None of the crowd saw it, but Duana, watching from the tavern’s front porch, did. Her eyes filled with concern, even as Mag moved through the press to the door. Duana took hold of her arm.
“Mag,” she said quietly. “Are you all right?”
A moment passed before Mag could force an uncaring smile. “Am I all right? Look at him.” She tossed her head at Ciaran, and then she gently pulled her arm from Duana’s grasp to go inside.
It was the first time Mag ever fought another person. But of course, it was not the last.
“Wait,” said Sun. “That cannot have been her first fight.”
Albern raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Can it not?”
“Of course not!” cried Sun. “Where did she learn how to do that? And … and her battle-trance. You told me you experienced something like it in Tokana. But you wondered what horrible fate could have befallen Mag that led her to discover it. You are telling me it happened by chance during some barroom brawl in a town no one has ever heard of?”
Albern shrugged, annoying her further. Not only did it seem he had no answer, but he seemed not to think an answer was terribly important. “She had no idea where it came from—the trance, or her skill at fighting.”
Sun took a deep breath, and then another. “I am not asking about her, at that time,” she said. “I am asking you, now. Do you know where her ability came from?”
That only earned her a grin. “You have sharp ears, and a sharper wit.”
“That is no answer!”
Albern raised his arms as though pleading for mercy, but he kept smiling. “I have some ideas and some rather wild guesses. But they will sound outlandish if you do not know the story behind them. And that is the story I am telling you now.”
Sun turned away from him and looked at the road ahead. The town was far behind them, and Bertram was nowhere in sight. They were in open country, with only the Bluewater off to the south to break up the landscape. There were no answers anywhere, and no relief.
“I hate waiting,” she growled.
Albern laughed hard. “That is an understatement if ever there was one.”
It occurs to me that I have said little of Kaita.
She was in northeastern Dorsea at the time, as was our hope. In bird form, she could fly straight over landscapes through which we had to find roads to traverse. But such travel is exhausting to a weremage. A rider passes most of a journey’s weariness to their mount, where Kaita felt the full burden of it in her own body. It wore her down more and more, as the days added up to weeks and weeks grew close to months.
But where we were wandering aimlessly, she knew where she wished to go. Thus she was far away from us when she reached an outpost of Shades southeast of the Dunfen lake. There they hid from prying eyes in the thick woods, which no one has ever cleared.
In raven form, Kaita ducked below the canopy of the trees. Flitting from branch to branch, she searched for signs leading to her kindred. Weariness and anxiety made her movements sharp and jerky, and she thrashed in her flight, moving like one enthralled by mindwyrd.
But at last she spotted a path, marked by trees carved with subtle signs that one could only see if they knew what to seek. After following the signs for a league, she at last spotted the fresh-hewn timbers of the Shades’ buildings. The sight made her want to collapse from relief. Instead, she forced herself into one last desperate flight, covering the last few spans with a frenzied beating of her wings.
She landed in the center of the camp. Some Shades looked up curiously—and then all of them turned to her as her eyes began to glow, and her human form emerged from the raven’s wings and black feathers.
Her close-fitting clothes were in the Shades’ colors of blue and grey. But they were filthy with the grime of the road and threadbare from nights spent in dark dells and caves. Kaita knew it, and so she threw her hands up as the Shades drew their weapons and nocked arrows.
“I serve the master of death!” Her voice was half a croak, traces of the raven’s call still lingering in her throat. “I am Kaita. There must be at least one here who knows that name.”
For a moment, no one answered. Kaita feared they would shoot her down where she stood. Or they might take her prisoner, wasting priceless time in a cell until someone decided what to do with her.
But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a wisp of a man straighten, sheathe his sword, and step forwards.
“Kaita?” His voice was as wonderstruck as the look in his eyes. “What in the dark below are you doing here?”
“Horata,” she gasped, and her voice nearly broke on the word. She took a step towards him, doing it slowly so that her knees did not give out. “I might ask you the same. I thought you were in Feldemar.”
“Reassigned,” he said absentmindedly. He turned to the other Shades. “I know her! Lower your weapons. Someone go and get the commander.”
The commander. Kaita’s heart leaped. “Horata, who is in charge here?”
“Tagata,” he said. Kaita’s hopes fell. “She is a—”
“I know her well,” said Kaita with a sigh. It would be a joy to see Tagata, but …. She put a hand on Horata’s shoulder, more for support than out of affection. “I thought … I hoped Rogan might be here.”
Horata looked upon her with pity. “I am sorry,” he said. “We have not seen Rogan in weeks. Not since the assault on the Seat. I thought he was at the Watcher.”
Kaita shook her head, stifling her anger to keep from snapping at him. It was hardly Horata’s fault that he was wrong. “He is not. I went there first. They had not seen him since he marched to the Seat.”
Horata frowned. “Where do you suppose he could be?”
“I do not know.” Now Kaita could not entirely keep the exasperation from her voice. “That is what I am here to find out.”
Some of her exhaustion must have shown in her bearing, for Horata stepped closer. Putting an arm around her, he led her towards the central building of the compound. “Well, let us get you some food. Not to mention a place to sit down. You look as though you have taken a long road to get here.”
