by Jenna Rhodes
“Are we close?”
“I don’t know where we are, just where we’re going. The sight—” she started to gesture its vagueness, but ended up desperately grabbing for balance. “I think you’ll know it when you get there.”
“I should expect a battle. If so, we will know long before we reach it.”
“You should expect your destiny.”
“Perhaps I should ask if I will live to fulfill it.”
Ceyla grinned before putting a hand up to hide her face self-consciously. She wore traditional Galdarkan garb and her filmy sleeve slid back, revealing her delicate arm. “One hopes. Finding a destiny is a journey. Fulfilling it should be another journey as well.” She anchored herself firmly yet again.
“Even as young a prophet as you should know that some journeys are very short.”
Her answer tumbled out without thought. “Not yours.”
“Well, then. I’ll take that as good news.” He shrugged back around in his saddle until all she could see were his broad shoulders, golden skin rippling with his muscle. “Very good news.”
Ahead of him, the man on point raised his hand, giving an all clear. That should have lightened his spirit, but Abayan did not try to fight the feeling inside him that something waited, just ahead, something close and something dangerous. A being could crouch among the broken foot of the hillsides and not be seen until too late. Not an army. Not a handful of men. A single man, deadly and—
Abayan brought his horse to a sudden halt. He shaded his eyes. A furtive movement between him and the point man far ahead. He stayed rock-still in his saddle, watching that splinter of movement to see what might happen. Had he seen it? Had he imagined it? He narrowed his eyes as his gut tightened in anticipation. His intensity communicated along the reins to his mount who threw his head up alertly. The army at his back stood at attention as well, noise muffled by the crooked canyon, but still undeniable: stomps, the creak of leathers as soldiers rose in their stirrups or sat back to relax in their saddles or freed bows from their harnesses and brought them to ready. Horses whickered softly and chomped at their bits. He heard all of that.
What he did not hear was noise from in front of him. Silence rested where there ought to have been bird chatter, an occasional song, the tap of claw on rock as rodents or lizards skittered. Their coming would have sent wildlife fleeing, but they hadn’t passed yet. Hadn’t drawn close enough. No, the silence here was commanded by a presence just ahead, and that was what he watched.
A shape emerged from what had seemed only to be a slight crack in the granite and shale wall ahead. A Kobrir, black clothing so covered in dirt that he appeared to be gray, unfolded, hands at shoulder height and seemingly empty.
Before Diort could utter a word, Ceyla warned. “Steady.” Did she mean it for him and not the assassin? Had she lied but moments ago? His mouth dried. Was this to be his fate? Had the ild Fallyn sent him a false prophet to lead him astray? He cursed himself as a fool, a most unworthy Galdarkan. His hand twitched as he let it fall on his sword’s hilt. If he had his will, he’d have pulled Rakka, the earth-shattering war hammer which had once been his, the instrument which he had used to build his new empire, the weapon which had helped stem the tide of Raymy at Ashenbrook River and had died in the doing of it. If a war hammer could die. The weapon remained, but it had emptied of the powers imbued in it, and now stayed holstered near his stirrup as a massive hammer which could do damage but nothing like the legends he and it had put into modern memory. He wondered if it was his turn to be emptied and remembered only by past deeds.
The Kobrir spoke. “Lord Diort. I am unarmed.”
Abayan frowned and heeled his horse a step or two closer. “I know that voice. Is that Sevryn Dardanon behind the assassin’s cover? Or have the Kobrir become even more cunning, imitating one of the Queen’s own?”
“Indeed. There’s a long story here about why I wear an assassin’s garb that I would willingly tell you, but I think we both have a place to be. Time is not in our favor. May I ride with you?”
A second being emerged groveling from the hillside, clutching at Sevryn’s knees. “Don’t leave me! Don’t!” Then, as if realizing he was exposed in full, dazzling sunlight, the man shrank down, throwing his arm over his eyes. As ragged as if he’d just stumbled out of a ghetto, Master Trader Bregan cowered at Sevryn’s feet, the only thing recognizable about him the Vaelinar brace that ran the length of his leg and articulated as well as any limb.
