And now he understood, wincing at the same moment as Ka’Hinari. Women’s secrets. A lifetime of adherence to the ways of the spirits sent chills down his spine at the thought of letting her continue. Just as the magic of their people had been divided between men and women, so the tribes had followed the spirits’ example, keeping men’s rituals and women’s ways separate. It had been so since the first tribes had listened to the spirits’ call, on pain of a curse, the risk of straying from the spirits’ ways. An uncomfortable reminder that their purpose put them on such a course now.
“It is no more comfortable for me to hear the ways of men,” Corenna said. “But we have chosen to walk this path together, and if it will avoid war …” Her shoulders dropped into a submissive posture. “Tell me what to do, father.”
The shaman looked toward Arak’Jur, as if asking his permission. He gave it with a slow nod. Corenna spoke wisdom, much as it pained him to admit it.
“Very well, Corenna,” Ka’Hinari said. “Tell him.”
“The places of power,” she began. “From which the women draw their magic, where the bonds are forged with the Ka. Each tribe has at least one, and each bestows its power on the women who are chosen to journey there.”
He nodded; he knew as much from his role as escort on many such journeys, to Ka’Ana’Tyat, and as a proxy for other tribes’ guardians when their women or apprentice shamans visited their own sites.
She continued. “The sources we have claimed are bound to the land, but to the people as well. From Hanet’Li’Tyat here in Ranasi land, I draw the power to harness Wind. From Moru’Ona’Tyat on Yanarat land, Ice.”
Now his skin crawled. This was forbidden knowledge. He forced himself to listen as she went on.
“The source and the spirits from which we draw it give us power, but ask that we give up somewhat in return. By dwelling on their land we agree to the compact. We let the spirits influence us, our temperaments, the very way we think and feel. We are more than we were without them, and they grow stronger for their bond with us. Always they speak of a Goddess, who will need our strength in times to come.”
He nodded slowly. “It is the same with the beast spirits. They have grown stronger, and more numerous, of late. And they speak of a Goddess who will need our strength in turn.”
“I believed my father’s visions the first steps toward this time of need, but you have shown us otherwise. If dark voices corrupt the spirits’ visions, perhaps the time is already upon us. Our enemy stirs the passions of our people toward war; we must look north, to the spirits’ most peaceful children, to find the strength to resist its call.”
“The spirits’ most peaceful …?” he said, finding the words dry in his throat.
“Yes,” Corenna said. “As I said, we take from the spirits’ gifts, in more than just our magic. The Ranasi people are renowned for our strength, but also our willingness to bend with the tides of fate, just as the wind does. The Yanarat are cold, brittle, and deadly sharp when their veneer of serenity is cracked—this is the influence of the ice spirits.”
“And the Nanerat?”
“Their sacred site is called Nanek’Hai’Tyat, and it is said its gift is peace. The serenity of the mountain spring, a centering found in the thin air atop the great peaks. If there is a tribe that can weather this onslaught of madness from the spirits, it is the Nanerat.”
He swallowed hard. “It is a long journey.”
“It is,” she said. “By the grace of the spirits, it is.”
“And a hard one,” he continued. “But we will soon find the passes through the peaks blocked with sleet and ice, is it not so?”
Corenna nodded. “If we are to make this journey, it cannot wait. I can be prepared to travel when the sun rises tomorrow, after our alliance has been sealed. If the portents are favorable for us to be so long away from our lands …” She looked to Ka’Hinari.
The shaman nodded. “I will spend the night in contemplation.”
