As they neared where they’d last seen her standard, Beka realized that Nyal was no longer beside her. In the crush of battle there was only an instant to look around, but there was no sign of him. Heart warring with duty, she had no choice but to press forward with Klia, who was still shouting, “To the queen!”
Suddenly the press gave way. Before them, Phoria lay over her dying stallion’s heaving withers with half a dozen dead or dying riders around her. Her horse’s hindquarters were badly hacked and its throat was slashed, Beka noted in an instant, but what filled her heart with ice was the sight of the queen’s headless body, and the laughing Plenimaran marine standing over her, holding her head by her pale hair in one hand and the bloody Sword of Gherilain in the other.
As voices in two languages shouted the news Klia let out a scream of pure rage and leapt over the horse. With a single
swing she sliced the marine’s head from his shoulders, then caught her sister’s before it could strike the ground. She placed it reverently beside the body, then took up the queen’s sword and held it high, yelling “For the queen! Avenge Queen Phoria!”
The cry spread and the battle went on, the Skalans driven now by vengeance. The army loved her, the queen who led from the front, and the warriors fought beyond the edge of exhaustion, slaying every Plenimaran they came against or dying in the effort.
The lowering sun was painting the clouds a bloodstained red when word spread that the Overlord was wounded and suing for peace. Still at Klia’s side, Beka and her troop had to wade through the dead and dying to reach the place of parlay near the shore.
The Overlord was already there, lying on a litter. He was a worn, haggard man, no more than thirty. His wounds were hidden under his red-and-silver robes of state. He wore no armor, but he clutched his crowned helm under his left arm. As Klia and her entourage entered his retinue went to one knee, but the Overlord remained where he was.
The proceedings didn’t take long. A scribe drafted the terms of surrender under which Plenimar relinquished all claims to any lands outside their own borders, including the sacred isle of Kouros, which Plenimar had held for decades, and vowed to pay yearly tribute to Skala for one hundred years.
Beka paid scant attention, worried sick over Nyal. It was nearly dark before she was released to search for her husband with the help of twenty of her riders. Working on foot, she tried to retrace her steps to the last place she’d seen him. In the ruddy light, it was a hellish sight. Camp followers moved among the heaving piles of bodies, stripping the enemy and killing those who still lived. Drysians and soldiers were already sorting the dead, helping the wounded, and speeding on those too badly hurt to survive.
At last Beka heard a shout to her left and followed the familiar voice to where Sergeant Rylin and a rider named Sori
were kneeling on either side of a bloody body. Beka ran the last few stumbling steps and went to her knees beside Nyal. Someone had taken off his cuirass and mail and cut his left sleeve open. The upper bone was broken and protruding through the skin. His face and neck were covered in blood, and his right leg, but his eyes were open and he raised his right hand weakly. A jagged cut had laid his left cheek open to the bone. That at least accounted for some of the blood.
She clasped his hand, fighting back tears. “How bad?”
“The leg wound is deep,” Rylin told her, already wrapping strips of cloth cut from someone’s tabard around that wound. “But it’s his arm I’m worried about.”
“Talia,” Nyal croaked. “Don’t cry, my talia. It’s not so bad.”
“It doesn’t look good,” Beka said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
“Cadeus and Samani are off looking for a healer. In the meantime, I can set that arm,” said Sori.
Nyal squeezed her hand and she nodded.
“Are you wounded, Beka?” Nyal asked as the others gathered rags and cut splints from a broken halberd.
“Not a scratch,” Beka managed. “The queen is dead, Nyal.”
His eyes widened “Then we’ve lost?”
“No. Klia took up the sword and led us to victory.”
The wound on his cheek gaped as he tried to smile. “Then we’ll go home at last!”
The healer didn’t find them until dawn, and by then Nyal’s wounds had begun to fester, though they’d been washed with what water Beka and the others had left.
