Gerrit and Treygar looked at each other mournfully. Cazia wanted to believe they were simply unhappy to hear that their new king planned to force them to share power with the scholars, but she knew there was more to it than that.
Lar wasn’t finished. “We’ve conferred enough. We must inform the tyrs without further delay. Commander, have your steward show me to your mirror; you will want to ready the fort’s defense. My Tyr Treygar...”
Stoneface stood out of the chair. “My king.”
“Go to the sleepstones. The sooner you are healed, the sooner we can start our trip. Col, go with him. Caz can stand with me when we talk to your father, but I’ll want you beside me for our journey.”
Cazia’s brother shook his head as he stood. “That’s a blessing.” His voice sounded odd. “Won’t you need all of us to stay here as hostages?”
Lar looked guiltily at Cazia. “My father may have wanted twice the insurance against yours, but times are stretched. I think I can only afford one.”
Cazia couldn’t hold it in. “That’s not fair! You’re going to visit Tempest Pass without me? Your uncle is the most famous scholar in the world!” Lar had promised to take her to visit him someday. Why should her brother, who knew nothing of magic, be the one to go?
“Nothing is fair, Caz.”
The look on Lar’s face made her flush with embarrassment. If she wanted to stay close to Lar while he was king, she’d have to control herself better. She was going to have to grow up. “I’m sorry, my king.”
“You can still visit when this is all over.” He said it almost as though he believed it. “
“In the meantime,” Cazia said, trying to recover herself, “please command Doctor Warpoole to answer my questions. She did something odd back at the tower and I think we need to know what it was.”
Lar nodded. “If it turns out to be important, let me know. And I hope you understand how glad I am that you’ll be safe here, inside this fortress.”
The tall steward opened the door for the king, who led the way into the waiting room. Cazia hung back, well aware that she was a fifteen-year-old girl--a hostage--and Stoneface, the commander, and even her brother were more important than she was. Apparently.
When she did step through the doorway, she heard Lar say, “...answer her questions as though they were coming from me.”
Doctor Warpoole gave Cazia a flat, unreadable look. “Yes, my king.”
Col squeezed her hand. “I’ll make my own way to the sleepstones, Caz. Make sure Father believes we’re still hostages.”
Her brother shuffled slowly down the stairs, leaving her alone with the scholar.
Doctor Warpoole’s eyes were wide and bright. “The king says you have questions for me?” Her voice was brittle and it put Cazia on edge. But the administrator would just have to swallow her pride; Cazia had the king’s support.
“I saw the spell you cast on the top of the Scholars’ Tower--the green mist you sent down through the trap door? I know that spell wasn’t one of the Thirteen Gifts, and I—”
Doctor Warpoole slapped Cazia’s face. Hard.
Chapter 9
The medical chamber was not in the lowest level of the fort, but it was close. Tejohn had to stumble down long flights of stairs to reach them. How did men with leg or back injuries manage?
The sleepstones themselves were marble slabs broad and long enough to accommodate the empire’s largest soldiers with some room to spare. Each had been enchanted with a healing spell that would persist for years--as many as ten, if it was not often used. The hunched, portly woman who met him at the entrance and examined his wounds wore a scholar’s robe with a medical patch. He glanced at her cheeks and saw they were dry.
“Can you cast a healing spell, doctor?” Tejohn asked. A direct spell worked much more quickly than a sleepstone.
“This way to the beds, my tyr” was all she said in return. She held out a gray robe made of coarse wool.
Frustrating. Tejohn sat on the edge of the nearest bed and carefully changed into the robe. The Bendertuk boy was unconscious on the next slab but the Freewell boy had not yet arrived.
“Do you have any old injuries, my tyr?”
Tejohn thought again of those long flights of stairs. “Knee aches,” he said, touching it with his good hand. He had no idea why she would ask; he’d been badly cut in one of his first battles, and by the time his turn on the sleepstone came, it had begun to heal naturally. It often twinged in sour weather, and Peradain was infamous for its rain clouds.
