The Sea

by A. H. Lee

  Some flailing part of Sairis’s brain threw up the information that Jessup believed Sairis to be collared. He wouldn’t have called for me.

  Oh... Oh, gods, I am slow.

  Sairis straightened, and the room rocked. He knew then that what was wrong with the commander was also wrong with him. “Poison.” He tried to speak the word aloud, and heard himself slur.

  Jessup looked up at him, and Sairis thought his eyes focused for a moment. “We’ve been poisoned, sir,” said Sairis, but it came out distorted and thick.

  Need to get Marsden. Need to... Sairis stumbled towards the study, but the room seemed to have gotten a great deal larger. Sairis slumped to his knees long before he reached the door. How had he been able to walk up the stairs? Why was his reaction getting so much worse so fast?

  Because it’s not poison, whispered a voice that sounded almost like the steady murmur of his teacher. This is a spell.

  Quintin’s icy glare floated before his mind’s eye. “He specializes in potions.”

  Sairis remembered how Marsden had been called away to survey the fort’s wards just as the last course of food and drink came around. He’d taken his best students with him. Marsden might have sensed the spell. They didn’t think I would because of the collar. And I didn’t...because I’d used up the last of my magic.

  Sairis was not a potions master. Neither was Karkaroth. It was an art he knew little about, but he did know that potions could be activated at a distance, provided the victim swallowed the right spelled substances. The spell’s creator activated it right before those men woke me. It was just starting to take hold.

  “My Lord Winthrop has plans for you.”

  Gods below. He was so cocky. Why didn’t I see this coming?

  Sairis dredged up every ounce of magic in his system and directed it at his own health. Wards flickered weakly over his skin. His head cleared a trifle, but he could tell he was not winning. Behind him, he heard a thump and turned to see Lord Jessup sprawled on the floor beside his bed.

  Sairis crawled to the man and rolled him over. His eyes were glazed and staring, his breath a rattle. Sairis’s own chest felt heavy.

  On the bedside table, the lamp exploded. Sairis watched, his brain too foggy to fully process what he was seeing, as flames caught in the bedsheets. The room is on fire, some part of his brain informed him, but the poison will kill me first.

  No, whispered the low, implacable voice of Karkaroth. It will not. Because you are not collared, and you are about to come into some power.

  Then Jessup Malconwy died.

  Chapter 9. Confession

  Roland stood with Daphne and Anton at the peak of the North Rim Fort in the chilly stillness of three in the morning and attempted to explain to them what they were seeing in the dark valley below. “This is the narrowest point of the pass—only about forty feet wide. It’s the only place really suited to bringing in wagons, supplies, and horses.” Roland gestured to the ten-foot stone and stake wall that ran between the forts, delineated by the customary number of nighttime torches. “The wall has been destroyed or damaged many times, but always at great cost to our enemy. He’s never managed to penetrate much beyond it. The pass remains narrow for about a quarter mile beyond the wall, as you saw when we came in. Enemy troops are totally exposed in there, and we’ve prepared every ledge and crevice to rain death from above. It’s a tough problem, even for a sorcerer. In four years, he hasn’t cracked it, even when he outnumbers us four to one.”

  Anton nodded. Roland couldn’t see their faces, as lights in the fort were being kept to a minimum to avoid arousing suspicion. They’d all had about four hours of sleep, having arrived just after sunset. Daphne and Anton were sipping strong tea, but Roland didn’t want it. Tea would only make his nerves jangle. He was wide-awake with that piercing alertness that occurred before a battle.

  Anton gestured to the mountains that towered to the north and south. “And there really is no other passage in either direction?”

  “No good one. Mount Cairn to the south has seen more skirmishes than any spot apart from the pass itself. It has a number of small ravines, including the Valley of False Hope. However, it’s very difficult to bring in supplies. Hastafel’s troops run out of food and they have to turn back. The mountain to the north, the one we call The Sentinel, is completely impassable, but we have a watchtower up there that often catches his troop movements in time to give a warning.”

