“I know,” Seregil replied. “What puzzles me is why they don’t seem to be making that clear to their own people.”
“Maybe the Aurënfaie aren’t listening,” Alec suggested.
Nyal was loitering in the stable yard when Beka came out with Mercalle. Her heart gave an unruly leap at the sight of him. He’d been out riding, judging by the dust on his boots and cloak. Coming closer, she smelled beer and green herbs on his breath, the scent of a fresh breeze in his hair. She’d have given a month’s pay for five minutes alone in his arms.
“We need materials for a funeral pyre, a fast, hot one,” she told him, keeping her tone neutral.
His hazel eyes widened in alarm. “Aura’s Light, not Klia—”
“For Lord Torsin,” she told him.
“Ah, of course. The proper materials are kept in the city for such contingencies,” he replied. “I’m sure they’ll be made available to you, but it might be best if someone of Bôkthersa clan made the request on Skala’s behalf. Shall I find Kheeta í Branín?”
“Thank you,” Beka said gratefully. “I want his ashes ready for tomorrow’s dispatch rider, if possible.”
“I’ll see to everything,” he said, already on his way.
“He’s been a good friend to us, Captain,” Mercalle said with evident affection.
By the Four, how I want to believe that! Beka thought, watching her lover out of sight. “Get an honor guard together for me, Sergeant. Have them in the main hall in five minutes. Lord Seregil is meeting with the Haman and we want to make the proper impression.”
Mercalle winked knowingly. “I’ll make sure they’re all tall and mean, Captain.”
“Mean shouldn’t be too difficult to come by, considering who our guests are,” Beka replied, clapping her on the shoulder.
She’d been too distracted by Klia’s condition and her own guilt to pay very much attention to the unwelcome “guest” in the barracks. As she headed in to fetch Emiel, she reflected that it couldn’t have been a comfortable few days for him, with Klia’s own guard looking daggers at him every waking hour. There wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t cheerfully cut the Haman’s throat.
Half a dozen riders were taking their ease inside. Two more kept watch at the back of the room, where Emiel sat on his pallet, the remains of a recent meal on a plate beside him. He looked up at her approach, and she was pleased to see a flicker of apprehension cross his face.
“On your feet. You’re wanted in the house,” she ordered.
Outside, Emiel blinked as his eyes adjusted to the slanting afternoon sun. He betrayed no fear, but she did catch him stealing a quick glance at the stable yard gate, which stood tantalizingly open.
Go on, try to run for it, Beka thought, loosening her grip a little, wondering if he knew how much she’d welcome the opportunity to take him down.
The man knew better, of course, and kept up a disdainful front until he entered the hall and saw his uncle and a half dozen kinsmen standing tensely before Thero’s makeshift tribunal. Alec and Säaban flanked the wizard, with Mercalle’s guard in a line behind them. Seregil entered a moment later, escorting Rhaish í Arlisandin.
“Is there anyone else you wish to have present?” Thero asked Nazien.
“No one,” the old Haman answered. “You claim to have proof of my kinsman’s guilt. Show it to me and let’s be done with the matter.”
The Akhendi stepped forward, and Seregil handed him Klia’s warding charm.
“You know of my people’s skills with such magic,” said Rhaish. “Your kinsman’s guilt is written here, in this little carving. You recognize what it is, I think.”
Nazien took the charm and clasped it, closing his eyes. After a moment his shoulders sagged. When he looked at Emiel, there was disgust in his eyes. “I brought you to Sarikali to learn wisdom, nephew. Instead, you have brought disgrace on our name.”
Beka felt the young Haman go rigid. “No,” he rasped out. “No, my uncle—”
“Silence!” Nazien ordered, turning his back on Emiel and facing Thero. “I vow atonement to avert teth’sag between our people. If evidence of my kinsman’s innocence cannot be found within the next moon cycle, he will be put to death for the attempted assassination of the queen’s sister.”
Nazien regarded Emiel stonily for a long moment. “Did you know,” he said at last, “that during the hunt I pledged my support to Klia and her cause?”