The exhausted young drysian came to them with a servant hauling his cart of simples. He dressed Nyal’s wound and those of the other riders who had them, and gave them healing blessings. When he was done, Beka pulled him aside.
“Thank you, Brother, for all you’ve done. Please, will my husband survive his wounds?”
“The infection wasn’t too bad, but if that bone doesn’t mend well, he could lose the arm.”
Beka nodded and turned back to the others. She’d love Nyal just as well with one arm as two, but what it would do to him, not to be able to hunt or draw a bow anymore, she couldn’t imagine.
Phoria’s body had been rescued and lay in state in her pavilion under a black shroud. In front of it, the bodies of fallen officers were laid out on cloaks with their hands clasped on their breasts and their swords beside them. Danos was not among them, Klia noted. Either he’d taken Phoria’s words to heart, or been lucky.
There was no time to mourn her fallen sister yet. She first sent word of the victory and the queen’s loss the fastest way she could, with a message sphere to Thero, asking that he bring word to Korathan. Then she spent a weary night conferring with General Moraus and her surviving officers, taking in the number of dead, and trying to reapportion commands. By right of birth, she was now Marshal of the Armies, assuming Phoria’s command until the new queen could do so.
Just after dawn Beka Cavish returned with word of more casualties-Nyal was among them, badly wounded.
Standing by the dying fire, Klia looked around at all her gathered officers. “Take heart. The war is over, and though our losses are grievous, the service we have done Skala will ensure the safety of our land for generations to come. As we mourn the loss of our queen, so must we honor her sacrifice and victory.”
“But the victory is yours,” one of the generals, Sarit, said.
“I only finished what my sister started,” Klia told him. “And now I must complete another task. I’m starting for Skala today by sea, to bring the Sword of Gherilain to its rightful owner. In the meantime, General Moraus, you will assume command here; see to the wounded until spring, then bring the army home.” She paused. “And I have a field promotion to make. Captain Beka Cavish, step forward.”
Beka, who’d been standing with Anri and Danos, looked up in surprise, and in the brightening light Klia could see how weary and bloodstained she was. Wind-burned as she
was, her face was pale behind the freckles, and it was clear she hadn’t slept, either. Nonetheless, she came forward and saluted smartly.
Klia smiled. “I’m promoting you, Beka Cavish. These past five years you have served well, rendered untold service to the royal family, and exemplified valor on the field. From this day forward, you are a commander of the Queen’s Horse Guard.”
A murmur went through the assembly. Most knew that her father was a foreigner, and of low rank. They had no idea of his service to the Crown. Klia stilled it with a sharp look, then unhooked her silver and gold gorget and presented it to Beka.
After a stunned instant, Beka took it in both hands and went down on one knee. “Thank you, Highness, for this immense honor. I will not fail you.”
“I know you won’t. I call you all to bear witness. Rise, Commander Beka Cavish, and assume your place with your peers.”
When the last of the night’s work was finished at last, Klia made her way wearily back to Phoria’s pavilion to sit vigil, accompanied by the generals and commanders. As she neared it, she noticed Danos nearby. He saluted her with a wan smile. She returned it, wondering what the future held for him.
CHAPTER 43. Nightrunning
; THAT same night Alec watched with Seregil, Micum, and Thero from the shadows as the last of Atre’s troupe set off in the direction of the theater.
Patch and the other horses were hobbled in the narrow alley behind them, and nickered softly. Among all his other worries, Alec hoped that no one stole Patch.
The house was dark, but a lone watchman with a lantern had been left to guard the place. Seregil had seen the cook and serving girl leave after the evening meal, and none of them had seen any other servants during the day.
All but Thero were armed with swords, and Alec had his Black Radly in case of a chase. He’d taken off the shatta and stuffed a woolen muffler Illia had knitted him inside the quiver to keep the arrows from rattling. And for luck, too, he admitted to himself.
