem they all had the same punctuality, the same loyalty to their silver king that dragged them out to the canyons without knowing where they were going or what they were doing. Toulouse watched each of their faces carefully, tucking them away in his mind. A black, gold-chained man with white on his legs. A white-faced, dun mare with the most curious of facial markings. The bay turncloak who had preceded them all. He had seen them before - how could he not? He had spent enough months in Solterra, had paced the same halls and walkways, sneaking around corners to catch whispered ends of conversations. There were few faces unfamiliar to him now. Toulouse had become quite at home within the desert Court.
He does not move as they come and make their introductions - although they were poor introductions at that. No one offered a name, no one asked. They knew what they were here for, and it was not for social hour - still, Toulouse would rather know the people he was working with. Names knit people together, gave them connections - reasons to trust on one another. How could they carry out a mission successfully without being able to rely on the others to get the job done? His scarves seem to shiver as he shakes his head. He would give them a chance to introduce themselves again later, as they were parting.
For now, it was time to talk strategy.
A speckled ear flicked to Abel as he spoke, listening actively even while his demeanor gave off the impression of being sleepy. He couldn’t decide yet if he liked the Denocte-turned-Solterran man - but it didn’t matter. He had lived in Denocte. That information would be invaluable in a mission like this.
”If we are not stupid.” His lips pulled back into a smile, his wolfish teeth gleaming in the darkness of the cave. “I can’t speak for any of you,” he said quietly, his voice whispering through the air, “but I wasn’t planning on it.”
Laughter punctuated the end of his sentence.
“The note said there were three stores for us to destroy. It’s best we split up, take them all at once. We can be out before Denocte even wakes up enough to realize what’s happened.”
He takes a minute to study their faces, silently gauging which of them would prove useful. He didn’t know them, didn’t trust their abilities the way he trusted his own or his brother’s - he would be stupid to think he could. Toulouse wasn’t even sure yet if he trusted the king, but whether he liked it or not, it was what it was.
He was not going to turn down an opportunity, nor fail at it.
Though he would never really admit it, Rufio was half impressed that the first male had a plan. It was helpful too, that he had knowledge of the land they called Denocte. Though Rufio couldn’t claim to know much about the Night Court, he knew that it wasn’t here, and that was good enough for him. Nodding mutely at Abel’s plan, his chains seemed to jingle in response. For once, the fire tongued boy doesn’t have much to add… the idea that they should split up also seemed reasonable enough to him, and maybe they would get done quicker and have a chance to wander about.
Inwardly, he hoped that he might find a keyhole in time. Far fetched though it was, Rufio was still holding out hope that he could find his way out of this place. With each passing day, he knew the chances grew slimmer, but still he could hope for escape and respite. If nothing else, this adventure to the neighboring court would provide some semblance of excitement. He was definitely over the desert, and far from wanting to stick around and see if the sands would peel his skin from his bones. Given time, he figured Solterra would eat him alive, or make a begrudging convert of him… and neither sounded particularly inviting at this time.
His ears flattened some at the mare, brushing off her insults and tone, but itching with annoyance as he barely masked an eye roll. It was good that the golden male had a sense of humor, and his own lips quirked a bit. What about the fourth? he finally asks, quickly making calculations in his mind that didn’t add up. Three stores, four perpetrators. If you know the way, perhaps you can direct us and keep an eye out for the guards… he addresses Abel, only mildly curious as to what would happen should they get caught. Certainly, their actions would not be taken kindly… but Rufio had little awareness of all that had come to pass between the Night and Day courts.
Targwyn takes a moment to look at the other three individuals, the ones that she is supposed to work with. For a moment she thinks about how much she really wants to do things on her own, so that she isn’t forced to working with someone. She doesn’t know the individuals, not that she really needs to know them. But if they were working as a group, she would have to trust them and frankly, she doesn’t trust a single one of them here.
But before she can voice her opinion to do a part of the mission solo, one begins to speak. The striped bay speaks of a point just after dusk where there is a changing of the guard. She knows that is where they should make their move, to slip into Denocte without being seen. The next key part of their plan would be the routes taken to the food stores. After all, they needed to slip by undetected if they were to proceed. It seemed as if the same thought was on the striped bay’s mind as well. “I do not intend to fail.” She was also not stupid, but she had a feeling none of them would intentionally jeopardize their mission with something as stupid as well…stupidity.