He noticed a slender iron needle in the scholar’s hand as she gently directed him to lie back. The sleepstone pulled him down into slumber.
He awoke with a start. His mouth was parched and his throat dry. The scholar gave him a tiny cup full of purified water. Tejohn drank it and demanded more. The little woman took her time returning with another tiny cup almost brimming over, and by the third or fourth, he realized she was deliberately making him wait between each drink. “Bring the pitcher.”
“Small sips, my tyr. That’s safest.”
The process continued until Tejohn had had enough. A boy brought him a piss pot to use. The gouges on his forearm had not healed shut and he still couldn’t use his wrenched arm. “How long?”
“Hardly any time at all, my tyr,” the scholar answered. “Please lie down.”
The Bendertuk boy was still there but Freewell was not. Had he come and gone already? Had the prince--the king; he must break that habit--ordered him to be healed quickly with a direct spell while Tejohn himself suffered this slow, uncomfortable process?
It didn’t matter. If the new king didn’t favor him, there was nothing he could do about it except prove himself all over again. He noticed a spot of blood on the front of his bad knee. It took a moment for him to recognize that it was the size of the scholar’s iron needle.
He lay down as he was bid. “Next time I wake,” he told the scholar, “I want to see marching armor laid out for me, along with a sword, shield, and kit. See to it.”
“Yes, my tyr. Now please rest.”
Tejohn’s thoughts were already slipping away.
When he woke the next time, he was not nearly so thirsty. Tejohn sat up quickly, pleased to feel rested and well. The gouges on his arm had healed completely; only thin white scars were left. He could move his shoulder freely and without pain. There was no swelling at all.
He slid off the bed and looked around the room. The lantern burned low, but his eyes were well adjusted. The Bendertuk boy was still sleeping. His color was good, although his lips were white and dry. He would be waking for some water of his own soon. Again, there was no sign of Colchua Freewell. As he went to the pot, he noticed a marching kit laid out on a table.
After he relieved himself and slowly drank his fill, he examined the armor. It was steel and of good quality, which did not surprise him at all. Ranlin would never offer shoddy equipment to a friend and a tyr of the empire, even though some of his men were still wearing bronze. As long as Lar received equal quality or better, Tejohn was satisfied.
First he strapped on his greaves, then the flannels, then the boots, the skirt and fringe, then finally the cuirass. Even the helm fit him; the felt underpadding was thick around the sides of his narrow skull and guard did not squash his oversized nose. Maybe Ranlin had the armorer take his measure while he was unconscious. Best of all, the helm came to a simple blunt point at the top. Tejohn thought the tall brushes that had become so popular among officer classes were silly and dangerous. Yes, they impressed barmaids, but one errant blow could knock a helm askew, blinding a soldier. Not that it was his place to criticize the generals who allowed them.
The only disappointing thing was that the shield and cloak bore the green-and-brown Four Rivers emblem of the Gerrits rather than the black and red of the Third Splashtown armor he’d left in Peradain. He was proud of those colors and was keenly aware that it was possible that no one would ever wear them again. Still, he would make do.
&nbs
p; Tejohn inspected the sword next. Like Ranlin’s, it was longer than a common soldier’s, with a blade that was three hand-lengths rather than two. The dagger was old but well made. The hilts didn’t match, of course, but he wasn’t marching in parade. He strapped them to his hip and wondered where he would find himself a sturdy spear.
He went up the stairs, past the drab scholar’s office and the hunched little woman working there. “My tyr,” she said, hurrying toward him, but Tejohn brushed by. Presumably, the scholar could cast a healing spell--she wouldn’t have the patch otherwise--but while Tejohn couldn’t order her to cast it, he didn’t have to be pleased about the time he’d lost sleeping.
