“I feared you’d abandoned us, boy,” Fei Zan said, speaking Jun in quiet tones as the rest of the table had devolved into rapid exchanges in the Sarresant tongue.
“Not yet,” he said. “But what’s … this?” He gestured toward the maps. “It looks as though we’re bloody fucked.”
“It looks as grim as it is,” Fei Zan said. “But with you here, and the girl, there is hope.”
“Lord Tigai,” one of the women said from across the table. He looked up and saw golden eyes staring back.
“D’Arrent needs us,” Sarine said to him, translating what the woman with golden light for eyes had said. “But I don’t know the limitations of the starfield—can we move into the path of the Thellan army? I can put up wardings to stop their kaas-mages scattering our lines, so long as I can get there.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Tigai said. “I can only take us to anchors. Places I’ve been, or places where there are already stars.”
Sarine repeated what he’d said for the table’s benefit, followed by a rapid exchange in the Sarresant tongue between the Empress’s vessel and several of the generals.
“You must find a way,” Fei Zan said to him privately. “Whatever the girl needs, you must take her where she needs to go.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t work that way. I can’t—”
“Do you understand what is at stake here?” Fei Zan snapped. “We may already have run out of time. Unless d’Arrent can crush these armies and move on their homelands, Paendurion will ascend, and all of our efforts are for nothing.”
“I can see lights, nearby, in the starfield,” Sarine was saying. “Lord Tigai, are those the anchors you’re speaking of?”
He frowned. There were only a handful of stars on this side of the Divide. He blinked and shifted his sight, remaining aware of both worlds at once.
“Those are old,” he said. “From where we traveled south; I set anchors along the way. But none are strong enough to use with the strands. It takes days, a strong familiarity, to convert an anchor to a star, even a dim one.”
“They’re here,” Sarine said in response to a question asked by d’Arrent’s vessel, tracing a line across one of the maps between the blue bars and the yellow. “Tigai says they were left by the path he took southward.”
Another burst of Sarresant speech, and Sarine answered it by nodding.
“Yes,” she said. “I think we can use them. But Tigai will need to do it; I won’t have the strength for both the wardings and the strands.”
“What?” he said. “Were you not listening? I told you, old anchors are worthless—they fade in a matter of hours. I’m surprised you can even see them.”
“I can … hold them,” Sarine said. “I’m not sure what the right word is. It’s like the wardings, but different. Look.”
He prepared another argument and felt it die before it formed.
The anchors—faint lights, like a guttering lantern at the bottom of a stairwell—shimmered against the blackness, a chain tracing the route he and Acherre and Fei Zan had taken south across this very field, some days before. Blue sparks punched through the anchors from behind, leaking trails of brilliant white light as strong as any star.
“How the fuck are you doing that?” he said.
“Can you take me between them?” Sarine asked. “One at a time. I’ll set wardings at each, and Anati can use Green to blunt the effects of the other kaas’ Yellow.”
He nodded, tasting ash on his tongue. No wonder the old man in the starfield wanted her dead.
“It won’t extend very far,” Sarine said to d’Arrent’s vessel. “But once I have anchors set, Anati and I can protect you here, along this line.” She traced it again on the map. “Fight here, and the kaas won’t affect your soldiers.”
Fei Zan clapped him on the shoulder. His mind still reeled from what Sarine had done. She’d as good as torn open new holes in the starfield, creating anchors from nothing. Everything he knew of his gift said it shouldn’t be possible, and yet he’d watched her do it.
Sarine extended a hand to him. “No sense delaying,” she said. “I’m ready when you are.”
77
ARAK’JUR
The Royal Palace
The City of Al Adiz, Thellan
A pale blue barrier sprang up around him, cutting across the chamber to isolate him on the far side of the door. Footsteps and screams sounded, and he drew on una’re, channeling the force of the Great Bear’s roar as he struck the shield with enough force to shatter a stone. The barrier paled, then ripped, revealing Paendurion ushering the two women out of the chamber, before turning to blast him with a wave of fire.
