The Sea

by A. H. Lee

  If anyone had expected Winthrop Malconwy to cower under this thinly-veiled accusation of treason, they were disappointed. His sharp eyes surveyed them one by one. His big, battle-scarred hand stroked his beard. “You don’t want to go down this road, Your Grace.”

  “I strongly advise you do not go down a road of telling me my wishes, Uncle. My throne is new and about to suffer an extreme test. My need for unquestioned loyalty is dire. Some would advise me to make an example of a high officer. To show I will not be trifled with. Do not suppose that I am too weak or ‘womanly’ to start this campaign with a traitor’s head on a pike.”

  That penetrated. Winthrop went very still.

  Daphne continued in a voice of ice, “I would, however, prefer unity. I will accept an apology. I will not be offended by the truth, no matter how treasonous, if you begin right now.”

  Sairis held his breath. He wondered what it must be like for Winthrop—a proud man who’d fought and killed while Daphne was still in nappies—to receive such a rebuke from his niece. It might backfire...

  “Did I remove the necromancer from an inn?” said Winthrop slowly. “You mean the Tipsy Knave?” he said the name as though holding it by two fingers. “A well-known haven for inverts and practitioners of buggery?”

  Sairis’s stomach did a sickening flop. Of course. This was always coming.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roland stiffen.

  “I understand why a necromancer might seek refuge in such a place,” continued Winthrop in studied tones. “One sort of degeneracy doubtless breeds others. But how did you come to seek refuge there, Your Grace? I’ve had disturbing reports over the years of someone very like my nephew going there quite often, although of course I gave such reports no credence. But I do believe I could produce a remarkable number of witnesses...if I were so inclined.”

  “Such things are not illegal, Uncle.” Daphne spoke without inflection. “I fail to see what gutter-rumors have to do with your refusal to follow my instructions about a magician who was promised safe passage in our capital.”

  “Not illegal now,” murmured Winthrop. “Not since my brother made a few scribbles in the law. But our border lords all remember when such degenerates were thought little better than animals to be hunted. And while the law may have changed a few years ago, the minds of men change more slowly, Your Grace.”

  “Are you threatening me, Uncle?”

  He shrugged minutely. “I didn’t think so, Niece. Perhaps you misheard.”

  “You have not—” she began, and this time he dared to interrupt her.

  “Unity, as you say, is vital for Mistala at this juncture. If we fight amongst ourselves here in the pass, Hastafel and his minions will eat us alive. If you make the misguided decision to put my head on a pike, I will have a few things to say at my execution. I promise, they will not bring unity. Laws of female succession are as new as those regarding perverts. The lords have accepted the former, but I think you’ll find they’re still fairly unconvinced about the latter. I promise you do not want a close examination of my brother’s motives in changing these things, Your Grace.” All the deference was gone. He was speaking to a child.

  Sairis saw with a pang that, though Daphne was seething, she wasn’t sure how to answer him. He really does have her in a corner.

  Sairis risked a glance at Roland, who looked stricken. Sairis wanted to go to him, hold him close and tell him, “You are perfect. There is nothing wrong with you. These people are insane.” If Winthrop uses Roland to break Daphne, Roland will never get over it.

  Another disturbance outside the flap, and a new man walked into the tent. Sairis didn’t recognize him, but he knew at once that this must be Jessup. He was a few years younger than Winthrop, but he looked older with a careworn face, bald pate, and nearly white beard. He had a long scar across his cheek, and his right hand appeared to be missing a finger. Jessup had been defending Mistala from an invading army for five brutal years on unforgiving terrain, and it showed.

  His voice, when he spoke, was rough, but mild. “Roland, it is good to see you. The men miss you.”

  In spite of his obvious distress, Roland broke into a hesitant smile. “I have missed them, sir. I am sorry to have been away longer than intended.”

  “I was just looking at Cato,” continued Jessup placidly, as though the whole tent didn’t feel like a box of kindling waiting for a match. “His gait is a bit off.”

  Roland grimaced. “We rode hard to get here. He carried two riders over broken, mountainous ground for the better part of three days.”