“No, Khirnari, we did not,” Thero replied. “The princess has been unable to speak since her collapse.”
“Who heard you give this pledge, I wonder?” Rhaish í Arlisandin asked harshly.
The Haman eyed him levelly. “We spoke in private, but I’m certain Klia will verify my words when she recovers. Good day. May Aura’s light illuminate the truth for all.”
None of the Haman spared Emiel a glance as they filed out. He watched his kinsmen leave, then turned on Rhaish í Arlisandin.
“I might have known the Akhendi would use their paltry trinkets to sell their honor!” he snarled, twisting out of Beka’s grasp and lunging at the khirnari, hands outstretched to throttle the man.
Beka grappled him to the ground but needed the help of three strong riders to hold the man down as he thrashed and cursed. Beka got an elbow in the eye for her trouble but held on blindly until the Haman suddenly jerked and went limp.
Peering up blearily, Beka found Alec standing over him, rubbing his fist.
“Thanks,” she grunted, getting up. “Tie this madman up, Sergeant, and clear out one of the storerooms for a cell. If we’ve got to hang on to him, I want him behind a locked door!”
Mercalle motioned to her men, who dragged the unconscious Haman none too gently out the door.
Beka bowed to the Akhendi. “My apologies.”
“Not at all,” the older man replied, apparently shaken by what he’d just witnessed. “If you will excuse me, I must return to my wife. She’s still not well.”
“Thank you, Khirnari,” Thero said, holding up the bracelet.
“Your help has been invaluable. I hope to learn more from this, as well.”
“I’m unfamiliar with your methods, Thero í Procepios, but I caution you not to undo any of the knots. Once the magic of the object is so broken, no one will be able to tell anything from it.”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Seregil replied, taking it and tucking it away for safekeeping. “Captain, see that the khirnari gets home safely.”
It was just as well that Beka went with the Akhendi. There was something different in the air today and tension hung over the formerly placid streets. It was nothing overt, just a sense she picked up as they passed too quiet taverns and small knots of people.
Nyal was waiting for her on the front steps when she returned. “You are exhausted, talía,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her down beside him.
“I don’t have time to be tired yet,” she returned sourly, though she knew he was right. She ached with weariness, and the world was taking on a surreal glow.
“I hear Emiel did not exactly confess?”
For an instant, Beka saw the Ra’basi through Seregil’s eyes—an outsider who asked too many questions. “That’s not for me to discuss,” she said curtly, and quickly changed the subject. “Our troubles have upset the general population, I think.”
Nyal gave her a slanting smile. “Perhaps the Khatme have been right all these years. Let the Skalans into Sarikali and suddenly we have fistfights in the streets.”
“Well, we’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Leaving havoc in your wake. This simple request of yours has brought a good many simmering clan disputes to a boil. Now, with the deaths, everyone suddenly has new reasons for distrusting their enemies.”
“Have the clans ever gone to war among themselves?” Beka asked. Such a thing hardly seemed possible, even with all she’d seen lately.
Nyal shrugged. “They have, though not for a long time. It’s not murder, to kill in war, but lives are cut sho
rt nonetheless. For a ’faie to shed ’faie blood—ah, Aura forbid! It’s the worst thing imaginable.”
Perhaps if she hadn’t been so tired his words would not have rankled so. As it was, they burned like salt in a fresh wound.
“What do you know of war?” Beka snapped. “Your people sit here, clucking their tongues at us, but when we try to get help saving a few hundred of our short lives, you sit on your hands, debating whether we’ll pollute your blessed shores! Never mind that you’ve murdered one of our people and maimed Klia so that she may—”
She broke off abruptly, seeing the sentries nearby shifting in embarrassment. She was practically shouting.
It wasn’t Nyal’s fault, not any of it, but right now he seemed to stand for every slow-talking, law-spouting, way-blocking Aurënfaie in the land.
“I’m tired, and there’s so much left to do,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Rest awhile,” Nyal said softly. “Sleep if you can.”
She sighed. “No, we’ve got a pyre to build.”