Abayan fastened his gaze on Bregan, not understanding what he saw, both revolted and fascinated by the esteemed trader’s obvious downfall. “Time,” agreed Diort, “is of the essence, but there’s at least part of a tale here which has to be told.”
“Indeed,” murmured Ceyla behind him. “Guardian King Diort.”
Her words pierced his attention. He twisted to consider her. He was a warlord. He had gathered hundreds to follow him. Reinforced dozens of city states behind him. Yet her naming of him struck something buried inside him that sounded like a deep chord, plucking at his very soul. He did not like that, but he could not deny it, either. Unsettled, he looked back to Sevryn and the beggar. “Trader Bregan,” he acknowledged.
The man rolled his head from under his arm to peer up at him. Ceyla crowded her horse close, and Bregan’s gaze flicked from Diort back to her and returned to Diort. “L-Lord Diort,” he managed.
Sevryn nudged him. “Stand up, Bregan.”
“Must I?”
“It would be best.”
Bregan stood, pulling himself up hand over hand on Sevryn’s stern figure. Sevryn appeared not to notice the handling he received until his companion straightened and then he reached over and dusted Bregan off, somewhat.
Ceyla did not stay at Diort’s side. She kneed her horse forward until she was close enough to touch either of the men if she but leaned out of the saddle, her expression intent upon Bregan. When she finally reined to a stop nearly on top of the trader, she said, “Tell him.”
None of the three men spoke, silenced by confusion. She reached down to Bregan, and said again, urgently, “Tell him!”
Bregan coughed into his hands.
“You mean him to speak of what?” asked Diort mildly of Ceyla.
She pivoted about and stared him in the eyes for a long moment before only nodding and turning back to the Kernan trader. Sevryn dropped his hand on Bregan’s shoulder. He flinched.
“The news will out, one way or another. Might as well begin here,” Sevryn said.
Bregan shuffled a filthy boot, scuffing up even more dust and grime. “I—” His voice broke.
They waited. Bregan gathered himself, as painful a mental process as Abayan Diort had ever witnessed. He could not afford to wait, but he had been compelled. For no discernible reason, his heart knotted in sympathy. He leaned forward slightly. “We’re listening. I hold an entire army at my back, and yet we wait to hear what you have to say.”
Sevryn dropped his hand on the other’s shoulder and squeezed Bregan comfortingly. Bregan threw his chin up. “The Gods have spoken to me. I didn’t ask for it, and I can’t help it. They . . . they tell me I am Mageborn.” He reeled away and thudded against the canyon wall as if spent.
Abayan’s breath left him as painfully and suddenly as if someone had swung his war hammer into his chest. Diort swayed back. He fought for air.
Ceyla looked to him, triumph on her face. “This is what I dreamed.”
Diort ignored her. “What do you mean?” he demanded of Bregan when he could breathe again.
“He means that he has magic,” Sevryn answered. “That the tunnels of the Mageborn answer to him. That he believes he has heard the voices of your Gods. That he has been driven nearly mad by what cannot be happening but what seems to be happening.”
“Magic.”
“Old Kerith magic. The kind not seen in centuries upon centuries.”
“With good reason. They destroyed themselves.”
Sevryn smiled slightly upon Diort. “But they created the Galdarkan.”
Diort did not smile back. “You would undo all that I have built if I accept this man for what he claims.”
“Your kin were made to be guardians, to protect and guide the magic and madness of these men. You have risen to reweave that empire, but this time with Galdarkan common sense and leadership, bringing a sense of unity back to that which was shattered. Will you abandon it now?” Sevryn cocked his head.
“I can’t deny that, but—” Abayan shifted uneasily.
Bregan lurched forward and put his hands on Diort’s booted foot. “I didn’t want this,” he husked. “I wouldn’t pretend it for a hundred Trade empires.”
Clouds that had cleared for the morning threatened to darken the skies again, and a faraway thunder rumbled heavily. They all looked to it. The moment shredded away. Diort rubbed the back of his neck. Fate tugged at him.