  “He is, of course, reinforced by sea as long as he stays on the shore,” murmured Anton.

  “Correct,” said Roland with a grimace. “And we receive food and supplies by land. The drought has weakened us, while he never seems to have difficulty bringing in ships.”

  “The pass gets wider quickly,” observed Daphne, straining her eyes towards the mouth of the valley and the sea.

  Roland nodded. “In tight spaces, his numbers don’t mean much. His troops still have to come at us a few at a time. But as we advance away from the tight walls of this pass, his numbers start to tell. It’s a big, open valley out there—about a mile to the ocean. He’s been trying to get us to come out for a real fight from the beginning.”

  They were all silent a moment, watching the distant torches in Hastafel’s camp. The sparkle of the sea looked incredibly close beyond the walls of the pass.

  “Where does the Valley of False Hope emerge?” asked Daphne.

  Roland pointed at a well-known constellation. “You see the Narwhal’s Horn?”

  Daphne found the star.

  “Look straight down from that. There’s a saddle up there on Mount Cairn. The path from the valley comes right over the saddle and then down a series of switchbacks.”

  “Won’t Hastafel see the border lords coming, then?” asked Anton.

  Roland shook his head. “The peak and the saddle are usually obscured by clouds and rain. It rains excessively on this side of the mountains, the more so the higher you go.”

  “That’s the rain that used to fall on our crops,” said Daphne bitterly.

  Roland nodded. “It all gets dumped here as the clouds rise up the mountains from the sea. The constant fog and mud are one of the reasons that so many have died up there. That mountain would be hazardous for a pleasure stroll, let alone a troop action.”

  Anton laughed uneasily.

  “Skirmishes occur at times and in places where neither side intended,” said Roland. “The deadliest fights in this war have happened on Mount Cairn in deep mud.”

  “I can see why Mistala has been preoccupied the last few years,” said Anton. “I’m impressed that you’ve held out this long.”

  Roland said nothing. He was suddenly conscious that Anton was a foreign prince whose forefathers had frequently challenged Mistala’s northern border and who would surely have salivated at the details of their neighbor’s distress.

  Anton seemed to sense Roland’s uncertainty, because he added, “Do you know why my father didn’t attend our historic meeting, Roland?”

  “I assume he did not wish to encounter King Norres,” said Roland.

  Anton barked a laugh. “Gods, that’s reason enough. They would have been dueling in the courtyard a decade ago. But, no. My father did not attend because he is...forgetting things. Names, places, dates... My mother has tried to hide it from the court, but...it is getting worse.”

  “Oh.” Roland wasn’t sure what to say. A secret in exchange for a secret. And yours might actually be bigger.

  Roland reached out in the dark and put a hand on his future brother-in-law’s shoulder. “We are fortunate to have you for a friend, Your Highness.”

  He could hear the smile in Daphne’s voice in the darkness. “I told you I have good taste.”

  “I told you I do,” said Roland, forgetting to be discreet.

  Daphne sighed. “Yes, I hope you’re right, and that yours isn’t setting Uncle Winthrop on fire right now, for all he deserves it. Now let’s go down there and finish a war.”

  * * * *

 
Sairis’s brain cleared as the magic hit him. A human death right under his hands, and a name he knew.

  Sairis lunged for one of the pikes on the wall and stabbed his own finger. He returned to the body and forced his blood through the dead man’s half open mouth and onto his tongue. Sairis spoke furiously, the spell stinging his lips as he poured more power than he could afford into one desperate binding. He wished he knew Jessup’s middle name. Still, maybe...

  Sairis felt the hard tug on his magic that meant he’d succeeded. Jessup Malconwy’s ghost had not had time to flee. Like the mouse in the Knave, it had been arrested, bound, though Sairis had no mirror or other device to make it visible. Sairis wrote a rune in blood on the man’s forehead and waited. One heartbeat. Two.

  Jessup’s eyes opened.