The deliberations in the steam tent were contentious, but it was clear from the start that Ka’Hinari knew his people well. He, Corenna, and Arak’Jur had crafted the delivery with attention paid to every detail. They agreed the shaman should speak first, revealing the nature of the spirits’ madness. Whether to speak of the spirits at all had been a point of disagreement; even he and Ka’Vos had not yet laid the truth before the elders of the Sinari. Ka’Hinari had been firm in his resolve, insisting the Ranasi could weather such tidings and emerge stronger for knowing the truth. He was proven correct. Ka’Hinari’s words were met with a torrent of anger and suspicion that nonetheless stilled itself into a calm before the shaman’s unwavering certainty. The revelation by Corenna of the link between her people and the spirits of the wind echoed in his mind during the proceedings. He could see in the Ranasi all the fury of a late season windstorm, great strength that still relented against a steadfast cliffside. A strange thing, women’s secrets.
When Ka’Hinari finished, the tribe had all but convinced itself of the wisdom of his words. Yet turning their backs on the spirits, or at least the voices calling for madness and war, left even the most radical among them feeling isolated, alone. Even with Ka’Hinari’s assurance that the madness did not taint the spirits in all things, a cloud of unease settled over the tent, thick as the steam vapor billowing from the heated rocks at its center.
And so, when Arak’Jur stepped forward to give the ancient plea for alliance, it came as a balm for fresh wounds. Many among the Ranasi elders had known him before he came to their village, and all had heard the news of their guardian’s death at Ka’Ana’Tyat from his account. When he knelt before them, his chest bare, and produced the stone knife he had brought into the tent, many wept, hoping for the very words he then delivered.
“Our blood for your blood,” he said, drawing the blade across his forearm. “The Sinari would stand with the Ranasi, in the eyes of our people, and the spirits.”
Agreement came swiftly.
After, he approached Corenna, waiting as she spoke with the last group of women to depart the tent. She’d offered soothing words to many such, answering sentiments better addressed intimately, after the group had made its decision. He’d given no few words of encouragement himself, affirming the strength of his people’s commitment to this course. When she finished, dismissing the women to whom she had spoken with a comforting gesture and a smile, she turned her attention to him.
“It is done then,” he said.
“Yes. You did well. My father was wise to trust your words, no matter that your arrival carried ill tidings.”
A moment of quiet hung around them in memory and homage to Arak’Doren. They began to walk the path down through the center of the village, toward the shaman’s tent.
“We travel north, then,” she said after a time. “If the visions are favorable.”
“Your father has already begun his meditation?”
“He left as soon as the pact was sealed. We will hear from him after the sun rises tomorrow, but do not worry yourself. The signs will be favorable.”
He eyed her with a weighing look. Was this another of her secrets?
“Not a vision,” she said, addressing his unspoken concern. “Just confidence. The spirits continue to guide us, even if some few of them have gone mad. Whatever happens does so of a purpose. Our steps would not so clearly point toward the Nanerat if we were not meant to take them.”
He relaxed. “I hope it is so,” he said. “Though the way ahead vexes me still. It will not be an easy path.”
“Spoken like a Sinari,” she said with a smile.
This time when he eyed her, she returned it with a sympathy that confirmed his fear. Now she was most assuredly speaking of the women’s secrets.
“You did not say what manner of spirits the women find at Ka’Ana’Tyat,” he said. “And I am not certain I wish to know.”
“I could not reveal it for certain, anyhow. The path was barred to me when we ventured there. I have not been t
o Ka’Ana’Tyat, nor conversed with the powers that dwell there. Yet it is no secret your people are preoccupied with things-to-come. They call your sacred place the Birthplace of Visions. Perhaps it is no coincidence.”
He shook his head in awe, considering the possibility.
“You have journeyed to Nanerat lands before?” he asked, changing the topic.
“I have, though I have not entered Nanek’Hai’Tyat. As with the Sinari sacred place, the way was closed, guarded by a great beast the Nanerat Ka had not foreseen.”
Now he reacted with surprise. “This is a thing common to other tribes?” His thoughts went to the una’re they had encountered together, with Ilek’Inari, and to the mareh’et that had slain Arak’Doren.
“I believe it is a common thing, yes,” she said. “For the last turn of seasons at least. Tied to the madness my father hears from the spirits, perhaps? We don’t know for sure.”