“I haven’t much time,” Sevryn reminded.
“None of us have. Why are you here?”
“Bregan guided us, but I imagine we all go to the same meeting.”
“Yes,” Ceyla answered quickly. She swung down to press the reins at Sevryn. “Take my horse.” She unloosed the second waterskin and held it to her chest as she clambered over the trail and sat in the shade of the standing men.
Again she would contradict his orders. Diort frowned down at her. “I won’t leave you here.”
“Oh,” and she smiled brightly at Diort. “I don’t expect you will, but here is where I need to wait. I’ve done what I had to do. My prophecy is finished.”
“You would not see the end of it?”
“It’s enough to have seen the beginning. You’re the one meant to see the ending.”
He felt uncertainty again, a feeling that he had trained himself against, replacing it with confidence and experience, but she shook him yet again. He would not argue with her again, not with hundreds of troops behind him watching, even if they were unsure of what they watched. His little prophet going toe to toe with him would not need much translation to become army gossip. He would have to leave Ceyla behind. Diort tapped his chest. “You have a place with me even if you never utter another oracle in your lifetime. I’ve pledged that.”
“Then you’ll come back for me when it’s time.” She watched as Sevryn mounted.
Bregan stood hesitantly. The fading sun gleamed dully off his brace, the only thing about him which shed dust as if determined not to be dirty. Diort put his hand out, saying “You’ll ride behind me. I’ll get you a horse of your own as soon as I can.” He kicked his foot out of his stirrup so that Bregan could use it to mount and swing up behind him.
When all had settled, Diort said, “We ride to war.”
“We know,” Bregan muttered at his shoulder. “I suppose you want to know what the Gods had to say.”
“That might be helpful.”
“Some of Them are very angry.”
“Helpful and prudent. And the others?”
“Not all are fully awakened. When They are, there will be a judgment.”
“But not today.”
The man at his back leaned very close to his ear. “I can’t always make sense of anything.”
“When you can, speak to me.”
Ceyla watched them ride out of hearing, and then the army passed her by as well. She was still watching as the point man rode back to Abayan, throwing himself off his mount and to the ground, flattening himself in abject apology for having missed the men among the rocks. Diort did what he did, what a decent, honorable leader must. He picked the man up and sent him back on his way, chastised but not broken.
He knew she watched him, because he felt the weight of her regard on the back of his neck. He would not turn back to view her, because she had said her good-byes and promised him there would be a return and what more could he ask of a prophet? But as he led his column into the valley where she had told him war awaited, he wondered if she had counseled him properly and if the role she had foretold would really be the role he rode to play. Trader Bregan tightened his arm about Diort’s rib cage. He stank like a man who had been living in a gutter and perhaps he had. He seemed maddened. Diort considered what Ceyla had told him very carefully. What good would it do his world to have the Mageborn return, despite the fact he had been created to care for them, to defend the law and bring justice for them, and yet the need to care for Bregan had settled in his very bones. He wanted to deny the urge to nurture the man, a foreign emotion making itself at home in his body. But what would it mean to deny that for which he had been born? Ceyla had called him the Guardian King. She had come to him, telling him she would point him toward the true meaning of his life. He had chosen to believe her without knowing all of the consequences, events that overshadowed all the hard work of the past few decades drawing his broken people together. He had hoped she would show him the way to complete his working, not giving him an invalid to take care of. Oracles had never been known to be crystal clear, although she had seemed clearer than most. He should have turned a deaf ear to her. Death could find him and this feeble newborn Mage easily on a battlefield. That might resolve much of the uncertainty that settled over him now.
After all, it was better to have Death come to your door than a Vaelinar.