  “Sir, you are dead,” said Sairis quickly. “We were poisoned, and I believe it was by a spell. I have bound your ghost to your body, but I must tell you that this rarely results in a return to life. For any chance of such a thing, we need a physician at once and probably more magicians, too, and I am terribly afraid that we will get neither because there is a military coup going on outside. Also, sir, your room is on fire. Someone spelled your lamp.”

  Sairis hesitated and then added, “That at least I can do something about.” He put a hand on the bedframe and drew the heat—slowly, so as not to burn himself. It was harder than it should have been. Binding the ghost had taken a lot, and he was uncomfortably aware of Quintin’s spell, still gnawing inside him.

  Jessup looked up at Sairis. He gave a slow blink, as though experimenting with how eyeballs worked. He made a visible effort to draw air into his lungs—a jerky, unnatural movement. “Dead,” he repeated. “Yes...I...feel it.”

  “You won’t be able to talk for long,” said Sairis. “Sir, I am so sorry, but can you tell me anything about the people who did this to you? Do you have an idea of what is going on? How can I help Roland and Daphne now?”

  “My brother,” said the ghost dully. “I was afraid he might delay...might avoid arriving at the pass in time. But I never thought he’d do this. I thought we were...better friends than that.”

  Sairis swallowed a bitter retort. “How does he expect to get away with killing you? Will the border lords really sanction this?”

  Jessup’s dead face attempted to rearrange itself into a smile. The result was ghastly. “My dear boy, you melted your collar and set his camp on fire once. Do you really think anyone will doubt that you have done it again?”

  Sairis felt cold.

  “The fort will burn,” continued Jessup in a rasp, “because we trusted a necromancer, who’d already gotten loose once. The border lords will arrive to crush Hastafel’s weakened army, but not in time to save my niece and nephew. All of this will be blamed on you.”

  Sairis couldn’t breathe. He stared at Jessup’s graying face. The corpse could not twist its features into a human expression of comfort, although he thought it tried. Jessup’s voice murmured on, “I am certain that my brother is not injured. He will say that he wisely gave an excuse not to come to the fort because he feared your treachery. He will be proven correct, and the lords who were wavering will throw their whole support behind him. Daphne’s decision to trust you will be shown to be the sentimentality of women. Winthrop will inherit the throne, and if you somehow escape tonight, he will solidify his position by hunting you down and executing you for, among other things, the death of the man you love.”

  A tear ran down Sairis’s nose and splashed onto Jessup’s pallid skin.

  “You are Roland’s lover, aren’t you?”

  Sairis nodded. He drew a sharp breath and said, “I will not let this happen. My collar is an illusion, as you may have guessed by the fact that I bound you. Now tell me how to get out. There must be more than one exit from this warren. How do I get to the stables without being caught?”

  Another slow blink. The ghost was having increasing difficulty with fine movements of the mouth and lips.

  “Lord Jessup,” said Sairis gently. “I will let you go. I will not keep you here. But I need all the help I can get if I’m going to save Roland and Daphne.”

  One of the dead man’s hands scrabbled awkwardly on the floor. If Sairis had not had extensive experience with corpses, he might have jumped. Instead, he reached out and took the clammy fingers. Sairis realized then that the ghost was not hesitating out of difficulty with speech, but for some other reason. “I believe you may...succeed,” he said at last. “In that case, there is something I need to tell Roland. Something for which he may never forgive me.”

  Oh.

  Sairis thought he might know what was coming. “Is this about Marcus?”

  The corpse gave a jerk. “You know.”

  “I know Roland loved him. I know that when I was in Winthrop’s camp, his lordship told me that he knew of my relationship with Roland. He tried to threaten me into becoming his spy. He insinuated that he had something to do with Marcus’s death.” Sairis hesitated. “I did not tell Roland. He has had enough of grief and betrayal lately, and I had no proof.”

