Warriors of the Veil

by Jill Williamson

  Grayson shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Trevn called the Veil warriors, who circled around Grayson and joined hands. The air was filled with the sounds of hundreds of shadir screeching, cackling, and goading Grayson. Some pushed up near his face. Others swooped and spun like feathers in the wind.

  Onika prayed softly, and Zeroah joined in with her own words. Kempe voiced her agreement, and the rest of them remained silent. Trevn prayed silently that Arman would hear them—that the God would not only protect Grayson but grant him success.

  “You will listen to me!” Grayson yelled at the shadir. “Arman is your master, and by his name you will listen. Return to Gâzar’s realm now. I command you!”

  The creatures howled. Some writhed. Some dropped toward the earth, some drifted. Others flew in circles. The mob became a cloud of blurred colors that keened and moaned and wailed. Of the few shadir that remained still enough that Trevn could see them, their eyes rolled back and forth. Some hissed. Others spat curses at the praying humans. Trevn heard one panicked shadir ask another what they should do, but he could not hear the response over the din.

  Grayson repeated his command to the shadir. Onika joined in the banishing. Zeroah sang a temple hymn, and Trevn recognized the lyrics from the Book of Arman. Kempe whispered too softly to hear, and Danek and Oli remained silent. Trevn continued to pray, overwhelmed by the strangeness happening around him.

  The shadir cloud began to descend. Some still argued and fought and cursed, but any who tried to flee disintegrated like mist. Grayson, Trevn, and the Veil warriors kept at it until the entire horde had fallen beneath the ground, out of sight. Gone.

  Trevn rode his horse along the southern edge of the battlefield. The setting sun cast a golden sheen over the field of dead and dying men and glimmered on the hundreds of abandoned weapons in their midst. Countless men lay as they had fallen, tangled and broken, some horses too. Trevn spotted three of Rogedoth’s red standards lying on the field, rippling in the soft breeze. Horses and carts were being tugged through the carnage in search of those still alive who could be saved. Very few, Trevn thought. The carts held more recovered weapons than men.

  It was a terrible thing, war.

  Trevn steered his horse through the now thawed river and toward the fort. He dismounted near the entrance. His body felt clammy beneath his layers of linen, leather, and bronze. His bones ached. His fingers and toes felt numb. He hadn’t realized how very tired he was until he began to walk. He passed through the front door, and the glint of setting sunlight faded away.

  Ottee approached, took Trevn’s helm and shield. “I have a bath ready, Your Highness.”

  “You’re a good man, Ottee.” Trevn patted the boy’s back.

  He walked slowly up the stairs to the second level, eager to strip off his armor. His bronze breastplate was dented and smudged in blood, the top of his shield had been split practically in two, and a wing on one of the gold Nesher birds from the crown on his helm had been shaved clean off. Still, Trevn’s heart soared in his chest. Arman had given them victory over their enemy. Rogedoth was no more. The shadir had been banished from the land. Armania could make peace with the Puru and giants now. Build a future free from tyranny and fear.

  The war was over.

  Charlon

  That evening, Charlon set up camp near the Armanian soldiers. They celebrated together. Until the dawn hours. Armanian soldiers danced with Magosian maidens. And Charlon demonstrated her magic. For a captive and enthusiastic audience. The soldiers loved her. Lauded her. Worshiped her. This so pleased Charlon that she toasted a new unity. Between their peoples.

  As she watched the reveling from her throne, she considered. Considered the old Magonian prophecy of the Deliverer in a new light. King Trevn believed Grayson the Deliverer. Charlon had believed him. At first. Now she was starting to think otherwise.

  The prophecy said the child would come “after.” After peace had been achieved. Perhaps the Deliverer was the child Charlon now carried. Her own flesh might rise up to rule over all. A pleasant thought. For now, though, the strife between Mother and Father was no more.

  Until morning came. And a herald brought a scroll from King Trevn.

  Chieftess Charlon,

  I am grateful for your assistance in the Battle of Mishor Field. You are a fine warrior and a worthy ally and neighbor. I am glad our realms are at peace.

