“There’s a couple different options,” came the response, but she was interrupted as Lulu bounced insistently up and down once again.
The scrubby seemed to be trying to jump higher, wurbling and warbling, and Biggles’ own Wuffle followed suit. Then the rest of the loofahs around the wagons and tents joined in as the winds quickened. Suddenly Lulu sprang upward into the wind with a mighty hop, leaving a trail of foamy soap bubbles in her wake before one big bubble formed around the precocious puffball. The scrubby wurbled frantically in panicked surprise as the winds drew it upward, before the bubble gave way with a pop to return a frantic Lulu to her mistress’s arms.
“Actually, that’s the method I was leaning toward, simple air bags and displacement for lift…” Dana trailed off as hundreds of scrubbies were suddenly airborne, riding the wind currents into the sky.
“Lulu!” exclaimed Morgan. “What did you do!?”
Chapter 40: Coronas Judicas
For once Millie Thatcher rode on horseback, instead of on the back of Hett’s wagon. It had been nearly a month since the battle the soldiers had come to refer to as the Day of Thunder and Mud, and they were finally approaching the City of Prophets. There had been no more encounters since the day the Battlemaster had moved a river to defeat the Deskren, but The General hadn’t allowed the convoy to slow their pace. Millie, once stuck at her tenth level for weeks, had more than made up for lost time under the training and discipline Jacob Ward demanded. Her skills had improved, as well, and she’d gained several new cadences—which the Worldwalker had immediately put to use.
[Double Time] was the standing order each morning after the breakfast meal when the column first started moving, with Millie tapping the beats and relentlessly driving everyone onward. At first she could only sustain the skill for half a bell, but within a fortnight, her Stamina had vastly improved. Now she kept the fast march going almost until noon before exhaustion and strain laid her low in Hett’s wagon. After the noontime meal and water, though, the Battlemaster had her march on the ground without her drum to build her own strength. It was good training, she had to admit; with only one arm, she couldn’t perform the same drills and exercises as the other soldiers, but Jacob refused to let her fall behind.
The civilians complained about the pace, of course. It had only taken a handful of days without pursuit before they began voicing their displeasure, but the Battlemaster and his troops had simply continued to march. The stragglers always caught up by dusk, fearful of being left behind. They’d lagged behind the banners for the first half of every day, until they’d finally reached a massive bridge spanning a glimmering river. Hett had told her it was the famed River Swift, and there was a Guild that used magically powered ships to travel between the Sea of Possibility and the Western Sea. That was what gave High Bridge its name: its bed and arches were set high on ornate stone columns to give ships plenty of room to pass underneath. Once the gleaming white stone of the top of the structure began to peek visibly above the horizon, the refugees had needed far less prodding to keep up with the march: knowing they were close to their destination had renewed their vigor.
The surviving former Gendarmes, while they’d had no such trouble keeping the Battlemaster’s pace, suffered their own challenges: tensions between them and some of the convoy had been high enough they were almost palpable. The nobles and more fearful refugees had been understandably shy about travelling with the very same terrifying enemy that had once hunted them so relentlessly. That fear had been eased somewhat when Jacob had divided the Luparan beastkin into smaller pack units to augment his own scouts. Most of them now ran as advance pickets alongside their lighter horse, and having fewer of them loping alongside the column made the rest of the caravan much less nervous.
The Beastfolk themselves had only a few discipline issues, falling into snarling fights for dominance within the first few days of being free from the collars. Millie had been afraid some of them would kill each other, but Hett and Jacob had both reassured her that they were simply a different kind of people, and had to sort things out in a different kind of way. The Battlemaster let them sort out their own ranks as long as they followed his orders. And follow they did, although several Hett had called ‘alphas’ within her hearing did seem more aggressive than the others, especially toward their new human leader. Millie dreaded the eventual confrontation from that. She’d seen Jacob Ward angry only the one time, and wasn’t looking forward to seeing it again.
