“You’re right, Thom. I am upset. First, that you lied to me—oh, the gods know I’ve told my share in the past, and I suppose I’d be willing to overlook such a thing in normal circumstances, but these aren’t normal circumstances, are they? In fact, I’d say they’re just about as abnormal as you can get—creatures that shouldn’t exist attacking us near every day, and us marching to a war against a mage out of a storybook. But on top of lying, you are here, practicing with a sword. As if you mean to fight. Ridiculous, of course. You’re a sailor, not a warrior, and—”
“I do mean to fight, May.”
She stared at him in shock, as if he’d just claimed that dogs could fly. “What?”
Thom shrugged, dreading her anger but not willing to give in. “I’m going to fight, May. You said it yourself—we’re at war. I’m not going to sit back and let others do the fighting for me, not when I can hold a sword.”
“Oh, is that right? You’re some great warrior now, is that it? A couple of weeks of practice, and you’re ready to take on those, those things? Things, by the way, which even the Akalians, the best warriors in the world, can’t beat in a one-on-one match, according to Silent. But you, a first mate, a man who has spent his life on a ship and doesn’t know the first thing about battle or swordplay, you’re going to fight them. Is that what you’re telling me, Thom?”
“Yes. And…I know where the handle’s at. So that’s something.”
She scowled. “Don’t you try to pass this off as some joke with me, Thom. You dying isn’t something to laugh at.”
He sighed. “I don’t plan on dyin’, May.”
“Says the man jumping in front of a run-away horse cart.” She shook her head. “No. You’ll stay and help me with the supplies. The gods know I could use the help, and you’ll be better suited for that than swinging a sword and pretending to be a warrior.”
Thom took a slow breath and met her eyes. “No, May. I won’t. Fighting needs doin’, and I aim to do it.”
“Dying needs doing, you mean.”
He set his jaw. “If that’s what’s called for, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“But why?” she demanded, her voice coming out in a yell. “Why in the name of the gods would you be such a fool?”
“Because I love you, damnit!” he shouted back, then glanced at the swordmaster to see that the man had apparently seen something particularly interesting in the distance and was staring off at it as if his life depended on it. Which, judging by May’s anger, might not be that far from the truth. Thom cleared his throat, turning back to the red-haired woman and taking her hands. “Look, May. It ain’t right, me askin’ folks to die to protect what I care about, and me not bein’ willing to do it myself. I’m a lot of things, and you’re right, a fool’s probably not the worst of ‘em, but I won’t be a coward.”
She snatched her hands away from his grip. “Then we’re through, Thom. I won’t be with a man who’s got a death wish—the gods know I’ve seen enough of it without attaching myself to a man doing his level best to seek it out.”
“May,” Thom said, aware of the hurt in his own voice but unable to repress it. “You don’t mean that. You’re just angry and—”
“Damn right I mean it!” she screamed. “You want to die, then you go on ahead and die, but don’t expect me to be waiting to bury you, to weep all over your grave. I won’t, Thom. I just won’t.”
Thom stared at her, wanting to say something, wanting more than anything to make her understand, but her face was set, her eyes challenging, and he knew that anything he said would be the wrong thing. So he only nodded, doing his best to keep his hurt from his expression. “If that’s your will, lady.” He cleared his throat again, turning to the swordmaster. “Tomorrow, same time? I reckon we got one more day left, I’d best get what practice in as I can.”
“Of course,” the swordmaster said, and the compassion in his face made Thom’s own sadness well up all the greater, as if in answer. “I’ll see you in the morning, Thom.”
The first mate nodded. “Until then, swordmaster.” He turned back to May, and bowed his head. “Whatever comes, May, whatever you want, just know I love you, alright? Never thought I’d say that to another person in my life, and I don’t expect I’ll ever say it again, no matter how the next few days go. But I love you.” And with that, he started away, back toward the army camp and to his own small tent. Suddenly, he was tired. So very, very tired.