  My soldiers appreciated your lively and vibrant celebration of our shared victory over the Pretender, but my views on shadir magic have not changed. While most of the shadir were banished, it has come to my attention that some remained with you and your birds. Your magic is quite alluring, and Arman’s warnings are clear. I cannot risk the potential poisoning of my people and ask you to return to your lands at your earliest convenience. I know you lost many of your men in the battle, so I offer you a royal escort home, should you like, in case Randmuir Khal were to cause you any trouble. At your request I will send a contingent of men to you immediately.

  In the future, please send word to me at Castle Armanguard if you have need to enter Armanian lands. With my permission, you will always be welcome.

  Trevn Hadar

  King of Armania

  Leave his territory? Not come again without permission? As if so much of this land was his to claim. Charlon fumed. Staring at the words on the parchment. Heart pounding within. Urging her to respond with threats of her own. To show this king. That he could not command her in any way.

  He insults you, her heart said. Make him pay.

  Charlon wanted to do good in this world. But some people made that difficult. Narrow-minded kings. Kings who had never known the depths of loss. That Charlon had suffered.

  She crumpled the scroll in her fist. “Rone!” she yelled. “Pen a reply to King Trevn in my name. Thank him for his offer of a royal escort. Ask for twenty men. No, fifty. I want volunteers. Men eager to serve the mantic Chieftess. Have him send them at once.”

  Rone bowed and went for the parchment. Charlon smiled. She would keep peace with King Trevn. On parchment. But she would not keep her people separate from his. The Armanian soldiers adored her. So she would take her time on the journey home. And make as many as she could her loyal followers. She could not help it. If some refused to return to Armania. And they might. After they saw how enjoyable life was. In Magosia. A realm with freedom and pleasure and magic.

  The king sent his men. So eager was he to be rid of her. The fool. Charlon took a long and winding exit. Rode her procession through the Armanian camp. Many soldiers asked questions. Why was she leaving so soon? Where was she going?

  Charlon told the truth. King Trevn disdained her magic. Did not want it in Armania.

  The soldiers didn’t see the harm. Knew it had protected them. Saved them. Some asked if they could visit Magosia. Now that the war had ended. Charlon welcomed them. Anytime.

  When asked if she would teach them her magic, she said, “Perhaps.”

  Once they were away from the camp, Charlon pondered the question. Should she keep the magic to herself? Or share it? Hoarding magic had divided her maidens. Made Roya and Kateen side against her.

  She thought back to when she had first come to Magonia. When Roya had discovered she was a woman. And taken her to Mreegan. Mreegan had freed Charlon. Healed her. Given her a new life. In the end, Charlon had despised both Mreegan and Roya. But they had saved her. In the beginning.

  Everyone deserved to be free. To find healing. To be made whole. Mreegan had done it for Charlon. And Charlon would do it for any who asked. And if they asked for magic, then she would teach them. This new power was not a limited resource. As evenroot had been. Gowzals bred on their own. Charlon had seen their nests in her village.

  Yes. She would teach others magic. If they wanted to learn. She would teach Armanians. Then send them back to Armanguard to teach others. See what King Trevn thought of that.

  She chuckled. Liked her plan very much.

  Qoatch

  Qoatch,
eunuch slav to High Queen Jazlyn, First Great Lady of New Tenma, stood proudly beside her throne. He had always known her struggles would result in a crown. Now all she needed was to grow her population. Two of her shadir were present. Cherem, the common, and the slight Izar. The other slight, Ziyph, patrolled the harbor.

  Qoatch still did not trust shadir, but these three had proved loyal—were all that were left, if he understood the reports of the battle Princess Saria had learned from King Trevn.

  “I must choose carriers,” Jazlyn said. “But I also must crown my Great Ladies. I dare not make either decision rashly. Speak, Qoatch. What are your thoughts?”

  The Tennish remnant numbered only two hundred sixty-eight. Seventy-three of those were eunuch Protectors, twenty-six were children between the ages of six and thirteen—with the exception of Princess Jahleeah—fourteen were male breeders, and the rest were women—twenty-one of which were too old to be carriers.