“Longer than you know,” said Kaita. And though she tried hard to keep an upright, regal bearing, she leaned heavily on him. It felt strange to be walking again after so many hours of powering along on wings. “Thank you, Horata.”
Color came to his cheeks. “We are all children of the Lord. We owe each other at least so much.”
Inside was a corridor that turned immediately right and left. Horata took her to the right, where soon they came into a mess hall. Some scattered Shades were sitting about the tables, but not many, for it was between the midday meal and supper. Once he had her seated, Horata ran to the kitchen and fetched her some bread and the remains of that day’s soup.
Kaita had not realized how hungry she was until the food was before her. She tore into it like a woman starving, and when Horata fetched her some ale, she finished the first mug in but a moment. As she ate more and more, crumbs and ale sticking to her face, Horata’s eyes grew wide.
“Dark below, Kaita,” he murmured. “What has happened to you?”
“Nothing,” said Kaita. “And much. I have been long pursued, many times cornered, and twice has defeat come crashing down at the moment of my victory. And now I seek Rogan, but for dark’s sake”—she sent a fist crashing down on the table, tipping her mug—“I cannot find him anywhere.”
Horata snatched up her fallen mug and replaced it with his full one. “Well, we can help, at least in one respect. Tagata will know exactly where Rogan is.”
“Yes,” said Kaita, her hands beginning to shake as she took up her bread and splashed it into her soup. “Almost at the end. Finally.”
But how many times during this journey had she thought the same thing?
She shied away from the thought. Despair helped no one, least of all the one suffering from it.
Being so preoccupied with her food, Kaita did not notice when another Shade entered the dining hall and
approached the table. Only when Horata looked up at the woman did Kaita realize she was there.
“What is it?” said Horata. “Where is the commander?”
The woman—a girl, honestly, barely older than the children—glanced fearfully at Kaita before she answered. “She has gone. Some errand of the Lord called her away, and no one knows exactly why. She took no one with her.”
Kaita paused, her mouth partly open, still full of soup-soaked bread. “What do you—” She paused and swallowed so that her speech no longer slurred. “What do you mean, ‘some errand’?”
“I do not know,” said the girl, her face going pale. “No one seems to. She did not say when she would be back.”
Kaita’s hands stopped shaking. She went stone-still as she looked upon the girl, whose eyes filled with fear.
Tagata. The one person here who could tell her where Rogan was. And she had vanished just as Kaita had arrived.
“Dark below,” muttered Horata. “That is ill fortune beyond belief. I am sorry, Kaita. But still, you are here now. You can rest. We can get you new clothes, and—you will forgive me,” he chuckled. “But a bath might do you some good.”
“Yes,” said Kaita slowly. “Yes, it would. And I will enjoy sleeping in a bed rather than on the ground.”
Horata rose and drew her up after him, leading her to the bath and fetching new clothes while she scrubbed the dirt from her skin. But all the while, one thought remained with her, persistent, tapping at the door of her mind and trying to persuade its way in.
Was it possible that Rogan did not wish for her to find him?
Was it possible … the thought did not bear dwelling on … but could it be that the Lord himself did not wish for her to have what she sought? That despite his promises, he did not intend to give her the strength she needed to defeat Mag?
In a rigid mind, the seed of doubt can take long to find purchase. But once it has taken root, it can never be entirely eradicated.
“It is time, my son.”
Rogan’s hand clenched to a fist, crumpling the missive he had been reading. It told him something he already knew: Kaita was searching for him, and she was running herself to death in the hunt.
But this was the first time his father had spoken of the matter since Kaita had failed in Tokana, weeks ago. When Father had told Rogan that Kaita would have to die if the Shades were to win the war.
He stood from the table in his small room.
“Why now, Father?” he said.
“Do you not trust in me?”
“Always,” he said immediately. “Forgive my impertinence.”
The Lord’s laugh was gentle. “You are too quick to beg my forgiveness. Those who serve us feel the same way towards you that you do towards me—afraid of making the smallest misstep, even when they are only curious. You are always gentle with them. Remember to reserve that same kindness for yourself. To answer your question: it is time because I have seen that it is time. I have no greater understanding than you. I have only a better grasp of the sight.”
Rogan shook his head. “Then I trust in you. Only …”
“Only you wish to delay the moment as long as possible.” Rogan could feel the Lord’s deep sigh in his bones, and he felt, too, the sadness that came with it. “I desire the same thing. Yet if we are to achieve our aims …”
“I know.” Rogan’s voice had faded to a whisper. “Very well. I will send word to Kaita and tell her where to find me.”
“Thank you, my son.”
His father left him, and Rogan felt empty, as he always did.
Soon he left his room. A short hallway brought him to the chamber where his advisors were in council. As he strode in, they were leaning over a map of Underrealm, discussing a new wave of raids into Feldemar. But the moment they noticed Rogan, the chamber fell silent. Everyone present looked at him, eyes shining with love, awaiting his command. Only Ikaia dared to smile, stepping forwards and gripping his wrist.
“Things are proceeding well, brother,” she said. “Our brave warriors have done much to foment discord between Dorsea and Feldemar. And by all accounts, no one in either kingdom knows they are ours.”