  “Marcus was a ward,” murmured Jessup’s ghost, “a hostage to his father’s good behavior. His father had given trouble before, and Winthrop had had to deal with him. So it seemed plausible when he sent word that he had evidence of Marcus insinuating himself into Roland’s affections in order to gather intelligence for his father, who was plotting a rebellion. He said he was sending a man to ‘deal’ with it. He also pointed out that Roland’s ‘flaws’ made him vulnerable to such schemes.”

  Sairis listened in silence, sensing the ghost’s need to confess and yet wishing he didn’t have to hear it.

  “I knew of my nephew’s proclivities, of course,” continued Jessup. “Such secrets don’t keep in a close barracks. But men long away from their families have had such attachments since time immemorial, and I saw no harm in it. Marcus was a good soldier, a little uncouth, but smart and brisk about his business. I did not want to believe ill of him, but my brother had been dealing with his father for a long time, and Roland can be...overly trusting...with those he loves.

  “Winthrop’s man arrived and posed as a recruit. I thought he intended to speak to Marcus before doing anything rash. Within days, the boy was dead. It happened during a chaotic encounter with enemy forces on Mount Cairn. Roland was devastated, but not suspicious. My brother’s man went through Marcus’s belongings before I thought to have a look at them. He burned all the papers and left the next day. Marcus wasn’t a fool. I made a careful inspection of his bunk and found a few letters hidden inside the mattress. They were unsigned, but...my brother’s hand is distinctive, and he could not entrust such missives to a secretary.”

  The ghost’s voice was fading, rasping so much that Sairis could barely understand him. “Do you have the letters?” he asked with a mixture of hope and foreboding.

  “Inner shirt pocket,” gasped Jessup.

  Sairis unbuttoned the shirt and located a few pieces of folded paper, still warm from the man’s cooling skin. How long have you slept with your guilt over your heart? thought Sairis. About a year, I guess. “Did Winthrop know you had them?”

  “I think he...suspected.”

  Of course he did. These were probably your death warrant.

  Sairis tucked the papers away. A sudden banging on the door made him jump. “My Lord Commander! Is everything alright in there?”

  These people are meant to discover my treachery, thought Sairis. Am I intended to have succumbed to my own fire?

  “My lord, I repeat, is there a way out apart from the main door?”

  The ghost was drifting. His sense of guilt had probably been holding him here as much as Sairis’s binding and with his confession made, his spirit wanted to fly. “I remember a River,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I’ll put you in it,” said Sairis. “Tell me how to get out.”

  “It was so beautiful,” slurred the ghost. “I never knew... I never knew death could be beautiful. I
felt so free...”

  “Sir, I will never be able to show these letters to Roland if you don’t tell me how to leave.”

  The door in the next room boomed open and footsteps pounded through the study. Bollocks. Here he knelt beside Jessup’s undead corpse with a blood rune on its forehead. I am really making this too easy for them.

  Sairis drew on all his remaining magic and hurled a fireball at the tapestry over the door to the study. It burst into flames, along with the rug and part of the wall. The man who’d been in the act of stepping through reeled back.

  If I’m to be blamed for setting fires, I might as well set them as I please, thought Sairis.

  The bellows of the men in the study were so loud that Sairis almost missed Jessup’s whispered words, “Turn the sword to six o’clock.”

  Sairis looked around wildly. The walls contained all kinds of weapons, but only one sword. Sairis stood up. His necromantic fire burned hotter than ordinary flames. It had already nipped into the study with all those books, and the soldiers were trying desperately to beat it out.

  He looked down at Jessup Malconwy’s corpse. Its glassy eyes seemed to plead with him. I could order you to rise and attack those men. A burning corpse stumbling down the stairs... That would certainly make my escape easier. I could leave you bound here to haunt this fort forever, brooding on what you did to a ‘good soldier’ and your ‘trusting’ nephew. But Sairis couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Last question,” he whispered. “Did you recognize the man your brother sent to kill Marcus?”

  Jessup’s throat worked as he tried to swallow and couldn’t. His breath hissed as he dragged air into his lungs. “Never...seen him before...or since.”