He exhaled in a rush. “I’d thought it a sign of a curse.”
“We feared the same,” she said. “When Ilek’Luren was slain visiting Hanet’Li’Tyat …” She trailed off. “We feared to speak of it, even to you, even having shared what we saw with Ilek’Inari at Ka’Ana’Tyat.”
“It is well we share blood-bond now, through the pacts of alliance. If the spirits curse us, let us suffer their wrath together.”
She smiled, and took his arm in a gesture of acceptance. “Thank you. Those are comforting words in times such as these.”
“Do you believe all tribes’ sacred sites are sealed in this manner?” he asked, his mind still weighing the implications of this new revelation.
“None among them will speak of it, to me or my father. Even the Nanerat were less than pleased when I reported the way was sealed.”
“Perhaps you were right, and the time of need is upon us. Perhaps this is the punishment meted out by the mad spirits, for refusing their call to war.”
“An unpleasant thought,” she said.
“Even so.”
They walked the last few steps with that sentiment hanging in the air, a dark cast over the day’s events. When they arrived, they saw thick tufts of smoke winding their way through the openings at the top of the shaman’s tent. Even past dusk, it was clear these were not confined to the ordinary whites and grays: Instead they were colored darker shades, deep hues that spoke to the work of the shaman conducted within.
“Well,” Corenna said as they came to a stop, giving him a warm look as she let go of his arm. “We will have much to discuss on our travels.”
“Rest well, Corenna.”
“And you, Arak’Jur,” she replied, lowering her head in a sign of respect before she entered the tent.
In the morning, the omens were pronounced favorable. With Ka’Hinari’s blessing, they left the village bound for Nanerat lands, far to the north.
33
ERRIS
Waterfront
Harbor District, New Sarresant
The New Sarresant harbor resembled nothing so much as a densely wooded forest. Everywhere she looked across the waters of the bay, ships’ masts reached into the sky, with more arriving by the hour. Mooring lines snaked in a tangle she could not begin to decipher, and a fleet of smaller boats swarmed in the channels between the hulls of the warships, carrying men, orders, and supplies to and from the shore. Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon had brought chaos in his wake, and as yet, his purpose had not been revealed outside whatever meetings he’d held with the Lords’ Council and the army high command. A strange turn, to redeploy so much of the royal navy into the waters of the New World. Perhaps a blockade in force, or a ferrying operation for an amphibious strike far to the south? All would become clear in time; no sense attempting to divine the whims of lords. Until then, the denizens of the Harbor district made what accommodations they could for this influx of sailors and soldiers from across the sea.
The Harbor-folk scurried in every direction this afternoon, most with jobs to do for the harbormasters, and the rest looking to hawk whatever wares they could scrounge for sale. Whether it was a hot meat pie or the attentions of a whore, men who’d spent weeks aboard a ship denied any semblance of comfort were not known for their discerning tastes. Almost she pitied the city’s rat population, being cooked up and passed as pork or beef. As for the whores, well. In the coming days, even the least among them would be wooed with fervor ordinarily reserved for blushing highborn virgins.
She made her way through the streets toward the 2nd Corps headquarters, and thank the Gods she was not pressed for time. Marquis-General Voren had shown either uncanny foresight or exceptionally ill luck, opting to establish his command here by the seaside during their tenure in the city. The day the army arrived in the city he’d made arrangements to host the officers of the 2nd Corps in apartments along the docks. Good for an old man’s constitution to be near the sea, he’d said. And that very night, Louis-Sallet’s flagship had arrived, with the rest of the fleet close on his heels. So now she and the other banner generals under Voren’s command occupied the most coveted space this side of Rasailles. It made delivering orders a damned frustrating exercise, to say nothing of trying to keep appointments anywhere close to their allotted hours. Left up to her, she’d have the officers sleeping in tents with the rest of the soldiers outside the city walls. But she supposed it also had the effect of making Voren’s command the envy of every admiral and ship’s captain who came ashore for lodging. A political game, and if she herself would not have chosen to play, that did not keep her from admiring her commander’s moves.
