Not for the first time, she questioned whether it wouldn’t have been wiser to ride a less distinctive mount on these missions. Jiri snorted, and Erris leaned into her, stroking her neck. Never. She couldn’t imagine trusting another horse. There were plenty of oddities in an army encampment. So long as she rode with purpose, exuding the confidence of belonging and the mild irritation of being on important business, she could bypass all but the most alert of their sentries. She rode past one now, muttering in the Gand tongue under her breath, a jumble of words meant to sound like cursing her superior officer. The sentry’s cloak stirred as if he made to rise from his seat by the coals of the brazier, but instead he nodded to her as she passed, earning a nod from her in return. She would have liked to think it would not be so easy to navigate a Sarresant army camp like this, but she knew better. Even the best soldiers could be lulled into complacency by the illusion of the familiar.
Within the hour she’d made it past a half-dozen such sentries, slipping through the city’s outskirts into the fields beneath the highlands. Here her tactics changed. Cutting across the grass by herself under a cloak of nightfall would be construed as skulking—the very thing to set sentries abuzz with a need to investigate. Instead she took on the slumped, plodding gait of an exhausted soldier delivering a message far away from the watchful eye of anyone important. Tired grunts sufficed for greeting when she passed the occasional soldier or wagoneer on the dirt roads winding through the fields, other men and women at the exact business to which she pretended. Slow going, but in time she found herself trekking up the steep inclines of the large hill overlooking the town.
She found a secluded area and set Jiri to watch for anyone approaching while she worked. The relative emptiness of the highlands confirmed one thing for her: Whoever the new commander was, their genius did not extend far down the chain of command. Any commander worth their rank should have seen the strategic value of this hill and taken the time to station at least a regiment’s strength atop it. Yes, it meant backbreaking work moving the rocks into makeshift fortifications, but a position like that would be worth ten times the number of men on level ground if battle found them while they camped. Of course, the Sarresant army was a week’s march to the north, so why expend the effort? Except that was the point. A good commander knew to be prepared for the impossible.
She got to work, tethering a Life binding to enhance her vision as she counted the tents in the night. Her ability to bind three leyline energies—Life to enhance her senses and heal wounds, Body to enhance her strength and speed, and Death to sever enemy bindings—counted her among the most gifted binders in the army, an asset as valuable as any battery of artillery, any company of horse. According to the ancient histories, fullbinders were said to be able to handle every type of energy, but those were foolish myths taught by priests to cow civilians into obedience. Only in her lifetime had the army had more than a handful of men or women who could handle more than two bindings with any strength. Scholars claimed the talent would grow among their people as they expanded the territory under the crown’s control, whether from conquest or colonies across the seas. As likely a justification for war as any, she supposed, and more than a soldier needed. She did her duty, as a trained weapon of the crown.
She made careful note of the troop composition as she worked, whether infantry, cavalry, sharpshooters, or specialists. The layout of the camps suggested the order in which the columns would march, which in turn suggested which units would deploy first when they took the field. Much could change in the intervening days, but it was vital to report everything she could. The smallest edge could prove decisive in the battles to come.
She worked through the night, until the first rays of sunlight cut through the openings in the cloud cover. The rains would be heavy today, judging from the black thunderheads rolling in on the morning winds from the north. From the look of it the enemy’s march today would be miserable. Already they were striking tents, sounding the reveille, beating to assembly. Past time for her to go. She clicked her tongue to summon Jiri, gathering her papers into one of the saddlebags, then rose to her feet to cast one last look down at the assembled enemy army. Ants, with the anthill kicked. The damage she and her men had done tonight would not be felt for days, but the cut was there, whether they saw it or no.
She reached level ground quickly, traversing in broad swathes, left and right. Once again she encountered soldiers and horsemen on the dirt tracks surrounding the town, but no sentries this time. The vigilance of an army at rest melted away like so many candles in the light of day, every soldier scurrying about with purpose. She adopted the same air and blended in without side looks from her adopted fellows.