Normally Millie rode on Hett’s wagon when she wasn’t marching on foot. Now that they were approaching the city, however, Jacob had requested she ride in the lead wagon along with himself, Miss Erin, and several others. Hett had protested leaving his wagon to the terrified teamster who had to dodge his mules to take the seat on the wagon to drive. The man grumbled quite loudly, but a stern glance had quieted the man to infrequent mumblings about saddles and jewels. What saddles had to do with jewels, or why he’d be angry about that, she didn’t know—and as she had no voice to ask Miss Erin or Lady Jenna to explain, she resolved to write it down the next time the two women were overseeing her handwriting practice.
She’d been born left-handed, and learning to write with her remaining hand was as frustrating as the fact that The General insisted she do it in the first place. I’m a soldier, not a scribe, she’d protested. But soldiers followed orders, and the order had been given. So it was that she swallowed her indignation and obediently copied her letters after every evening meal, while Lady Jenna or Miss Erin oversaw one of the camp children in cleaning her gauntlet and chain mail. That particular task had simply proven impossible with one arm, although the [Hand of Solace] assured her the General would see to getting her a new one at the first opportunity. She longed for that day, albeit less for the prospects of cleaning armor, and more for keeping up with her fellow soldiers without feeling like a mascot instead of a military professional.
Her musings were brought to a halt as they crested the highest point of the bridge, bringing the City of Prophets into view. Once, a fair while ago, she’d travelled with her father and brothers to the city of South Hollows to sell grain and potatoes; she remembered thinking at the time that it was a large and wonderful city. When she looked at the vista before her, she realized how naïve she’d been; set against the brightly decorated buildings stretching from the glimmering sea to the east, and wrapping around gently sloping hills to the west, South Hollows might as well have been a dirt hovel. To the north above the city, the Temple stood on the bluffs, overlooking both the waters and the section of the city with the largest buildings and paved streets. Millie focused on the far end of the bridge, where a man sat on horseback between the two far bridge towers. He was waving a white cloth; clearly, the man they were to meet. Jacob raised his fist to call a halt over a dozen strides away from where the man sat, his own charger clopping forward a few more steps.
“Well met, Battlemaster,” he called, loud enough for all to hear, but not quite a shout. “I’m Jargo, and the [Oracle] has witnessed your journey. She bids you welcome, and asks that you join her at the Gathering of Kings.”
“It would have been nice of her to send reinforcements while we were running,” Jacob Ward remarked neutrally.
Jargo shook his head. “She has no reinforcements to send; she doesn’t rule, nor does she command. Her burden is to stand witness, save for the circumstances outlined in the Bargain of Kings. The price of knowledge is to be powerless to use it.”
The General sat silently on his horse for a long moment. “I have soldiers sworn to my command. Will they be welcomed as well?”
Hett answered before Jargo could speak up, spitting off to the side of his own horse. “The Gathering of Kings is peacebound. No one will attack unprovoked, lest the [Oracle] yank the crowns from their heads and give their lands to their enemies.”
Millie could almost hear Jacob’s eyebrow raise. “So not entirely powerless, is she?” he said.
“Not when people break the rules,” the g
rey-bearded old warrior replied. “Long as everyone plays nice, she can’t do a thing. We just have to make sure we all play nice.”
“I make no promises,” Jacob said, flicking the reins of his horse. “Lead on, Mister Jargo. The [Oracle] awaits.”
“As you desire, Battlemaster,” Jargo replied, turning his horse.
Thus did the Banner of the Black Lance march into the City of Prophets.
* * *
Rella stood next to Wyatt Reinholt, the Worldwalker who was not yet her Champion. It wasn’t a thing she could demand, even if he were ready to be asked. Such a role couldn’t be forced upon someone, and she would never have tolerated an unwilling protector in any case. Every future she’d seen where she tried to impose the duty upon him had been disastrous, turning him against her personally, and by extension causing The Twins to dislike her severely. The possibilities as they stood seemed evenly split between him becoming her Champion and not, and for the moment, she needed to be content with those odds.