It was a clear night, with a lopsided autumn moon casting bright bars of light between the buildings. There were no walls around the houses in this neighborhood, making it that much harder to approach without being seen, though it was probably just as well with Thero along. The wizard had wisely dressed in breeches and a dark tunic, but he probably wasn’t up to much climbing.
“I’ll do the honors,” whispered Micum, starting away.
Just then, however, a tiny orb of blue light winked into existence in front of Thero.
As the others exchanged puzzled looks, the wizard touched the message sphere gently. To Alec’s surprise, there was no
voice, at least not one that he could hear, as was usual with Thero’s message spells. But clearly Thero could hear something, for his face went very still as he replied softly, “I understand.” The little light sped away with its new message.
“What’s going on?” hissed Seregil.
The wizard gave the sign for Watcher business, then pulled a button from his coat and handed it to Seregil. “Keep this with you. I’ll find you.” With that, he mounted his horse and rode away down the side alley.
“Bilairy’s Balls!” Seregil muttered, staring after him in disbelief.
“What do we do?” asked Alec.
“What we’ve always done.” Seregil carefully tucked Thero’s button away in his belt pouch. “Our job.”
Thero rode in stunned silence as the import of Klia’s message sank in. The queen was dead, the war was won, and Klia would be back in the city, accompanying the fallen queen’s body and bearing the great sword to Elani, in perhaps a week’s time. He was to break the news to Prince Korathan. Immediately.
Sorrow, joy, and relief warred in his heart. He didn’t know how to feel.
At the Palace he drew a few questioning looks given the lateness of the hour and his uncommon clothing, but a page took him at once to the royal residence.
Thero found Korathan alone in the darkened garden. He wore no robes or coat, but sat in his shirtsleeves, with one elbow on the stone table and his head resting on his hand, pale hair loose around his face. A wine bottle and cup stood before him on the table.
Before Thero could even bow, he said softly, “Phoria is dead, isn’t she?”
“You’ve had word?”
But the prince shook his head. “We shared a womb, and a lifetime. I’m told it’s common with twins-to know.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Thero. “The war is lost?”
“No, Highness, it’s won. I’ve had word from Klia herself.
Queen Phoria drove the Plenimarans to their border, then fell on the brink of victory. Princess Klia finished the task.”
“Thank Sakor for that, at least! Is there any suggestion that Phoria’s death was connected to your cabals?”
“None that I know of yet, Highness.”
“Then let it rest. Reltheus and the others have been convicted of conspiracy against the realm and banished.” He sighed. “I suppose we should have a drink. Sit with me, please.”
Impatient as he was to return to Seregil and the others, Thero could not refuse, and not just because of their difference in rank. It was a bittersweet victory for Korathan.
The prince filled his own cup, then pushed the bottle across to Thero. “To Phoria. Astellus carry her softly.”
“To Queen Phoria.” Thero raised the bottle and took a small sip; he had work ahead of him tonight, hopefully.
Korathan raised his cup again. “The queen is dead. Long live the queen!”
“Queen Elani, the Four protect her.”
They drank again.
“And to victory,” Korathan rasped, and Thero could tell the prince had started drinking long before he’d arrived.
“To victory, thank the Flame.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Korathan cleared his throat and asked, “Phoria- She died well?”
“Yes, Highness, in the thick of battle. Klia said she’d tell you the rest when she returns. She sails tomorrow, bringing the queen’s body and the Sword of Gherilain back to the city.”
“A wise woman, my little sister. This should put an end to any further rumors.” He took another sip. “Between you and me, Thero, I know Elani will make a fine queen, but Klia would have made a great one.”
“She doesn’t want the crown. She’s said so a number of times. She loves soldiering.”
Korathan let out a mirthless laugh. “As do I. Here’s to choosing one’s own path. To Klia.”
“To Princess Klia.”
Silence fell again, and again it was Korathan who broke it.
“You and the others have served Skala well, even when ordered not to.”
“As loyal Skalans-” Thero began, but Korathan shook his head.