After an interminable walk through the press, she arrived at the Tank & Twine, the three-storied inn Voren had commandeered for 2nd Corps business. As soon as she stepped across the threshold into the common room she was assaulted by the smell of spiced meats and fresh-baked bread, rich enough to remind her stomach she hadn’t yet eaten today. She kicked the mud from her boots and called an order to a passing kitchen maid, asking it be served directly to Voren’s private chamber. If her commander issued summons at midday to a common room, he couldn’t object to her taking a meal while they spoke. Like as not he made a point of arranging his conferences at such hours precisely to show his peers how well stocked they kept the Tank & Twine’s larder.
She scanned the common room, finding no sign of Marquand. He was late, or perhaps already gone upstairs to begin their meeting with the marquis-general. Knowing the foot-captain, she knew where she would place her coin. No sense waiting for him. With a sigh she climbed the wooden stairs, letting the general’s aide know she had arrived.
“Chevalier-General d’Arrent,” Voren said as she entered. He waved her forward without looking up from the report over which he stood, leaning against his desk. “Apologies for the delay in scheduling your debrief. Things have been hectic since the Crown-Prince’s arrival.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, taking a seat in one of his cushioned chairs, the quality of which suggested he’d had them brought in rather than found them here at the inn. She made herself comfortable as she waited for the general to finish reading his report.
The click of his spectacles being folded and placed on the desk signaled he’d reached the end. “All right, d’Arrent,” he said. “Let’s have an account of these details you omitted from the official report.”
“Yes, sir. I’d hoped to show you in person, but it begins with the scout’s reports I mentioned in the official account.”
“I thought as much. The cavalry deployments mentioned in your report would never have caught the enemy movements through the Great Barrier. I assume it was an agent sent to infiltrate their ranks? Hence the need for secrecy?”
“No, sir. Not exactly.”
He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
She took a deep breath. “Sir, I believe I have discovered a new leyline binding. One that allows for communication, and observation over great distances. My personal redeployment north to the barrier, and the involvement of the priests of Arentaigne, were both a
result of this observation. I was near the Gand border when I saw the vision from Marie d’Oreste’s eyes. Or, sir, that is how it is done: through a vessel, with sufficient need in both myself and the subject.”
Her commander sat back in the leather-upholstered chair behind his desk. “Start at the beginning, d’Arrent. Explain the details of how this works, and remember I have not had your education where the leylines are concerned.”
She gave him a full accounting, explaining the golden light, Need, the shift in control of the vessel whose eyes she stepped behind. In spite of his professed ignorance, he grasped the concepts of Need bindings quick enough. By the time she’d finished, the unasked question hung in the air like a dark cloud, always the first concern when a new form of warfare was discovered.
“Does the enemy have it?” Voren asked. “Can enemy generals issue orders over great distances, take command personally?”
“Yes, sir. I recognized it for what it was only after the events at the barrier. We’d seen the telltale golden light before, at Villecours, behind the eyes of a man called Alrich of Haddingston. The enemy has at least one Need binder.”
The marquis-general frowned, rapping his spectacles against the wood of his desk in one hand with the other pressed to the side of his head.
“And sir, I believe the Need binder is the High Commander of their armies.”
Silence stretched between them as Voren contemplated, filled only by the tapping of the general’s spectacles on his desk.
Finally he let them drop in a clatter. “They’ve had this for what, perhaps six months? And at what scale? Can it be used to command divisions? Brigades? Gods be good, d’Arrent, no wonder their Need binder is in command. Can you imagine what you could do with a network of communication like that?”
“I’d considered it, sir,” she said wryly. “However, I haven’t been able to use it with more than a single vessel concurrently, so command would be limited to large-scale operations. But with the right placement of Need vessels in tactically significant positions within a battle plan …”
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