What drove him was the desire to protect The Twins—his sisters, Sophie and Sonya—and he’d followed when they joined the [Oracle] to receive training in their own divination talents. While younger even than Rella, they were perceptive and wise beyond their years, and had seen right through to the fact that she barely knew any more than they did. In truth, all three young women were learning more together than she was teaching the other two.
Today, however, was not a day for teaching. Rella, The Twins, and their ever-watchful protector stood on the dais in the center of the grand plaza outside the Temple of Remembrance. They were surrounded by more pageantry and pompous frivolity than had graced the City of Prophets in Rella’s entire lifetime, and it nearly made her sick. As perceptive as ever, Sonya spoke up when Rella’s own composure slipped.
“A sour stomach?” the girl asked. “This looks like one of those Renaissance Faires our mom liked to go to.”
“Yeah,” her sister interjected, wrinkling her nose, “but those didn’t smell like so much horse poop, and people actually took showers. This place smells like Porta Potties.” Sophie had proven of sharper tongue than her twin, although both could be acerbic to an alarming degree. “I get why rich people use so much incense in this world now.”
“I’d have thought you’d be used to it by now,” Rella said, grateful for the distraction so she could turn away from the assembled nobility milling in the courtyard to rub at her right eye. She still wasn’t used to the itchy covering, but the eye she’d gained in the dreamworld was very unsettling to look at, in addition to being hypersensitive to light. “And I take a bath at least twice a week!”
“It’s nearly noon,” Sophie said, “and it’s getting hotter. What’s everyone waiting for?”
“Don’t you remember all the stuff from the faires?” Sonya answered the question with a question. “There’s all sorts of tradition and etiquette to any meeting of nobility.”
“She’s right,” Rella said. “The last Gathering happened over fifty years ago, and they’ll use this as an opportunity for the crowns to meet under enforced peace. War or not, while they’re here, kings and queens can talk without the worry of messengers or anyone else getting in the way and causing problems. Most of them have never met their fellows.”
“One of them keeps looking at us,” Sophie said. “The woman with the shiny armor that matches her crown.” She stared back with the defiance only a teenager could muster.
“That would be Mette Weldt, the Warrior Queen of Weldtir,” Rella answered. “She’s angry, and has every right to be. The southern half of her home has been overrun, and now parts of it flooded, and she resents the obligation of the Gathering. Her duty demanded she come here instead of defending her own lands.”
“I thought The General was coming here. Are they going to fight, since he broke the levee you told us about?” Sonya’s eyes shone, and she seemed almost eager to see confrontation.
“They might,”—Rella shrugged—“but I don’t think either of them want to, and it did break the Deskren incursion into the south. She understands pragmatism, even if she doesn’t like it. A bigger problem is King Aomhar Valence of Forvale. He’s upset The General crossed his border with what amounts to his own private army.”
“And he couldn’t do anything about it because he had to come here?” Sophie was as curious about the politics as her sister was enamored of fighting.
Rella shook her head. “None of them could. The Bargain of Kings means they all had to come here, by today, or I’d be freed from neutrality. None of them want me telling the future to the others.” She gave a wan smile. “No ruler misses a Gathering and keeps their crown for very long.”
As if the thought of The General pulled on her mind, she could suddenly sense the people approaching the city. Jargo was now escorting The General and a small group through the city, down the main avenue. The bulk of the troops following the banner had halted neatly outside the city, and she’d already dispatched requests for aid and supplies to be provided to the weary refugees. While the future of those accompanying him was relatively simple to predict—at least in a broad sense—thanks to her eye, that of the man himself remained infuriatingly difficult.
It wasn’t that Jacob was indecisive or confused in his thoughts, as she might find with the insane, or those plagued with self-doubt. He simply held so many possibilities in his mind at once that only the vaguest outcomes, the broadest strokes, were visible to her Sight, no matter how she focused. When the Battlemaster gave an order or committed to a plan, the futures quickly solidified, but until then, he remained opaque—most of the time.