  “Do not force yourself to assign all noble titles right away,” Qoatch said. “A Great Lady cannot be settled upon. Choose only those who are worthy and wait until others show themselves as such. This is New Tenma, after all. Perhaps you will never choose twelve.”

  “A wise suggestion,” Jazlyn said. “And what of the carriers?”

  “Use the same method. Only those you know without a doubt will never be worthy of the status of Great Lady should be made carriers immediately. Any you are unsure of can be assigned other tasks in the meantime—tasks that will reveal their wisdom, bearing, and character. Then you will know who should become a Great Lady, and who should not.”

  “Princess Nolia should be one,” Jazlyn said. “I invited her to come live here, but she is too in love with her idiot husband. I need more women like her. Strong willed and brave. Plus I was hoping she would teach me to better shield my mind. While Ulrik can no longer manipulate my thoughts, I can still hear him. And he has not yet given up in trying to torment me.”

  The shunned Sarikarian princess had befriended Jazlyn while they were in the New Sarikarian stronghold. When she’d heard the reason Jazlyn had come to fight the giants, Princess Nolia had taught Jazlyn to shield her mind against the voicing magic—against Ulrik, especially.

  “Perhaps she and her husband would come for a visit, once we are better established,” Qoatch suggested.

  Jazlyn frowned. “Perhaps. You were right that Ulrik would be angry about Jael. He has declared war against us to defend his son’s honor. I do not think he will find us as long as my shadir remain vigilant lookouts. Do you think I was wrong?”

  Qoatch had warned her not to—that such a thing could not be undone—but Jazlyn had not listened. “It is Tennish tradition, lady, to make eunuchs of most of our men. You could not have left your prince a lowly breeder. It is not your fault if the emperor doesn’t understand our ways.”

  “You know well enough that I didn’t do it for Tennish tradition,” Jazlyn said. “I didn’t want my son growing up and making heirs in New Rurekau. Now my bloodline will stay here, in New Tenma where it belongs. With me. And Jahleeah.”

  “You will allow the princess to breed?” Qoatch could not believe it. Great Ladies did not serve as carriers.

  “If she wishes to,” Jazlyn said. “It will be her choice. In fact, that is a law I might amend.”

  Qoatch pondered this. Jazlyn would give noblewomen freedom to choose, but not all women. And still no choices for men.

  No choice for her son.

  In times like this Qoatch thought back to his childhood training with the Kushaw—the Tennish rebels who had believed men worthy of equal rights with women. None of the Kushaw had survived the Five Woes, and Qoatch wasn’t prepared to start a new rebellion on his—

  A shadir appeared in the center of the throne room, and Qoatch gasped. Gozan the Great, who had served Jazlyn since before his time. The creature stood on its rear legs, which made him twice as tall as an average man. He had a rat’s face, a man’s chest and arms, a beast’s legs and feet, and black skin covered in coarse hairs.

  “Gozan,” Jazlyn said, looking bored. “What brings you to New Tenma?”

  Qoatch didn’t know how she could remain so calm.

  Our history together sets you apart, Your Eminence, the creature said. So I come here to honor you as I would no other human. I once offered you a better way to do magic. I come now to extend that offer one last time before I seek out an alternative.

  Jazlyn glared at the great. “You know better than to come here and offer Dominion.”

  You never wanted it before, but now that the old magic is dead, I thought perhaps . . .

  “I have new magic now,” Jazlyn said. “Powers you cannot imagine.”

  I know all about your new magic, Your Eminence, Gozan said. I and Chieftess Charlon invented it after we killed Magon.

  “You bonded Charlon? The one she called Mitsar?”

  Mitsar, Rurek . . . I have many names. He bowed. At your service, High Queen.

  “I am not interested in your service,” Jazlyn spat.

  So you no longer wish to live forever?

  Her demeanor softened. “What do you mean?”

  The new magic can create powerful illusions, Your Eminence, the great said, but it cannot create immortality. You were wise to have Cherem make permanent your beauty, but he could not have made permanent your age. Surely you have felt the aches and pains?

  Qoatch’s heart raced, and he whipped his attention back to Jazlyn, hoping this was incorrect, but the expression on her face betrayed the truth.