***
May watched the first mate shuffle away, saw the slump in his shoulders, a slump she had put there, and at once she felt ashamed, heartbroken, and angry. But more than anything, she was afraid. She wanted to yell at him, to call him a fool, wanted to scream for him to come back, to tell him she didn’t mean it, to tell him she loved him too. She wanted to beg and plead and be reassured, but she did none of those things. Instead, she only watched in silence as he stalked back into the camp. And she felt it when she could no longer see him, felt it in her bones like a presentiment of doom, an echo of a tragedy that had not yet happened but seemed, just then, inevitable.
“You are wrong, you know.”
She turned to see the swordmaster staring at her, and for all the expression his face showed, he might as well have been talking about the weather. “What?” she said, taken aback.
“I said, you’re wrong,” he repeated, a simple observation, one said without anger or malice.
May took a deep breath, preparing to tell the swordmaster that her and Thom’s business was theirs alone, and that he’d do well to keep out of it. But for some reason, the words wouldn’t come, and she only sighed, feeling deflated and tired, her shoulders slumping much like Thom’s. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s simple enough, isn’t it?” Darrell said calmly. “At their core, every man or woman must have things for which they stand, principles on which they refuse to compromise. It is these principles that make us who we are. And should any of us be willing—or even able—to do what it is you ask of Thom, to abandon those principles at a moment’s notice for the sake of pleasing another or ourselves—perhaps most of all, ourselves—then they mean nothing. And if they mean nothing, then we mean nothing. Do you understand?”
“So what, then?” May demanded. “I’m supposed to allow him to march off to war like a fool, knowing full well he’ll die?”
The swordmaster gave a small thoughtful smile, turning away from her to gaze back into the camp. “I am not from Avarest—not originally—and it has been many years since I have last seen the city. But even I, little more than a stranger to its winding ways and busy streets, have heard of May Tanarest. The woman who would spit in the face of the gods themselves, should they attempt to bar her path. A woman who criminals, both great and small, have learned to fear. Even Avarest’s Council, I suspect, steps warily around such a woman.”
May, who’d been preparing herself for a shouting match, frowned instead. “Not that I’m normally opposed to flattery, swordmaster, but is there a point to all this? After all, I know well the life I’ve led. Its goods and its evils sing me to sleep every night like two birds perched on my shoulders.”
“Strong-willed, they say,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “a woman who could argue the rain down from the clouds. I wonder if a woman such as that would ever let another tell her what she was ‘allowed’ to do.”
May scowled. “If I was about to do something foolish that ended with pain and a cold grave, I’d hope they would.”
He nodded. “Of course.” Then he turned to her, meeting her eyes. “And would you listen, do you suppose? To such advice?”
She grunted. “What are you driving at, Darrell? Time’s wasting, and I’ve a thousand things to do before the day’s done.”
“Clever too, the rumors tell,” he went on. “So, I suspect you know well enough my point, but I will say it just the same. Thom is not a man to be ordered about, to be told when to sit and when to come and when to heel. People have dogs for such purposes. And even if
Thom were such a man, would you be satisfied with that? Forgive me, but I find it difficult to believe that the May Tanarest, the fiery-haired she-devil who vexed even Avarest’s most powerful crime bosses, would believe such a man her equal.”
May frowned, mostly because he was right. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to Thom—his courage, and a directness, so different from the sort of people she’d spent her life associating with. Even Captain Festa, a man known for losing his temper, incited no fear in Thom. He was a rock, her rock. Or…at least…he had been. Gods, I am a fool. What have I done? Another thought struck her then and she let out a soft, ragged sigh. “But he’ll die, Darrell. Surely, you see that.”
“Perhaps,” Darrell agreed. “But then, all men die, May. It is the way of the world, after all. We are born, we live, and we die.”
“Sure,” she said sarcastically, “but not all of us die with a sword buried in our guts.”