36
TESTING THE WIND
The confrontation with the Haman left Seregil oddly pensive.
“Do you think Nazien was telling the truth when he said he’d support Skala?” Alec asked when the others had left the hall.
“It’s plausible. We’ll go have a listen around town, see how the wind blows once word of all this gets around.”
“If we split up—”
“No,” Seregil shook his head, frowning. “I still don’t want any Skalan out alone anywhere.”
Alec grinned. “Suddenly cautious, are we?”
Seregil chuckled. “Let’s just say even I can learn from my own poor example.”
That evening, they wandered the city’s taverns and squares, picking up threads of outraged opinion.
They went openly among the friendlier clans and heard Virésse alternately denounced and defended. Less was said against the Haman; word of Alec’s discovery had not yet spread.
Later, they ventured into enemy territory, going so far as to scale the wall of Nazien í Hari’s garden to see how the Haman were conducting themselves in the wake of the accusations. The house lay in darkness, with no smell of an evening meal.
“A sign of humility and atonement,” Seregil whispered to Alec as they crept away. “Nazien’s taking his nephew’s actions hard.”
By contrast, Virésse tupa was ablaze with light well past midnight. Keeping to the shadows, they spotted the sen’gai of half a dozen clans among the people out on the streets. The house of Ulan í Sathil was too risky to burgle, but lurking nearby, they saw the khirnari of Khatme enter, accompanied by Moriel ä Moriel of Ra’basi.
Despite this apparent show of support, bands of Virésse watchmen patrolled the boundaries of the tupa, where angry supporters of Klia roamed looking for a fight. Many wore the green-and-brown sen’gai of Akhendi.
“Do you suppose that’s a spontaneous show of support, or is our friend Rhaish í Arlisandin making certain his greatest rival is made uncomfortable?” asked Seregil.
“Perhaps we should pay Akhendi tupa one last visit.”
The whole of the Akhendi delegation seemed to have taken to the streets for the night, and Seregil and Alec were hailed as friends, commiserated with, and plied with liquor and questions.
News of the poisoner’s ring had sealed Ulan’s fate in the minds of most, and some were convinced that the Haman were in collusion with him. All agreed that it was a great coup for Akhendi, having their most hated opponent besmirched with even the hint of scandal.
“We knew they’d do anything to protect themselves, but assassination!” a taverner exclaimed, treating them to mugs of her best. “Maybe the Khatme are right about too much contact with outsiders. No offense to present company of course. I’m talking of the Plenimarans.”
“You won’t hear us defending them,” Seregil assured her.
Stopping in at another tavern, they met Rhaish í Arlisandin, accompanied by several younger kinsmen. The khirnari seemed surprised to see them.
“With all the unrest in the city tonight, we thought we’d stop by and see that you and your people are safe,” Seregil explained, joining him at a long table and accepting a mug of ale.
“I thank you for that,” Rhaish replied. “These are uncertain times indeed when the insidious weapons of Plenimar are found in Sarikali.”
“It chills my heart,” Seregil agreed. “I thought you’d be at Torsin’s funeral.”
Rhaish shook his head sadly. “As you say, the mood of the city is so uncertain tonight, I thought it would be better if I remained with my own people.”
As if to underscore this, the sound of angry shouting broke out suddenly in the direction of Khatme tupa.
“Aura protect us!” Rhaish groaned, sending men to investigate. “See that none of our people are doing violence!”
“Perhaps you’re wise to remain close to home,” Seregil observed. “Those who struck at us may strike at our closest allies, too.”
“Just as you say,” Rhaish acknowledged wearily. “But surely the guilt of the Virésse is clear? Why hasn’t Klia declared teth’sag against them?”
“Skalans.” Seregil shrugged and spread his hands, as if that explained everything.
“I must attend my people,” Rhaish said, rising to go. “I trust you’ll keep me informed of any new discoveries?”
“Of course. Aura’s Light shine on you.”
“And you.” The khirnari’s escort closed ranks behind him as he continued on his way.