“I’m not a stupid man, Thero. The Watchers serve more than just queen and country.”
“But never are those in opposition, Highness.”
“Never?”
“I can only speak for myself, and for Nysander when I knew him, but no. Never.”
“I haven’t told Elani about you yet. What do you think I should do?”
Thero considered this seriously; for one fragile moment they were, if not peers, then two men who held the safety of the nation in their hands. At last he replied, “When the time is right you should tell her, in any way you like.”
Korathan raised an eyebrow. “When the time is right? When will that be?”
“When we are needed.”
“I see. Yes. Well, thank you for bringing word to me.” His face remained a calm mask as Thero rose to go, but the lightest of touches across the prince’s mind revealed a bottomless well of grief.
Thero felt strangely guilty at leaving the man alone, but he’d clearly been dismissed so that Korathan could grieve in private.
As soon as Thero was gone, Seregil gave the signal to Micum to move out. The man disappeared down the shadowy street, only to reappear at the front of the house in time to intercept the watchman and engage him in conversation. Seregil couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the other man appeared glad of a break in the night’s boredom.
Seregil and Alec stole to the back of the house. The back door let into a kitchen, as with most houses, and there were three windows, two to the left of the kitchen door, and one to the right. No light showed there.
The one on the right appeared to let into a dining room and was easily shimmed open. Silent as shadows, they slipped
inside, then Seregil crept to the kitchen doorway; there were no signs of any additional servants.
All the same, they remained cautious as they investigated the room on the far side of the kitchen-a bedroom with two narrow beds and clothing thrown about that spoke of the twins. There were several jewel boxes, but none of the pieces were labeled and without Thero, there was no way of knowing if there was any magic in the room. Instead they had to make a quick and thorough search, but found nothing hidden away or suspicious.
What should have been the main salon at the front of the house was nearly bare except for a few plain chairs and empty crates, and a mattress on the floor. A rack of wooden practice swords stood against the wall.
They found more jewel boxes in another bedroom beyond, which app
eared to belong to Zell and Leea, but their takings had been modest. Another frustrating search found nothing of interest. Time was passing too quickly.
“If Thero hadn’t gone haring off, we’d be done by now,” Seregil muttered as they started up the stairs to the second floor.
“It must have been important,” Alec whispered back. “I wonder why he couldn’t tell us? And why we couldn’t hear the message?”
“There are different versions of that magic. Come on.”
The bare treads creaked under their boots as they climbed the steep stairway. It sounded too loud in the empty, silent house. The floor of the upstairs corridor was bare wood, too, and a bit creaky in places. This wouldn’t be a good house to burgle if anyone was home. Seregil far preferred the dependable marble floors and thick carpets in the homes of the rich.
There were more jewels in Brader and Merina’s room, and the children’s. Merina had the largest collection in a chest on her dressing table. Once again, none of the jewels in any of the rooms were locked away with anything but ordinary locks, and none of the pieces were labeled. Seregil glanced out the window and cursed softly under his breath at the span the moon had crossed since they’d begun. As he turned to go he collided with a dark shape that grabbed at him. He was
reaching for his knife when the shape growled, “It’s me, you fool!”
“And about time, too,” Seregil whispered back. “Go downstairs and work your magic. We couldn’t find anything.”
Leaving Thero to it, Seregil and Alec came at last to what was clearly Atre’s room, the best one, at the front of the house. It was lavishly decorated, while the others were much simpler, though well furnished. Atre’s bed was as large as the one at Wheel Street, with ornately carved bedposts and sumptuous tapestry hangings. There was a tall wardrobe, several clothes chests, and an expensive mirror on the wall, as well as an ivory-backed hand mirror on the dressing table. A writing table stood under the window overlooking the street, strewn with parchments. More overflowed from a basket on the floor beside the desk, awaiting scraping to be used again.
Cascet of souls n-6 Page 45