  Jessup nodded. “I don’t believe he’s injured, but he’s in no shape to carry you in full armor. You’ll need another horse for the battle. I’ll see to it.” He glanced from Winthrop to Daphne, his eyes skating over Sairis and Marsden. “My Queen...Gentlemen...I speak from experience when I say that the tension of battle can bring out our worst natures. Thousands of men are about to risk their lives, and they are counting on us to lead them with integrity and clear heads. May I give my humble counsel that we put aside discord until after this battle? Our disputes may seem less important after that.”

  Winthrop and Daphne both blinked. Everyone in the room shifted a little. “Your counsel is wise, Uncle Jessup,” said Daphne. “I will withhold final judgment about the things I have learned this morning until we have dealt with our enemy. Perhaps a few nights’ sleep will give all of us better perspective.” She glared meaningfully at Winthrop, who bowed.

  “I may have spoken rashly,” he said without quite looking at anyone. “I agree that arguing now could cost needless lives.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” continued Jessup. “If Roland is here, I suggest he lead my troops from the fort. They love him, and he knows the terrain.”

  Daphne frowned. “Do you plan to be doing something else, Uncle?”

  Jessup nodded. “If Your Grace agrees, I think I might go with Winthrop to help guide his men over the difficult ground.”

  “You’ve already given us a guide,” said Winthrop.

  Jessup nodded. “Yes, but it is a complex route, and I think a small party from the pass, led by myself, would be more certain of bringing the border lords in at the right moment.”

  His bright eyes flicked around the tent. He’s offering to supervise Winthrop, thought Sairis. Good idea. He didn’t know Jessup at all, but he already trusted him more than his elder brother.

  Winthrop didn’t like it. That was obvious. But he couldn’t disagree without sounding like he intended something nefarious. “Is the necromancer still to be used in the battle?” he asked instead.

  “Magus Sairis has offered his services in the battle, yes,” said Marsden. “I will ensure that he has access to his magic at the appropriate time.”

  “In that case, I ask that he accompany my party. He’ll be more useful after the battle has started anyway. More dead on the field. Our point of attack should be ideal for that.”

  No. Sairis looked at Roland, but Daphne was already speaking. “I will concede that is true.”

  “Daphne,” began Roland, but her eyes snapped to his face with such a look that he shut his mouth.

  Winthrop just wants to split us up! A little voice in Sairis’s head whispered, Maybe Daphne wouldn’t mind splitting us up, either.

  “We are agreed, then,” said Jessup. “Roland will lead my troops, who will accompany Lamont and the queen. I will lead the scouts who guide Winthrop’s men up the valley and Magus Sairis and Lord Marsden will accompany us. Daphne, I believe Lamont’s forces are ready to ride. Roland, the armory can outfit you, but you’ll want to hurry. I’ve already thought of the right horse. Meet me at the stables?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Roland in a distracted voice.

  “I have preparations to make as well,” said Winthrop. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  When the uncles were gone, Roland said desperately, “Daph...”

  She had her arms crossed, clearly lost in thought. “Roland, you need to get movin
g.”

  Roland looked miserable. He turned to Sairis.

  Sairis forced himself not to make a scene. “I’ll be alright.”

  Daphne screwed up her face. “For gods’ sakes, Roland, it is for two days!”

  Roland looked like he wanted to cry. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Daphne, “about...about what Winthrop said...”

  “Don’t,” said Daphne in a tight voice. “Don’t apologize, Roland. Just go get ready and...and be safe. Please.”

  Roland looked at Sairis. He glanced towards the tent flap, towards the guards. I should have hugged you goodbye earlier, thought Sairis sadly. I should have known I’d need to.

  Roland dropped a hand on Sairis’s shoulder as he passed. It slid down for just a moment to cover his heart. Then Roland was gone.

  As Daphne started for the tent flap, Sairis called out, “Your Grace...a word.”

  He knew what he had to do. He knew, but his hands were shaking.

  Daphne looked at him suspiciously, but she stepped closer. Sairis waited until she was right beside him and then whispered. “You have been nothing but kind to me, Your Grace, and I do not want to mislead you. This collar is an illusion.”