“That’s true,” the swordmaster agreed. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it would be better to keep him away from the battle. Of course, he might still be attacked when walking around the camp. It is full of soldiers, after all. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t allow him to leave your quarters—that, I think, would be safest. Although,” he continued, frowning, “even that is no guarantee, for walking about your rooms, he might slip and fall, break his neck. I’ve known men it has happened to. Maybe, then, the answer is to find a cage—not too large, of course. You wouldn’t want him to get any ideas and start moving around more than is strictly necessary. A dangerous thing, moving. So many things could happen.” He scratched his chin where a thin scruff of white hair had begun to grow. “You could tie him down, I suppose, but—”
“Alright, alright,” May huffed. “I get your point, damnit. Has anyone ever told you, Darrell, that you’re a bit of a bastard?”
The swordmaster laughed. “Aaron has told me on more than one occasion, and lately Sergeant Wendell has taken it in his mind to remind me, lest I forget.” He met her eyes, and when he continued his voice was serious, but kind. “Have you ever seen an exotic bird in a cage, May? I have. I have walked city squares where all manner of animal and beast sat caged, and one thing that I have noticed is that, without fail, those majestic creatures shrink to their cages. The feathers of the birds lose their luster, and the once muscled, graceful bodies of great cats become too thin or too fat, and they lose, in the caging, all they once were. And the worst of it? If you look deeply into their eyes, you can see the memory there of the greatness they once had, the greatness they lost.”
Unexpectedly, tears began to gather in May’s eyes, and she wiped them away furiously. “I’ve really screwed things up, haven’t I?”
Darrell smiled reassuringly. “He loves you, May. No damage has been done that cannot be undone, so long as you both continue to draw breath.”
She gave a weak snort. “I guess I’d better hurry then.”
The swordmaster shook his head, looking out into the woods, toward the city of Baresh. “I’m an old man, May. Old and tired, and I’ve long since lost count of the number of battles I’ve survived that should have been my last.” He turned back to her. “As long as we draw breath, there is hope.”
“Hope,” May repeated dubiously. “It hasn’t been on any of my supply lists, swordmaster, I can tell you that much.” She sighed heavily. “I love him, too.”
“I know. And he loves you. For love, you would save him. For love, he would save you, if he could. Speak with him, May. While there is still time.”
“Doesn’t sound much like hope, Swordmaster.”
Darrell smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I’m an old man,” he repeated.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Aaron crouched on the same hill upon which he’d stood what felt like months ago, gazing at the distant walls of Baresh. He remembered feeling afraid then, afraid he would fail, afraid he, and those who followed him—Wendell, Darrell, and Leomin—would suffer, would die, because of his failure. Now, there were thousands in the nearby camp, tens of thousands of men and women who had come to fight Kevlane and his creations. Should he fail now, he would be responsible not just for the deaths of his friends, but of everyone, and thousands would go to their graves with him to thank.
You are not alone, Aaron, Co said. Not anymore. You have friends here to help you—this is not a burden you must carry alone.
If not, then why is it so damned heavy?
The Virtue didn’t respond, and he thought that just as well, for any answer she might have given would have rung false. Staring at the fields spread out before the city, at the city itself, Aaron was troubled. Kevlane knew the army was coming—almost every night, they had been attacked by his creations, and the cost of their journey had risen—the last time he’d checked with May—to over a thousand dead. The mage knew, and yet the fields in front of the city walls were empty, the city itself some great, slumbering beast in the darkness. It would awaken, sooner or later, and when it did, it would be hungry.
“Where’s his army?” Aaron hissed, frustrated. After all, from everything Caleb had said—and on such matters, he’d long since learned to trust the youth—Kevlane should still have thousands of regular troops at his command, soldiers remaining from the force that had attempted the attack on Perennia only a short time ago. Yet, no campfires burned in the plains in front of the city, no great host stood ready to meet them. There was only the stillness and the silence that were more unnerving than if an army had been there.