LARA WOKE with a certainty in mind: that she needed to reach the pure blue waters of the Andredia. Her four-fingered hand twinged ferociously, bringing her out of her half-dreams even if the sound of the encampment waking and getting to its feet, gathering arms, the stamping of nervous horse hooves did not. She had made a pact with flesh and soul, and now the Andredia wanted her, piercing even her exhausted dreams. The air sang with high-pitched hissing, warning that the Raymy advanced. She opened her eyes, right hand tightly grasping her left as if she could squeeze the pain out of it. More than pain racked her body. She carried the memory of Sinok Anderieon rasping to her as he passed his title to her. You are the heir to Larandaril and the pact we forged with the sacred River Andredia. You will face, or your heir will face, the destiny I had thought would be mine. There is a time of reckoning coming for our presence here. The Gods of this world will awaken and when They do, there will a conflagration beyond imagination. You must live! You must live and keep the peace with the Andredia and Kerith so that our people live.
She bent over her hand, cradling it, overcome by the pain of the memory and of the maiming. The pact had almost been damaged beyond remedy when Quendius poisoned the font of the river itself, and she had sacrificed not only her finger but a good part of her soul to the Andredia to restore it, binding her forever to it.
Sevryn and Rivergrace. Jeredon and Nutmeg. They had fought with her to get to the Andredia. To destroy the sword Cerat possessed. To give her the opportunity to reforge the sacred bond. One was now dead. Two disgraced by betrayal. The fourth bearing her heir. The depth of her sacrifice she wouldn’t know until her own end. Had she given up love and children? Did she regret it? She couldn’t because she had never thought all lost, not until this morning. Her foretold assassination neared. The Andredia called out for her now, its banks defiled with swarming, diseased Raymy and the corruption and death they left on her shores. She had to get to the river. Vision or not, living or doomed to die, a fulfillment awaited. More than Sinok filled her mind. Her brother Jeredon echoed in her thoughts as well, and Jeredon’s as yet unknown child.
She got up, shoulder to a bent evergreen sapling that flexed and bowed under her weight as she levered herself up. She knotted her aching left hand in its needled branches, the greenery still spring soft, and the aroma of it sinking into her skin, a welcome change from the stink that seemed to cling everywhere else. Savoring the evergreen perfume, she stripped some needles from the branch, crushing them in her hand and combing her fingers through her hair so tha
t the memory of the fragrance couldn’t leave her.
She dressed stiffly but quickly, lastly smoothing the gold chain jewelry Tranta wrought for her over her mail. It had saved her more than once over the last few days, but she could see that the various inset Jewels gleamed less brightly than they had. She cleaned and polished each one gently before bringing the pectoral to her neck and fastening it in place, a ritual she repeated with the girdle before clasping it about her waist. Both chimed gently against the mail underneath as they settled. The Sentinels Tranta had transformed from the shattered death of the Jewel of Tomarq would line the shores and hearts of the provinces. Had old Sinok also seen them in his forewarning? There’d been no mention if he had.
Lara raised her head. Visions were not substitutes for actions. He had taught her that more than anything. Action. Firm, decisive, conclusive.
She could hear the horses she’d condemned being gathered together and herded out. Lame and halt, panting with fear and pain, the beasts let themselves be driven toward the meadow reeking of smoke and seared flesh. Lara went to join the stable hand who led them, her own face drawn with the anguish of these charges, her hands white and trembling upon their headstalls. Lara brushed the girl’s hands aside. “I’ll take them.”
“But—”
“I will take them,” she repeated firmly.
The stable hand nodded and let go reluctantly after running her fingers down the dish-face and rubbing the soft muzzles of several of the horses before dropping back.
Lara stood still a moment and let her mind and thoughts go into the tashya surrounding her. Tired beasts all, sore and hurting, afraid and hungry. Valiant animals who exceeded their training, every one of them loyal and brave until this misery. She eased their minds. She took what pain she could from them, chased away what fear she touched, promised them green meadows beyond the horrors they would tread. Her own Yarthan stood among them, his head held high in valor, his off leg bowed with a tendon injury she did not know he’d taken. She went to him and scratched the underside of his jaw. He wasn’t injured enough to send with the herd, yet she saw in his thoughts his stubbornness at being left behind. He’d broken loose from the horse lines to come with this bunch, unknowing of what awaited them. He would bear her when the time came. She left their dazed thoughts gently, withdrawing slowly.