  He shut his eyes as he said it. She is going to make Marsden put a real one on me. They’re going to send me off with Winthrop, collared and helpless.

  A long pause. “Good.”

  Sairis opened his eyes and looked at her.

  Daphne quirked a smile.

  Sairis smiled back hesitantly.

  She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You said you are on my side. I believe you. Be careful, Sairis.”

  He blinked hard and swallowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Chapter 6. Quintin

  Two guards stepped in front of Sairis as he emerged from the tent with Marsden. To his surprise, they were not from the border lords, but from the pass. “Commander Jessup has invited you to lodge and travel with his men,” said the leader. “He suggests you accept his offer briskly, as another may follow.”

  He’s keeping us out of Winthrop’s camp, thought Sairis with relief. Bless you, Roland’s uncle whom I hardly know.

  “We accept,” said Marsden at once. “Please show the way.” As they led their horses through the tents, Marsden leaned close to Sairis’s ear and murmured, “Good job.”

  Sairis glanced sidelong at him.

  “I would have told her,” continued Marsden, “when I could be certain of privacy. But if you want her to trust you, well... Good job.”

  Sairis nodded. He still felt a little queasy, both from the risk he’d just taken and from the sense that he might never see Roland again. “How likely are we to win this battle, Andrew?”

  A moment’s hesitation. “I don’t know, Sairis.” Marsden gave him a fleeting smile. “More likely with you than without you.”

  Then the commander’s steward met them with questions about their gear and supplies, and the time for private conversations was over. Several of Marsden’s acolytes arrived to speak with him. They cast distrustful glances at Sairis, but obviously had faith in the collar. To Sairis’s chagrin, Marsden introduced him to several of these people, including one young woman with a collar that Sairis supposed was quite real. He wanted to ask exactly what sort of “aberrant power” she was and how long she’d managed to tolerate that terrible sense of incompleteness that came when a magician was shut off from magic. But now did not seem the appropriate time, since the students were looking at him as one might a poisonous snake behind glass.

  Sairis learned that his performance in Winthrop’s camp had injured a dozen people, but killed no one. A fellow whom he vaguely remembered from his imprisonment in the wagon arrived to stare at him sullenly. The man wore a red silk scarf around his head on account of having had all his hair burned away. His eyebrows and beard were gone, too. Magic had mostly healed the burns, but hair could not re-grow so quickly.

  Marsden paused to murmur in Sairis’s ear, “You have offended that man. He’s a magician specializing in potions, part of Winthrop’s faction, goes by Quintin. I recommend you avoid him.”

  Sairis was more than happy to follow this advice, but the moment Marsden stepped away to speak with his students, Quintin made his way over to Sairis. “Lord Marsden keeps quite the collection of freaks,” he said without preamble. “I hope that collar’s good and tight this time.”

  Sairis didn’t know what to say. You abducted me and chained me to a cot. If you’re waiting for an apology, don’t hold your breath. His fingers were itching for a spell, perhaps muteness. Steady, he told himself.

  “I understand you put it on yourself this time,” continued Quintin. “What did he promise you, I wonder?”

  Sairis found his voice. “Mistala is my home, too. I don’t like the idea of bending the knee to a dark sorcerer any more than I’m sure you do. You may not believe me, but I came to Chireese to offer my help, and I will give it if I am not continually threatened.” Make friends, Sairis told himself. Do not seek revenge.

  “Bend the knee,” repeated Quintin. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile that Sairis didn’t like at all. “Rumor has it you do that a lot. Though maybe not for Hastafel.”

  Sairis felt suddenly out of his depth. Is this about Roland again?

  But Quintin didn’t have the air of a man about to threaten the reputation of a prince of the realm. He had the air of a schoolyard bully in a position of power. He leaned a little closer and murmured, “Death mage... Do you like that? How everyone’s afraid of you? Karkaroth hasn’t done a thing in twenty years, and the whole country still shakes in its boots every time he sneezes. How does it feel to be helpless now?”

  I’m not helpless, thought Sairis, but he felt afraid.