And then the other stallion with a face as bald as her own, begins to speak of tragedy. She listens to his words, agreeing that they should split up. She couldn’t help but agree that if they attacked all three at once, they would be able to get in and get out before the citizens of the night court realized that their whole supply of food was destroyed. This would lead to a greater success in getting out without being captured. She did not intend to get captured. In all her years, she had always played things smart and snuck out without being seen. It also helped that she had this handy little invisibility cloak.
It was then that the boy wrapped in chains spoke. With every nod of his head, every word spoken, every shift in his weight, his chains gave away his position. She looked to him harshly. “I hope you’re planning to leave your chains at home…because you’re going to get us killed with all that racket.” She hadn’t signed up for a mission that she would fail all because some idiot would unintentionally announce their presence.
She looked to all those gathered, taking a final look at each one of them. She didn’t know their strengths, their weakness, or even their names. She didn’t know anything about them other than the fact that they were supposed to somehow work together. “I will take one store myself. I have a cloak which hides me from view.” She knew she could slip in and slip out…it was the others she was worried about.
Was it loyalty, that saw them out here beneath the baleful eye of the winter sun, or was it fear? Abel is not sure whether he fears the lash or trusts the king; perhaps both are possible. Perhaps anything is possible, here in this world of miracles and plagues. After all, once he was only a boy picking up clean shells on the beach; now he is preparing to help starve his people into submission. To provoke war.
It is a long way for an orphan boy to come.
The bay ducks his head at the horned man’s strategy, wordlessly agreeing. Where his gaze searched their faces openly, Abel only watches the dust drift and settle between them, and the sunlight slanting off the rock beyond the mouth of the cave. But he listens, his ears curving to follow the conversation, and his heartbeat is a steady thing between his ribs.
He only glances up when they boy addresses him. For a moment he is struck by his youth, until he realizes that they are of an age - and then Abel only feels weary. But his eyes still shine like river-stones when he nods.
The mare’s eye he does not meet; he does not want to shiver when her gaze catches his. There is something about the color of her markings and the almost blankness that makes him deeply uneasy, a hare beneath a baleful, mad moon. Something hungry but inhuman.
But when she speaks she does not speak madness, and Abel continues to listen mutely, watching their shadows shift and their feet scuff the stone. He learns from who stands easy, and who fidgets; he memorizes their breathing. Abel isn’t sure how these things might help him, but he needs the distraction, a small something to focus on before his thoughts teeter further into the dark.
“I will guide us in,” he says at last. “In winter the gypsy caravans stay near to the city, and many travel through the gates each night. We can blend with them until we’re within the city walls, wait until the shift change and burn the stores. The new moon is in four days - that would be the best time.” Slowly, steadily, he breathes out; the dust stirs below him.
At last his gaze flicks like candelight around the group, never resting on one of them longer than a moth might rest, trembling, on a branch. But he thinks that it is well that the two most noticeable (if the other boy did drop his chains) had devices to make them invisible. He and the bay could blend in easily with the horses of the lower rings of the city, near the markets and the sea.
“Should we meet again outside the city afterward?” he asks, and Abel doesn’t know if the pull at his heart is sorrow or eagerness.
hey talk of strategy, of organization and planning, and Toulouse could almost laugh aloud at it. With every passing moment, the prospect of their mission grew closer and closer until it was so real he could reach out and grab it.
Four days. Four days until the new moon, four days until the night grows dark and only their fires light up the city of Denocte. He could see it already in his mind, roaring flames eating hungrily at the food the Night Court would rely on for the winter. And he can see himself there in the center of it all, his coat turned brilliantly gold in the flickering flamelight.
Four days to prepare, but everything was ready now. Toulouse was ready now.
Patience was a virtue though, and he could pretend he knew it well enough.
His eyes drift to the lone mare among them, sensing her restlessness. It roils beneath her skin nearly visible, and his lips twitch into a smile. I have a secret, too, he thinks, but he doesn’t say so aloud. The ring glints in the darkness, as if begging him to twist it, to activate it, to render his frame invisible. But I don’t give away my secrets so readily.
He bobs his head once, giving them all one last look over. They would do; they had to.
“The lake is far enough from the city I think, we can reconnect on its shores?” he adds his suggestion to the end of Abel’s. As long as none of them were followed that far, they shouldn’t be followed back to Solterra, either.