He leapt forward, clearing the base of the barrier in time to feel only a stinging wind, searing his skin without burning. The bed where Paendurion had lain cracked and collapsed as he landed atop it, sending feathers and straw into the air. A second shimmering barrier sprang in place before he could recover, once more spread across the chamber, sealing him away from the door. Only this time, Paendurion had somehow moved to put himself on the same side as Arak’Jur, all traces of his wounds vanished as he hefted his colossal sword at waist height, leveling it in one hand to track Arak’Jur with the point.
Una’re’s gift sent shocks through the bed frame as he pushed off, ready to parry sword strokes with the force of the bear’s spectral claws.
He charged, and Paendurion swung the sword in an overhead chop, bringing it down with speed and power belying the frail figure who had risen from a deathbed moments before. Arak’Jur raised a hand to deflect the stroke—and parried nothing. The sword cleaved through him with no effect, as though the blade were made of nothing more than light and air. He followed it with a strike at Paendurion’s body, and fell forward, off-balance, as his fist struck the same emptiness. Illusion. The leyline magic.
A pivot recovered his footing, and he struck at the barrier again, this time ducking as soon as he connected, anticipating a second wave of flame. None came. Instead a third barrier shimmered from the doorway, with two more copies of Paendurion waiting in front of it, both brandishing the sword, the same as the first had done.
Both illusions. There to distract and fool his senses; the real man was hobbled, though his wounds appeared not to have slowed his use of fair-skin magic. Arak’Jur rushed the barrier again, feeling a jarring pressure as he struck, and he might have been repelled if not for the power behind una’re’s blows. Wind rushed through as he ripped the barrier down and stepped into the hallway, this time finding two more barriers, one on either side.
Time was too short to guess; aided by fair-skin magic, Paendurion could escape down a side passage or unfamiliar door. Arak’Jur closed his eyes, drawing on astahg, and felt his body shift to incorporeal mist.
He remembered what it was to be the prince of the forest, and sensed his prey. The northern passage. Astahg’s gift would linger only a few moments, but it put him in the buck spirit’s domain, half in the physical world and half somewhere else. He raced toward the sensation of his prey, sliding through two more walls of thin white haze.
He returned to the physical world, and instinct sent him to the ground.
Fire blasted overhead, this time catching on the tapestries and carpet as it lingered in the air. But lakiri’in gave his gift as he slid to the floor, and he sprang forward, grappling for Paendurion’s legs with blinding speed.
The giant fell, but twisted as he did, throwing a kick that took Arak’Jur in the nose, snapping his neck back with a cracking sound and a rush of blood and pain.
They both clattered to the ground, and Paendurion’s image blinked, six copies of him appearing side by side, each one hobbled and struggling to rise to its feet.
Arak’Jur lay still, anahret’s gift giving him a semblance of death, with Mountain’s gift at the ready.
Paendurion made no move to approach. Instead a dome of white haze formed above him on the ground.
“I know all of Ad-Shi’s tricks, fledgling,”
Paendurion said. “I wonder if you know a tenth of them.”
The dome vanished, and Arak’Jur called on mareh’et, springing to the side as another gout of flame scorched through the rugs to scour the stone beneath.
By now the fire burned on its own, spreading along the ceiling as it caught along the hall.
“She taught me enough,” he said, snapping up to his feet. He adopted a posture of alertness without moving, watching all six copies from the corners of his eyes. Streams of blood ran from Paendurion’s back and sides.
“You will kill me, if this continues,” Paendurion said, all six of his copies spitting blood in varying poses. “What will it earn you, but a return to shadow?”
“A chance for peace,” he said, stepping warily as he moved closer to two of the copies.
“Peace,” Paendurion repeated. “I fought for peace, and I am here, still fighting.”
“Mountain named you a bringer of war,” he said, and lunged, slicing through one copy, then another. Both shattered in a spray of light, and all six collapsed, re-forming in new positions, arrayed around the hall.
Paendurion stepped back, the giant’s energy flagging at last. Two of his copies failed to re-form, while the remaining four trembled, staggering to catch their breath.