  “Do you have a point, Gozan?” she asked.

  The creature’s rat-like eyes fixed upon her, and Qoatch could have sworn he saw triumph there. I am the only Great shadir still living. If you want immortality, I am the only way.

  Qoatch wanted to scream—to remind his High Queen of the dangers of Dominion. But Gozan had played Jazlyn well. He knew her as well as any being save Qoatch himself.

  Jazlyn lifted her chin, and her crown gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the open window. “I suppose it is fitting that the First Great Lady should partner with the first and only Great shadir,” she said. “Still, I would like a few days to consider this offer.”

  Gozan’s mouth curled into a grin, baring his pointed teeth. Take all the time you need, Your Eminence. The High Queen of Tenma must not be rushed.

  “This realm is called New Tenma,” Jazlyn said.

  I see. And what do you call this great city? New Yobatha?

  “No,” Jazlyn said. “I call it Jaelport, in honor of the son that was taken from me.”

  Jaelport, Gozan said. A fine name for a city.

  Trevn

  Three months had passed since the Battle of Mishor Field. Trevn and Mielle had gathered with friends in the great hall in New Sarikar. The room was smaller than the one in Castle Armanguard, but the timber walls gave it a luxurious feel that the stone walls back home lacked.

  Trevn and Mielle stood in a group with Oli, Sir Kalenek, Miss Onika, and Master Jhorn, discussing the concerns of the father realms.

  “Have you heard from Chieftess Charlon, Your Highness?” Sir Kalenek asked.

  “I have not,” Trevn said. “On parchment we are at peace, but she is still angry.” He hadn’t wanted magic lingering in Armania, but in spite of his asking Charlon to leave quickly, interest in magic had risen a great deal in his realm.

  “Her actions during the battle made her a hero to many Armanians,” Oli said.

  “Just as High Queen Jazlyn’s actions did in Sarikar,” Jhorn added.

  The soldiers who had witnessed these feats had gone home to family and friends with tales of the mantics who had saved the Father realms from utter destruction. And over half of those Trevn sent to escort the Chieftess home had not returned. “Fallen in love with Magosian women,” was the report he’d gotten from those who had come back.

  The whole matter frustrated Trevn. “Unfortunately,” he said, “none of the soldiers who fought at Mishor Field witnessed the super
natural deeds of Sir Grayson, the prophetess Onika, or any of her Veil warriors.”

  “Or how Duke Canden and Lady Eudora broke so many compulsions,” Mielle said.

  Oli favored Mielle with a nod of respect, which pleased Trevn. Those two seemed to have mended their animosity toward one another. He had a feeling it had something to do with Rosârah Zeroah’s growing friendship with the duke.

  “Saria and I both hired minstrels to write songs of those stories,” Trevn said, “some of which will be sung at the reception tonight. Given time, people will learn the truth.”

  “No offense, Your Highness,” Sir Kalenek said, “but minstrels will only turn such stories into legends.”

  “That is all I can do at present,” Trevn said.

  “I’ve been speaking with the Earl of Faynor,” Jhorn said. “There have been meetings of magical societies here in Sarikar as well. He is uncertain if it is the same one. I will question the Sarikarians who’ve been arrested.”

  A magical society had cropped up in Armania. People had been hunting gowzals as pets in hopes of figuring out how they might make the creatures do magic. No one had succeeded yet—as there were no more shadir in the realm. The society was harmless but for the way they fed the myth that gowzal magic was powerful and worth learning.

  “The mantic sympathizers do not understand why I harbor such coldness toward the woman they believe saved Armania,” Trevn said.

  “That’s because they don’t know the truth,” Oli said.

  “We would have won the war without Chieftess Charlon’s assistance,” Trevn said. “The number of casualties would have been much higher, but Arman’s magic would have brought us victory without the aid of shadir.”

  “I don’t doubt you’re correct, Your Highness,” Jhorn said.

  “Indeed, you should have obeyed the God,” Onika said. “Then you would have defeated the shadir completely. But now that you have only defeated them partially, they will come again, and next time—like giants appearing as children—you will not recognize them.”