  “A collared necromancer on his knees,” crooned Quintin. “Now there’s a picture. That’s spitting in death’s eye.”

  “You’re terrible at flirting,” Sairis heard himself say. “Also, I prefer men with hair.” Why deny my romantic tastes? These people can’t think any worse of me than they already do.

  Quintin’s eyes went round with surprise and he jerked back. Sairis forced himself to turn on his heel—no sign of fear—and tug on Butterball’s bridle. “I suppose you’re leading up to a dinner invitation,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’ve already got one from Lord Jessup, so I must decline. With very little regret, I’m afraid. Truly, you’re not my type. Good day.”

  Quintin’s voice snarled after him, “You insolent abomination. You’ll regret those words. My Lord Winthrop has plans for you.”

  “He’s not my type, either,” snapped Sairis and walked faster.

  * * * *

  Roland hadn’t expected to see his men this early in the campaign. He hadn’t realized so many would come from the fort to march with Daphne. Their familiar faces made his heart lift in spite of everything. His lieutenants greeted him with genuine warmth and a hint of relief that sent a pang of guilt through him. You came back, their eyes seemed to say. This can’t be a suicide mission. You are with us, so all will be well.

  Roland hoped it was true. The horse they’d chosen for him nickered from outside the tent. The animal was sound and well-trained, but Roland wished he were going into this battle with Cato. He wished he were going with Sairis.

  Do Lamont and the border lords understand what we’re facing? Truly?

  The armies of Mistala had been formidable when this war started. They had been a force to be reckoned with, and now... We are a few hundred men.

  Hastafel’s troops were seasoned from multiple wars of conquest, driven to unnatural feats of savagery by the power of his magic. And one never knew when a monster made of mud or stone might join them. Soldiers who would bravely charge a wall of spears turned and ran at the appearance of those strange creatures with their human voices.

  Hastafel had tempted Jessup on more than one occasion to a full assault, but Jessup had always held back. Roland had watched his uncle make the decision to play coy, defend the
tight valley, never fully engage. Because he did not think we could win, Roland knew.

  Now they were going to offer Hastafel what he’d been wanting since the beginning—a winner-take-all battle. If we offer, he’ll accept. He’ll throw everything at us. The idea made Roland’s chest tighten.

  We’ll have the element of surprise with troops coming down the Valley of False Hope. We’ll have more men than Hastafel expects with Lamont and all our border lords. Will it be enough?

  Roland truly didn’t know. But he remembered how the River of Death had risen and swept away six terrifying creatures as easily as a man might swat a gnat. Sairis did that. He remembered the burning strategy room, too, the way the dead had staggered to their feet and attacked.

  As Roland mounted his unfamiliar destrier and joined his officers and men, following the snapping flags of Mistala and Lamont, he looked back once towards the border lords breaking camp. I’ll miss you, Sair. But I know you’ll be there when it matters. I truly think you might make the difference.

  Chapter 7. Fort False

  The Valley of False Hope had foiled previous campaigns for a reason. Sairis soon forgot about Quintin and Winthrop and even the leaden feeling of separation from Roland as he labored with the rest of the caravan up the rugged, switchback trail into the mountains. He was traveling with Jessup’s scouts as requested. Marsden had elected to ride with the commander and some of his acolytes near the front of the group, but Butterball could not keep up. Sairis soon found himself among the supply wagons. He noticed Cato trotting behind one of them, riderless and wearing nothing but a bridle and lead. “Guess we’re back here with the invalids,” he said to Butterball, and he could have sworn Cato rolled his eyes.

  The wagons were as lightly burdened as possible, pulled by powerful mules. Nevertheless, as the trail grew steeper and shrank to a goat path, Sairis could see how they struggled. Their drivers were soon running alongside, clearing stones and sometimes guiding the animals a step at a time. Even Sairis dismounted at last to lead Butterball over the steep, uncertain footing. Behind and below, Sairis could see the train of men and horses, going single file, the heaviest carts in the very rear. Soon, no one was riding. Somewhere below, a horse slipped and fell. Sairis saw the plume of dust, heard the distant screaming neigh. A moment later, the creature’s death prickled over his skin. He shivered.