“Good,” said Rogan. “And the affair in Danfon?”
“It only awaits your order.” Ikaia answered without thinking. But as she caught the reason he asked, she straightened, and her eyes went wide. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and now they were all frozen, looking at him, hanging on his next words.
“The order is given,” said Rogan. “Tell Wojin it is time to act.”
He paused. Unspoken words hung on the air, and everyone could hear them. No one moved. Almost he stopped there. Almost he left his father’s command unfulfilled.
But Rogan was a dutiful son.
“And send word to Kaita,” he said. “Tell her where to find me. A long-overdue conversation must finally take place.”
The rider who followed us through the Sunmane Pass had lost our trail some time ago. Now she wandered from town to town, chasing every lead from barkeeps and constables. The growing spring had given fresh rainfall, and she could not keep it entirely out of her boots. She shook her feet every so often to keep the water from growing too cold with stillness.
Something had changed. When the rider passed others on the road, she met untrusting looks that soon darted away. Some suspicion might be understandable—she wore a hood and a mask, after all. But this was something more. Something must have happened in the area, but she had not had time to stop off and find out what.
Suddenly she spied a troop on foot, making its way west along the road. The rider sighed and set her shoulders as she recognized Dorsean uniforms.
Stay calm, she thought. And say nothing if you can help it.
But it did not seem that the sky had blessed her with fortune that day. As soon as the soldiers spotted the horse coming, they fanned out across the road to block its path. The rider pulled up in front of the troop, glaring at them from beneath a dark brown hood.
“Hail,” said a soldier, wiping melted snow from her hair. “What is your business in these parts?”
“What business of yours is business of mine?” said the rider.
That seemed to stump the woman for a moment, and she glared at the rider while trying to work out an answer. “I serve the king,” she said at last. “The true king. I keep his peace. Who do you serve?”
True king? An odd word for a soldier to use. But the rider put that thought from her mind. She could not answer it now, and it was thus only a distraction.
“I serve no one any longer,” she said, voice muffled by the mask. “I am only looking for two friends in a strange land.”
“A strange land?” said the soldier, eyes sharpening at once. “And what land is that?”
The rider cursed inwardly. “I only mean that I come from western Dorsea. I have never crossed the Greatrocks before.”
The soldiers edged forwards, some of them reaching for their weapons. The woman who led them drew her sword halfway out.
“A quick reply, if not an honest one,” she said. “I think we have a spy on our hands.”
“I am no spy,” growled the rider.
“Oh?” said the soldier in mock surprise. “I am sure a spy would never lie about such a thing. Search her belongings.”
The rider gave a great sigh, her shoulders drooping as if in defeat. Two guards saw the movement and relaxed, straightening as they came forwards. Their hands neared the horse’s reins.
With a great shout, the rider kicked at the horse’s flanks. It sprang forwards as though stung, and the rider drove one booted foot into the face of each soldier. They fell back with cries and broken noses. The other soldiers scattered as the horse threatened to trample them. They shouted for her to halt, but their cries were impotent, for they had no steeds of their own. Quickly they faded into the distance.
Dark take it, thought the rider. A fugitive, now. Another thing to blame the wanderers for, when I find them again.
But what under the sky had happened in Dorsea, when the king’s soldiers were accosting lone travelers on the road?
“The answer, of course,” said Albern, “is that there had been a coup in the Dorsean capital of Danfon.”
Sun stared at him in wonder. They had stopped for the midday meal, and a bite of dried meat hung in her almost-limp fingers, her mouth half-open.
“You were here in Dorsea when the war broke out?” she said.
Albern smiled at her. “You might have guessed that. I do not doubt you learned the dates of it in your tutoring.”
“I did not count the days of your story in my mind.”
“I will not dwell overlong on that tale,” said Albern with a sigh. “Others have told it elsewhere, and better than I could. I do not doubt that you have already learned something of it from your instructors in history. Suffice it to say that Wojin of the family Fei, uncle and chief councilor of the king, overthrew his liege and took the throne. His efforts went to waste in the end, thanks to the Nightblade—but of course, we did not know that at the time.”
Sun shook her head. “What was it like in the kingdom? They taught me it was a horrid, bloody affair, and I cannot imagine that you escaped the fighting.”
“No, we did not,” said Albern. “The war threw the whole kingdom into chaos. Indeed, it rocked the foundations of Underrealm itself. And word was not long in reaching us—nor was it long before we found ourselves drawn into the conflict.”
After Taitou, we spent two eternal weeks in northeastern Dorsea, riding from town to village to hamlet and back again. But nowhere could we find anything to tell us where to go next. Our mood darkened. Winter, at last, began to give way to spring, which should have helped. But instead of good and gentle weather, the sky started to rain almost constantly. It drove into our faces and down the backs of our necks, no matter how we bundled up against it. And yet it was still too cold for the snow to melt away. It turned into a thick and horrible slush upon the ground, mixing into the dirt to turn it into a dark and sucking mud. Mag and I began to grow snappish with each other, and even with Dryleaf, though in his case we at least tried to restrain ourselves.
The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Page 61