She’d almost reached the woods when a commotion from behind drew her attention.
The sight struck her like a punch to the gut. Even at this distance, she recognized Horseman Irond as he drove his stallion in a fury, a squad of mounted Gandsmen in fast pursuit. Irond wheeled to the right through the open field, spurring his mount to leap over a wooden split-rail fence before he pivoted again, this time to the left. The riders at his heels weren’t half so skilled. They didn’t have to be. Irond’s mount was in shock, its mouth frothing and its eyes peeled wide. Streaks of blood ran down the beast’s flank, signs of pistol or musket shot struck home, and it was only a matter of time until the stallion collapsed. Irond gave the animal its head, racing over the open field in the direction of the same thick forest she and Jiri plodded toward along the dirt road.
He’d never make it.
She gritted her teeth, knuckles white on Jiri’s reins as she watched. She’d trained Irond well. He knew what he had to do.
Irond leapt from his saddle as the stallion buckled beneath him, its reserves exhausted. He rolled to his feet, taking up a defensive posture, his saber out, glinting in the sunlight breaching through the gathering clouds. Taking their time now, the Gandsmen slowed their mounts and spread a half circle around him. Hounds with the fox in their sights. The rest of the soldiers traveling on the dirt road had all stopped to watch the action, a bit of unexpected entertainment to liven their morning duty.
Irond backed away as his pursuers approached, their pistols cocked and leveled. Irond’s stallion had collapsed in a heap, its death throes echoing across the grass in stomach-wrenching screeches. The first shots went off and Irond spun, diving behind the dying animal. His pursuers missed the mark, eliciting another wave of shrieks as their pistol shot peppered the stallion’s hide. Frustrated, the enemy cavalrymen holstered their guns, drew sabers, and charged.
This was it. This was what he needed. The thunder of their charge shook the ground, accompanied by the cries of the riders and the onlookers who cheered them on. The enemy raised their blades, and with a single, smooth motion Irond stepped from the cover he had taken behind his dying mount. He stood, feet level, saber in an overhead guard to meet their attack as they closed on him from both sides. In the moment before impact he lowered his blade, stepping into their path. A lethal cut from the first rider opened his chest. The second rider trampled him into the dirt.
Good man. A wise enemy would have wounded him, taken him prisoner, and gotten answers. There, in a heap of broken flesh amid the long grass, Horseman Irond had done his duty.
Fessac and l’Orai had watched the grisly scene from the safety of the woods. D’Fer arrived some time later, and they had to tell him the news. They each shone with pride, recounting their fellow’s last flight, sharing their best and worst memories of him as they passed the time waiting for Sadrelle.
Two hours later, the four of them could wait no longer, and they rode.
6
ARAK’JUR
The Guardian’s Tent
Sinari Village
He took her roughly from behind.
Llanara let loose the breath she’d been holding as his motion slowed and stopped. His head cleared, and he pulled himself out of her as she collapsed onto his bed.
She was his, but she was no
t his wife. Rhealla. Forgive me.
He winced as he stood, reaching down to pull up his leggings.
“Are you going, then?” she asked, breathless from their mutual exertion. “A trip with the men would be good for you.”
He shook his head. “They do not need me for simple trade. I’d thought to speak with the shaman after the ceremony.”
She turned to regard him, a thoughtful look wrinkling the smoothness of her young face. She was a beauty. Llanara. Fierce like the mareh’et, terrible to behold when her wrath was stirred, with claws as sharp as the Great Cat’s. She had a vibrance he thought gone from his life forever. He did not deserve a woman like Llanara, and if his will were stronger he might have turned her away. Youth deserved youth, not a man burdened with his memories.
“Arak’Jur,” she said. “You will need to choose eventually, you know.” She rolled over, exposing the curve of her backside to him, flashing him a smile as she stretched over the full length of his bed of long grasses. “You give me your seed, am I not worthy of your tent?” The look on her face was playful, though her words were solemn.