Out in the courtyard, Tejohn saw the sun striking the peaks on the western side of the pass. It was morning, but was it the next morning? Had it been two days? Three? He needed to find--
Tejohn stopped short. There, at the far end of the courtyard, was a temple. Yes, he needed to report to Lar as soon as possible, but it had been more than a month since he had prayed properly. What hope did they have if they didn’t pay their respects to the gods?
He strode across the yard, slinging his shield on his back and removing his helm. The entrance was a short passageway in which the walls had been carved to resemble a round tunnel--an Eleventh Festival style that he didn’t care for, but aesthetics weren’t important. He bowed his head at the entrance. “Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.”
He strode into the main chamber, which had a traditional layout for a fort or holdfast. In the center of the room was a marble statue of Fury in his Soldier avatar, painted in the Gerrit Four Rivers colors. Instead of a sword, he held a stone lamp.
Tejohn noted that lamp--little more than a bowl, really--held oil and wick but had not been lit. He looked around for a priest; none were in evidence. Maybe they were still at breakfast. Nevertheless, it was bad luck to neglect Fire in a time of war.
He knelt at the feet of The Soldier and prayed for guidance in battle and guidance in his passage on The Way. Fury was the god of humans and human action, and he was traditionally the second to receive praise and prayer, after the Great Way itself.
After that, Tejohn entreated Fire to sweep his enemies from The Way but pass him by. He did his best not to look up at the unlit lamp; the priests insisted that the gods heard prayers in a swamp or a latrine just as well as in the temple. Still, it seemed disrespectful to ask favors when they couldn’t even trouble themselves to light a Fire-taken lamp.
Then he had a choice of which chapel to visit, and which god to entreat. One didn’t ask the Little Spinner to turn more slowly, so he wouldn’t pray there. Not yet, anyway. And it had always seemed arrogant to him to pray to Song for deeds yet undone, although few others seemed to share his opinion.
Instead, he went into the chapel for Monument. He knelt before the marble obelisk, chipped on one side but enduring, and prayed for the strength to preserve the Italga line, the empire, and whatever goodness and happiness could be found within its borders. War against the beasts would be difficult enough, but if civil war broke out as well, Fire might take the entire empire from The Way. Tejohn prayed, fervently, for the strength to remain himself, to protect his king, and to protect his empire. To withstand. Only then did he dare to pray, as fervently as he could, for the safety of his wife and children.
Maybe it was his imagination, but he was sure he felt Monument’s blessing.
When he finished, he went into the main chamber again. He’d intended to leave, but Wimnel Farrabell emerged from the Song chapel. He was haggard and red-eyed, as though he’d been awake all night.
“My tyr,” he said, startled. “I’m sorry to intrude—”
“You are not intruding. The temple is open to all.” Tejohn noted his rumpled clothes. “Have you been keeping vigil all night?”
The man rubbed his face. “I can not sleep. I left family behind, my tyr. My wife, my children... I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t discuss such things. But I wanted Song to remember them, to...”
Farrabell seemed to run out of things to say. Tejohn understood. “If you have finished your prayers, try to sleep. We will need you soon, I think.”
The driver nodded and moved toward the exit. Tejohn passed him and went into the Song chapel. There was no statuary here, of course, no lute or drum or harp. Song was a god of sound and memory, and if there was one thing these Eleventh Festival designers did correctly, it was to not represent him at all. Tejohn knelt and--briefly, because there was much to do—thanked Song for remembering those who had already fallen.
The temple exit was also carved like a tunnel, and he paused again inside. “Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.” The first and last prayer at every temple was to the greatest of the gods, The Great Way, through whom all were born, lived, and died, if they were lucky enough to be permitted to stay on the path.
Back in the courtyard, he saw more bustle than before. A pair of priests, brooms in hand, jogged toward the temple to do their daily sweeping. Servants, soldiers, and clerks hustled toward the Great Hall and Tejohn followed them, hoping to find the king breaking his fast.