Arak’Jur advanced, striking another copy, exploding it into light.
“So be it, then,” Paendurion said. “But I die fighting. I hope the same will be said of you.”
The remaining copies rushed toward him, a last surge of speed and strength. He swept one copy aside, revealing it for incorporeal light, then mareh’et’s claws struck flesh, impaling Paendurion through the belly.
Blood spattered across his chest as Paendurion coughed, and the giant managed one last, feeble strike, punching Arak’Jur in the jaw hard enough to wrench his head to the side. He responded with a harder shove, plunging both hands deeper into Paendurion’s gut, severing his spine and ripping through to the skin of his already-ruined lower back.
Paendurion’s legs collapsed, and Arak’Jur lowered him to the floor, withdrawing his hands with a squelch of gore and soft, sticky pulp.
A flash of light filled the hall.
THE RECKONING IS UPON US.
Laughter, sudden and unexpected from Paendurion’s broken form, sounding over top of the voice, the same distant echo Arak’Jur had heard in the hallway outside Paendurion’s door. “Now,” Paendurion said. “It happens now.”
MY CHILDREN. BY YOUR LINES, BE JUDGED. COME TO MY SANCTUM, IF YOU ARE WORTHY.
Arak’Jur took a step back, as images of spirits flickered in the air. The Great Cat, mareh’et, shimmering as though he’d conjured it to give his blessing. Anahret, watching him with its eyes of smoke. Lakiri’in, una’re, astahg, juna’ren, more. Lines of color seemed to leak from nothingness, swirls of green pods, red motes, white pearls, black clouds.
Paendurion picked himself up, the top half of his body propped up while his legs lay twisted on the floor.
“Ascension,” Paendurion said. “The time has come.”
The spirits swirled around the hall, until their forms seemed to be watching them from all sides. At the same moment, the lines of color wrapped themselves around Paendurion. The colors blurred together, shining lights and forms, so he could see each one in turn, glowing as the spirits appeared, growing warmer, hotter as each strand of light encircled them both. A thousand threads reached out from Paendurion, connecting him to a web that spanned an impossible distance, as each spirit shimmered into view, seeming to confer with the others before they nodded approval toward him.
“What is this?” he asked. “Is it …?”
Paendurion coughed again, by now obscured behind a wall of color and light. “See to your power, as I will see to mine,” Paendurion said. “And it seems we are fated to meet again. At the place my people called the Gods’ Seat.”
COME FORWARD, CHAMPION.
The familiar blackness surrounded him, the empty void of being and not-being.
He willed himself into it, submerging his consciousness in the spirits’ presence.
I have followed your guidance, Great Spirits, he thought into the void.
YES. WE REMEMBER NOW. WE REMEMBER WHAT IT IS TO BE CHOSEN. WE HAVE HEARD THE MASTER’S CALL.
Three images formed. An old man, with a wispy beard dressed in tattered robes. Another: a faceless, shrouded figure, slight of form, neither obviously man nor woman. And a third, a woman he recognized. Sarine.
WE ARE BOUND TO THE GODDESS. WE SERVE LIGHT, AND LIFE. YOU WILL FACE DEATH, AT HER SIDE.
Sarine. She is the Goddess?
YES.
The simple revelation filled him with awe.
SHE WILL MAKE DEMANDS OF YOU. BUT DO NOT FORGET—YOU ARE OF US. WE ARE PLEDGED TO HER, BUT WE ARE NOT HER. REMEMBER OUR WAYS. REMEMBER YOUR PEOPLE.
I am Sinari, he thought. I honor the spirits, as my father did, and his father. As will my son.
THIS IS GOOD.
The images dimmed and faded.
Great Spirits, he thought, what comes next? If the test is finished, what must I do now?
Another set of images appeared, this time moving, a sensation of the ground lurching beneath his feet. The void itself seemed to shift, gliding between pillars of energy on a plane extending outward in every direction.
YOU ARE TO BE PRESENTED TO THE GODDESS, FOR HER TO JUDGE YOU WORTHY.