“Llanara,” he said as formally as she had, enunciating every syllable of her name. “You are young, and I can forgive your poor choices. The elders would not be so understanding, if you sought to pledge to a man such as me.”
She laughed, a rich sound that brought color to the browns and grays of his tent. “May I at least accompany you to the ceremony?”
“I will allow it,” he said formally again, eliciting another laugh.
She stood, teasing him again with the sight of her body as she twisted, putting on her hide leggings and woven tunic. He took her arm, and they closed the flap of his tent behind them as they walked the pathway into the heart of the village.
The village woke around them as they walked, gestures of greeting and nods of respect as elders, children, men, and women started their days. Smells of smoking elk meat and simmering maize drifted from the cookfires at the village center, preparation for the feast that would see the traders off to meet with the fair-skins of New Sarresant at the opening of their barrier. Hides, beads, woodcarvings, and woven blankets traded for steel, fishhooks, muskets, iron pots, knives, and axes for woodchopping. The fair-skins’ arrival had brought wealth, an end to the old war between the Sinari and the coastal tribes of the Tanari, and a profitable relationship in the years since, even after the fair-skins’ barrier went up to claim their fallen enemies’ land. He knew their barrier ran far to the south, unbroken for many moons’ journey, and that not all the tribes living along it had been so welcoming of their newfound neighbors. But the Sinari had prospered more than most tribes from trade.
“Tell me, my guardian,” Llanara said, draping his title in playful mockery as they walked. “Will you join the shaman in blessing the traders before they go?”
“They do not need my blessing, Llanara. I am no Sa’Shem.”
“You could be.”
He said nothing to that. This was her game, and he let her play it. Instead he turned toward the village center, watching as the men piled hides to be counted, awaiting the shaman’s blessing on their exchange. He kept silent, and she stood beside him, letting him feel her presence.
At once she spoke. Brazen, bold, without fear. “Will you ask the shaman to find you an apprentice?”
He frowned. She had never asked him this, never directly. He could not pledge blood-oath to her so long as he was Arak, guardian of the tribe. And there could be no new guardian until he had time to train an Ilek, an apprentice many whispered was long overdue.
He took his time in answering, framing the words carefully in his mind. It was time he tell her the truth. Her boldness deserved a bold reply. But when he spoke, it was in a whisper.
“Ka’Vos never saw the coming of the valak’ar to our lands, Llanara. He had no vision of my slaying it, no vision of Arak’Mul’s death. Perhaps the spirits never intended me to be guardian. If I ask the shaman to look, do you know what he will see?”
She sucked in a breath. The coming of a tribe’s guardian was a thing foreseen by the shamans; for Arak’Jur to have come upon his power unbidden was a dire omen. If it were known his guardianship had not been foretold, it would cast doubt on the status of their tribe. It might even betoken a curse—the threat of the spirits’ withdrawal, leaving them unprotected against the ravages of the wild.
Llanara said nothing, only stood beside him, watching the men continue their preparations.
She wanted more than just the blood-oath that would make her his wife. She wanted him to give up the mantle of guardian, to seek greater status as Sa’Shem, chief, or as warleader, Vas’Khan. The Sinari, like the rest of the northern tribes, were led by councils of elders in times of peace, with each voice speaking freely, inviting others to weigh and consider arguments by merit rather than the station of the speaker. But other tribes’ shamans had seen omens, had spoken of blood, fire, a hunger for war. Other tribes’ hunters had shed their Valak names, taking up the mantles of Venari, the warrior, and Vas’Khan.
The Sinari shaman was silent.
Ka’Vos saw the coming of great beasts; in this his gift continued. But not for the first time Arak’Jur wondered whether Ka’Vos had lost some part of his magic, the deep connection to the spirits of things-to-come. It was a blasphemous thought, a frightening thought. That did not make it untrue.
“Have I frightened you, Llanara?”
“Yes.”
“This is why you belong with a younger man, with simpler troubles.”