Alec watched the stooped figure fade into the night. “Poor fellow. Except for Gedre and us, no one else stands to lose as much when everything goes to pieces. And it’s going to, isn’t it?”
Seregil said nothing for a moment, listening as the distant shouting took on a more dire tone. “I didn’t come home for this, Alec. Not to watch the two lands I’ve called home bring each other down. We’ve got to uncover the truth of all this, and soon.”
A moment later a tiny point of bluish light flickered into being just in front of them, one of Thero’s message spheres. The wizard’s voice issued softly from it, drained of emotion: “Come back at once.”
37
WORSE NEWS
The arrangements for Torsin’s funeral came together quickly, thanks to Nyal. He’d even turned up a bundle of spices somewhere, and with these Kheeta’s mother had skillfully overseen the preparation of the corpse. By the time she and her helpers had sewn it into layers of canvas and patterned silk, the odor was almost tolerable.
Unwilling to spare too many soldiers from guarding the house, Beka took only Nyal, Kheeta, and her three corporals as torchbearers. A cart draped with cloaks and prayer scrolls served as catafalque, bearing Torsin out to a site on the plain outside the city. Adzriel and Säaban accompanied them, each with a painted prayer kite honoring the dead man. It was fully dark now, but the soft gleam of massed wizard lights was guide enough.
“Well, look at that, would you?” Nikides exclaimed softly.
In spite of the general unrest, at least a hundred Aurënfaie had gathered on the moon-washed plain. The pyre, a rectangular stack of cedar and oak logs fifteen feet high, was surmounted by a pair of carved dragon heads. Dozens of prayer scrolls fluttered against its sides.
“You’d think he was one of their own,” said Corporal Zir.
“He was a good man,” Nyal said.
Beka hadn’t known Torsin well, but sensed a rightness in this final moment; the man had spent his life, and perhaps given it, trying to bring the two races together.
Kallas and Nikides slid the body into a shelflike opening near the top of the pyre. Adzriel made a few prayers in the dead man’s behalf, then stepped back. Beka and her riders were about to light the tinder when another rider galloped out to join them. It was Sergeant Rhylin, and even in the warm glow of the torches, the tall sergeant’s face looked grey.
“Thero sent this—to be put on the pyre,” he whispered hoarsely,
thrusting a small, canvas-wrapped parcel into Beka’s hands.
“What is it?” she asked, already dreading the answer. The stiff cloth was tied up with a knotted thong and weighed almost nothing.
“Klia—” he began, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Sakor’s Flame!” Beka’s fingers felt numb and clumsy as she yanked the thong free and unrolled the cloth. The smell gagged her, but she went on, unable to stop.
Two black, swollen, fingers—first and middle—were packed in fresh cedar tips and rose petals. They were still joined by a sizable wedge of discolored flesh; the white tips of two neatly severed bones poked out from the raw lower edge.
“Mydri saved the hand, then?” she asked, spilling petals as she hurriedly tied the bundle up again.
Rhylin wiped at his eyes. “She isn’t sure yet. The rot was spreading too fast. Thero worked a spell over Klia. We didn’t even have to hold her down.”
Beka’s mind skittered away from the images that summoned, wondering instead if her commander would ever hold a bow again. “Thank the Maker it wasn’t her sword hand,” she mumbled. Climbing up the side of the pyre, she reached in and laid the little bundle on Torsin’s breast, above his heart.
On the ground again, she knelt and thrust a torch into the thick bed of tinder and kindling packed under the logs. The Urgazhi sang a soldiers’ dirge as flames fueled by beeswax and fragrant resins leaped up to engulf it.
The song ended, leaving only the crackle of the flames in its wake. As the thick white smoke went dark, a sorrowful keening started somewhere among the ’faie. It spread through the crowd and swelled to an uncanny, full-throated wail that rose and fell wordlessly and without cease. Her riders tensed, shooting Beka worried looks.
She shrugged and turned back to watch the roaring blaze.
The keening went on for hours, until the blaze had reduced itself to smoldering embers. Sometime during the night, hardly realizing what they did, the Skalans joined in.
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