He wasn’t there, but one whiff of the morning meal made him light-headed. He hadn’t eaten in some time, apparently, and so he grabbed the nearest steward and demanded breakfast.
At the upper end of the hall, Doctor Warpoole sat alone. He turned away before she could catch his eye. Tejohn had no desire to speak with her.
At the nearest table sat the captain of the guard, the one who’d held a spear on him when they’d landed their cart. Tejohn grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat beside him.
“My tyr,” the captain said, turning pale. “I--I should apologize for the way I acted—”
“Never apologize for doing your duty, captain. What is your name?”
“It’s not one you will have heard before, my tyr. We’re a Fourteenth Festival family; my father still has okshim hair on his clothes. I am Reglis Singalan.”
The young man seemed to be scowling again, but Tejohn suspected it was a natural resting expression for him. “Fourteenth Festival? You’ve done well for yourself, becoming a captain so soon after joining the empire.”
Reglis nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “My people are mostly still servants, herders, and farmers. I was lucky enough to be born broad of shoulder and long of leg, so I was, let’s say, encouraged to take up the shield. And I’m glad of it.”
Tejohn liked him already. “How long has it been since we arrived?”
“Three days and four nights, my tyr.”
Fire and Fury, that was too long. “What news?”
“None that I know, my tyr, only rumors.”
“What rumors, then?”
Reglis rubbed his beard, then shrugged. “Few of the tyrs took the prince’s story at face value, so they sent ten flying carts to check out the city. Three didn’t make it back, but the ones that did told quite a tale. The city has been burned and largely abandoned. Some grunts still hunt there, but most have moved outward, spreading like a stain on wet linen. The bulk of them seem to be headed south, toward the coastal cities. Few have been sighted in the north. Everything beyond that is rumor and fear-mongering tall tales.”
Grunts? Is that what people were calling the beasts now?
The steward set a platter in front of Tejohn: apricots, rice balls, and roasted mutton. It was better fare than the rank and file would get, but it was his due as a tyr. “Thank you, captain.”
After he finished his meal, Tejohn strode into the yard. Lar would have been given the finest room available and if they had wine in the fort he would still be abed. Time to rouse him.
A group of soldiers walked by, wooden practice swords in their hands. Tejohn addressed the nearest. “Soldier, how do I get to the commander’s tower from here?”
The man looked as though just asking the question was cause for arrest, but a fat-faced young man at the back of the group spoke up before anyone else could. “My tyr, the
commander is there.” He pointed to the top of the south wall. They were too far away for Tejohn to see, but he saw no reason to point that out. “The quickest way is a flight of stairs just on the other side of the temple. You can’t see it from here, but I’ll show you the way if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Tejohn started toward the temple, hearing them murmur behind him. The fat-faced one would be telling them his name by now, and he wanted to be well away from that conversation.
On the wall, the southerly wind pulled at his hair and shield. It was chilly down in the fort, but above the protection of the walls, the incessant wind out of the Sweeps was sour and damp. His kit should have included a heavier woolen cloak.
Ranlin stood before a knot of six guards, looking irritated and dissatisfied. Bittler Witt and Cazia Freewell were also there, and the way the guards surrounded them made it clear they were in custody.
Tejohn walked toward them quickly. As young men, he had been a foot soldier and Ranlin Gerrit his captain, but now that he was a tyr--even a tyr without holdings--their roles were reversed. “Is there a problem, commander?”
“Yes, Tyr Treygar. Colchua Freewell is missing. He’d been acting strange. Last night, he left his quarters and hadn’t been seen since.”
“He hasn’t left the fort!” the Freewell girl insisted, her tone annoyed. “He would never abandon Lar.”
“His wound,” Witt said. “It was bothering him. He couldn’t sleep.”
Tejohn was startled. Hadn’t he gone to the sleepstones? “I assume you’re conducting a search.”
Ranlin nodded. “Yes, my tyr. It was the first order I gave.”
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