She shot him a hot look, but did not stir. She stood by his side, contemplating the truth he had revealed. As a woman, she was no hunter, but she had strength just the same. For all the heat in her blood, her mind was quicker than his, when she stopped to consider.
Finally, she spoke. “If you did not need the shaman’s blessing to become guardian, you do not need a vision to find your apprentice.”
He sighed. It was a typical answer, the sort he expected from her. “You would have me ask Ka’Vos to lie?”
“Do you need ask Ka’Vos for anything?”
She stared him down, defiant. “Llanara …” he began. She waited for him to finish.
“It is more complicated than that,” he said finally.
At this, their exchange was broken up by a group of young men who’d noticed the guardian and his woman. They beckoned, welcoming him and Llanara to help with the preparations for the ceremony. He was pleased to do so, pleased for the simple distraction of physical work. He helped to hang the hides, the cords strung with bone, the racks of elk antlers and beaver tails they’d claimed in seasons past. Llanara let him go, with a look in her eyes promising further discussion when next they were alone. She saw to the women’s work, the mixing of the echtaka, the decorative paint the hunters wore, and of the dried meats, fruits, and ground maize the men would carry for sustenance.
The other men cheered him on when, at their urging, he invoked the spirit of the una’re, the Great Bear, and called for strength. With the beast spirit’s magic he hoisted a pole alone, doing the work of six men. It was vulgar to use his gifts for such, but it brought heart to the men, and the Great Bear was more understanding than most when it came to the ties of loyalty.
Ka’Vos emerged when their preparations were complete, as if the spirits had whispered to the shaman the precise moment for his arrival. He and his apprentice, Ilek’Inari, passed like a chill wind through the crowd, cloaked in the furs of elder beasts, their faces painted with black stripes, eyes glazed with visions of the spirits. The women backed away as the shamans took their places, gathering for rituals of their own. Llanara caught his eyes as she left, and he did not miss the heat she directed toward him, and toward the shaman standing at the center of the grounds, before she vanished from his sight.
“Men of the Sinari,” Ka’Vos intoned when the women had gone. “You seek to travel south and east, to trade with the fair-skinned men and women who are no sons and daughters
of these lands.”
The crowd murmured its assent, until one voice emerged to speak on their behalf. Valak’Anor, a young man who bore the Valak name, a master hunter, though he was freshly come to it. “Honored shaman,” Valak’Anor replied. “We do. Our pelts and fish, exchanged for goods of metal and woven cloth. Honed edges, to tame the trees, and fabrics to tame the wind and cold. By trade we are made strong, if the spirits will it so.”
“You are wise to consult the spirits in this exchange,” Ka’Vos said with a slow nod. “Do not forget our people once lived as the fair-skins do: hidden behind walls, afraid to spread ourselves and claim the bounty of these lands. Listen, and remember. Remember the first tribes, the first Ka, who found the spirits and learned to heed their call. On a day not quite so different from this, in a time long ago, in a faraway place we once called home.”
Arak’Jur smiled as Ka’Vos told the tale. He’d heard its like before—every man of the Sinari had, in gatherings such as this, the private histories of their people preserved in the wisdom of the shaman’s tellings. By the end, the exuberance of the gathering had been replaced by somber reflection, a note of wisdom that suited Arak’Jur’s mood.
The women returned shortly after, and the traders said their farewells, lashing furs and leather bags to their horses, bound for the edge of Sinari land. They would make their trades with the fair-skins and some would continue on, to the Ranasi tribe in the north, and the Olessi in the west. Goods would be traded between each neighbor in turn, before the men returned to the village, gathering more goods in advance of the next opening in the fair-skins’ barrier.
Llanara was not among the women who returned to see the hunters and traders off, and so he was left alone with the shaman beneath the totems of the gathering place. Ilek’Inari moved to clean and retire the implements of their ceremony while Ka’Vos approached him, meeting his eyes with a familiar nod.
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