In this moment he stood out to her mind’s eye, a nexus of grim potential. He’d paused on the main boulevard near the center of the city. Rella felt the futures shift as the man dismounted, halting the entire procession of horses in the middle of the street to approach a figure in a black coat with a white collar. The man—the Worldwalker known as The Preacher—had spent most of his time on Anfealt tending the poorer neighborhoods and helping to feed the impoverished. The entire docks district had been put to flame by the Deskren on Purple Night, so there’d been no shortage of homeless, hungry, and children to feed.
The odds of two Worldwalkers who didn’t arrive together actually knowing each other previously were infinitesimally small, but Rella couldn’t think of any other reason for the shock of recognition that had crossed Jacob Ward’s face. Father Albert, as Albert Magnus had insisted she call him upon their single meeting, was an unassuming and kindly man who had been more interested in helping the needy than most people she’d ever turned her Sight upon. Even in her deepest meditations, no dire fates or crises had appeared that involved the man, so she’d left him to his own devices out of respect for his age and the shock he’d endured upon finding himself in a world other than his own.
Something started to hum in the back of her mind, millions of possibilities rushing past her, glittering flashes of possibility washing her vision away as the Sight took over. Yet The General stood in perfect clarity, even as everyone else save The Preacher faded to grey and were lost to her. As the two nexuses of potential drew together, their words came at once blurred and crystal-clear, shouted through rushing water and right next to her ears.
“Last thing I thought I’d see here, Father, is that collar.” She could hear the smile on his face, though she couldn’t see it.
The Preacher blinked, straightening. “You’re one of the flock, then? From Earth?” His voice swelled with growing excitement.
“Yes, Father,” The General replied. “I grew up in the Church…but this is a long way from St. Peter’s in Nebraska.”
The words made no sense. She didn’t know what a St. Peter’s was, nor a Nebraska, and she couldn’t spare a single thought about their meaning as the rush of possibilities grew more tumultuous until, suddenly, they stopped short, as if scythed off with an abruptness that clutched at her heart and quickened her breath as the Preacher spoke.
“Have you co
me to spread the Word, my son?” A dreadful spark burned to life behind The Preacher’s eyes, and in that moment, Rella’s world fell away.
A rush of blood washed over the future, over all the futures around her. First the Deskren, and then the rest of the nations of Anfealt, vanished in a crimson tide so thick she could taste it—and then, faintly, she realized she’d bitten through her tongue. She choked not only on her own blood, but the blood of the future as she saw The General raise a new banner, a terrible banner, his lance motif crossed with a spar of brilliant vermilion.
One by one the futures around her vanished, burned away from Fate’s tapestry. Lives ended in numbers beyond counting, their phantom screams echoing back across space and time. She saw massive ships raised, setting sail under that new banner for lands unseen, beyond even her Sight. She saw temples razed, gods torn from slumber and put to the sword, and new churches raised in their place, all to a single deity. Her Sight twisted, and she saw the world fall into centuries of chaos under a new, terrible lash.
The pressure of Fate’s warping closed in on her mind, and she could feel the [Oracles] within the mantle weeping in abject horror as the weight of this new, terrible future bore down on them all. As if from miles away, she dimly recognized that even those others in the plaza around her could feel it. The Twins moaned as one, clutching their heads, and The Fortress moved to stand before them, raising his shield against an unseen, unseeable foe. Servants collapsed to the stonework, and even kings and queens found themselves submitting.
Rella felt a True Vision rising, as fearsome and implacable as the fate she foresaw. Unbidden, her body drew breath to Speak —
“No.”
Suddenly, with that single word, Rella could breathe again. He carried on his conversation with The Preacher, ignorant of the horrible fate that single syllable had spared the entire world. Their words faded into incomprehensibility as her attention returned to her body.
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