The image expanded as they moved, until the void gave way and the plane of energy swallowed the emptiness. The spirits flew through the energy, soaring between the columns as the falcon would, with the agility of the cat, the stoic power of mountain and bear.
A towering pillar of light appeared, stretching the dimensions of the plane, and the spirits shot toward it, weaving between strands of white and pillars of blue with effortless grace.
HERE. THIS IS THEIR PLACE.
Whispers from the spirits sounded around him as their momentum ceased.
His will seemed to matter again, and he pushed forward, into the light. The spirits flowed around him, with him, as though he had drawn on all their gifts at once.
ARAK’JUR. OUR STRENGTH IS YOURS. IN THIS, AND ALL THINGS TO COME.
The light grew as he approached, towering over him until it became all he could see.
Thank you, Great Spirits, he thought. For your wisdom, and your blessings. For the protection you have afforded my people.
GO WITH PRIDE, SON OF THE SINARI. CHAMPION OF THE WILD.
He touched the light.
78
ERRIS
Eastern Fields
The Battle of Orstead
White smoke lingered atop the heights, a cloud that grew with every blast of their stolen guns.
“Ten points south-southeast, two points skyward,” Field-Colonel Regalle said, snapping orders to fullbinders as though they were a common artillery squad. And so they were, today.
Another rippling wave sounded as more guns went off, rocking the earth beneath their feet. No coordinated salvos; the crews fired each gun as soon as it was ready. Colonel Regalle marched up and down the line, making corrections with the benefit of Mind to project his senses forward, seeing each shot as it rained death on their enemies. She sat atop Jiri’s back, wielding a spyglass as though it were a saber, straining to find clear moments with the white smoke turned fog pooling around them.
“Your Majesty,” Essily said, standing beside her and all but holding Jiri’s reins. “With all possible respect, you must retire. Marquand is preparing to ride shortly. Go with him, please.”
She panned her glass to the east, to where the flags of the 42nd Infantry pushed forward in one of the last remaining pockets of fighting. They’d broken. The Sardians had broken, and they’d been alone. All through the fighting, she’d expected a wave of Skovan reinforcements, or some other deadly surprise. Instead her army had collided with their lines backed by a steady rain of fire from Regalle’s stolen guns, and, but for a bare handful of pockets scattered by their kaas,
her soldiers had routed the enemy. Green flags, where they stood, were pulling back to the horizon, re-forming at the edge of her spyglass’s vision, while blue-coated soldiers let them flee, re-forming into ranks of their own, ready to pivot around and make the forced march westward to resume the fighting.
“I intend to,” she said to Essily, snapping her glass shut.
“To field command, Your Majesty,” Essily said. “Not to the front.”
Jiri whickered at her aide, saving her the trouble of repeating the dismissal. “I can’t ask our soldiers to fight two battles in a day while I rest myself in a tent. They need every rallying point, and if my fighting with them is one, then they’ll get it.”
“Majesty, they need their commander—their Empress—to be alive at the end of the fighting. You need time to recover.”
“I need a victory, Captain. Nothing else matters today.”
Essily fell quiet, though his disapproval showed in every unspoken word. The left part of her chest throbbed, and she’d buttoned the front of her coat to hide the blood, seeping through to stain her shirt and undergarments where her wound still pulsed in time with her heart. Life and Body bindings coursed through her, masking the pain, made worse every time she made a Need connection or exerted herself too quickly. Without the bindings she’d have long since bled out; with them, she’d make a full recovery with a week or two of rest. But the battle was here, now. She had to be here, too.
The last rounds of shot went off, and Regalle was already shouting for the guns to be turned west, toward the open field where the next battle would be fought. Gods stay with her, and give her strength. She had to manage one more Need connection, this time to field command, to ensure that her plan was set in motion in time for Sarine and Tigai to do whatever it was that would nullify the kaas-mages among her enemy’s lines. Marquand and Jiri could see her to the front while she worked. All she had to do was stay conscious while they rode.
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