Tomorrow, they would reach the city, and he suspected whatever surprises the mage had in store would be revealed quickly enough. And without the Akalians to open the gate, they would pay in blood for each step they took toward the city. Aaron frowned. “What are you planning, you bastard?”
His bond with the Virtue alerted him to a presence behind him. Foolish, he scolded himself as he spun, wandering off on your own. The blade was in his hand before he’d finished turning. What looked like a dozen shadows separated themselves from the trees, gliding forward. “Come on then,” he hissed, and found that he was almost eager for the fight to come. This, at least, was something he understood, something he could control.
“The magi, for all his cruelty, for all his malice, is no fool.”
Aaron frowned at the familiar voice, but then the Speaker of the Akalians stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and the pale moonlight illuminated him and the dozen black-garbed figures standing with him.
“You’re alive,” he said. After hearing Caleb’s tale and seeing no sign of the Akalians for days, he’d felt sure they had all been killed at the barracks. Relief flooded him, banishing the feeling of doom that had plagued him for days. Still, it was clear their survival had been a near thing. The Akalians looked bruised and battered, their black clothes were stained with blood and ripped and torn in several places. The Speaker looked little better. His left forearm was bandaged, and he held himself stiffly, the way a man did when he was in pain.
“Gods, how many did the bastard send after you?”
The Akalian shook his head slowly, his gaze far away as if in memory. “Not enough. Not quite. Aaron Envelar,” he said, his voice reluctant. “I regret to inform you that we lost Caleb and the woman, Tianya. During the fighting—”
“They made it back,” Aaron said, wanting to alleviate some of the pain he heard in the other man’s voice. “The boy made a stretcher and dragged her back here, if you could believe that.”
The Akalian’s relief was visible, and he breathed out a heavy sigh. “Thank the gods for that, at least. And they are well?”
“As well as could be expected. Better, actually. The healers tell me Tianya has made a full recovery. As for Caleb…” He wasn’t sure what to say about the youth. His body had healed well enough, but Aaron hadn’t missed the haunted look in the youth’s eyes, when he thought no one was watching. He’d tried to talk to Caleb about it, but, so far at least, he had refused to tell him wha
t was wrong. “Well…something’s troubling him,” he said finally.
The Akalian nodded thoughtfully. “It is a miracle that he made it through the woods with the woman. A miracle, I suspect, aided in large part to the Virtue he bears—though I do not underestimate the boy himself. A remarkable youth, one who will one day become a remarkable man.”
“If given time enough,” Aaron said.
“Yes. If given time enough. But what I mean to say, Aaron Envelar, is that in such an extremity, Caleb would have called deeply on the power of the bond, and in such callings…there is danger.”
Aaron frowned. He’d thought as much, but he’d hoped he’d been wrong. To hear it from the Akalian’s own mouth did nothing to reassure him. “You mean something like the rages I feel? But I thought you said I could control those.”
“Yes,” the Speaker said. “It was what you needed to hear, at the time, and it was not a lie. You—or any bearer of a Virtue—can control its side effects. For a time.”
Aaron sighed. “But not forever.”
“No,” the other man said, shaking his head. “Not forever. Man was not meant for such power, Aaron Envelar, as the Virtues bestow upon him. And while the…repercussions of your own Virtue mean that your anger is given life and breath, they are all different.” His eyes got a faraway look again, and Aaron didn’t need the bond with Co to realize the man was thinking of a certain desert, and the woman and child he knew there. “For every gift, a curse.”
“You say his is different,” Aaron said. “How?”
“With your rage, you burn, Aaron Envelar,” the Speaker said, meeting his eyes. “But knowledge is different—the truth, I need not tell you, can oft times be a cold thing. Cold and terrible.”
Aaron thought of Caleb, and all the others, Leomin and Gryle, Seline. Each of them battling their own demons, their own curses. And would they be able to hold those demons off long enough to do what must be done? “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to camp. I imagine you and your men would like a hot meal and some rest.”
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