He loved him?
He wanted to laugh at Vatinyu, but the man was regarding him fondly, his eyes warm and wise. Arad felt like an imposter, lying to Vatinyu, to Elsano, to all of them. He wasn’t there to win, or to prove his worth, or for the glory of Somria and his father. He was there for one purpose and one only; to keep Sayri alive. To keep her alive until he could return for her, extract her from the razor-sharp clutch of his father’s talons, and take her away somewhere safe. Somewhere that neither his father, the Overlord, Perrile, nor anyone else could do her harm.
How many men would die to keep her safe? How many of his own countrymen, perhaps friends, and how many of Sayri’s countrymen?
He didn’t know the answer to that, but he knew that he wouldn’t, couldn’t stop until she was safe. He couldn’t.
His eyes down, Arad turned away again from Vatinyu and made for the exit of the command tent. At the threshold, he looked back at the Captain, forcing a soft smile to his lips. “You’re right, Captain. I need to put everything else from my mind and focus on doing the right thing here.” He nodded slowly to himself. “Thank you, Captain, for your kind words.”
Vatinyu bowed slightly, paradoxically more to the Lords’ Lands fashion than Somria’s, though Arad doubted he intended the irony. “I stand to serve, exec,” he droned formally.
“I’ll be certain to prove worthy of your respect, Captain,” Arad replied. “Expect a call to meet at dawn tomorrow. I’ll reveal my strategy then,” he added, silently hoping that he would have one to unveil.
・・
Elsano’s men had been quick. Of course, there had been only two officer’s tents to cast, that of Arad and Elsano, plus their own; much less work than would often be expected of them in the role of army support. The work they had done on Arad’s enclosure was impressive, regardless; it was a large, round tent raised around a centre post, had a heavy cloth floor, and was fully decorated inside with colourful rugs hanging from every wall, so that only the roof identified the structure as temporary. Furnishings were even provided, with a medium-sized table of considerable weight (Arad assumed it could be disassembled), four seats padded with heavy cloth and fur, and a pallet that looked more comfortable than the one back in Arad’s quarters at the garrison.
They had even placed maps of the island on the table with weights to hold them flat, and a vessel of what was probably watered wine stood on a pedestal with metal goblets surrounding it.
Arad shook his head in amazement at the opulence; it was a complete waste of coin and manpower. Then he noticed the soldier standing to the side of entrance, just before the man stepped forward, clearly about to offer service.
A manservant was too much. “Go about your business,” Arad snapped. Then, realizing that he was voicing anger at his father upon the soldier, he added, “I appreciate the offer, soldier, but I do not require a personal aide. Please enjoy your off-duty time, I shall call upon you if I need your services.”
The soldier bowed deeply; Arad would have guessed his age at about seventeen summers. Probably the men in his unit had drawn straws to see who was stuck with the undesirable duty of serving the Commander-General’s son; the young man couldn’t hide his relief. “My name is Golstrin. Please call for me if you need anything, exec. My tent is within hearing distance.” He motioned out the tent’s exit, to the left, then departed.
Arad bowed politely as the soldier left, then sat down on one of the chairs at the table.
He needed a plan.
After sitting there for a long while, he stood and went over to the vessel on the pedestal, and served himself drink. It was watered wine, as he had suspected. He was standing in the centre of the room sipping at the goblet, too restless to sit, when a voice called from outside.
“Master Arad, may I enter?” He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Of course,” he replied after a moment. In the middle of the camp he hardly needed to concern himself with security; still, he rested his right hand on his belt just in front of the dagger sheathed there, and—with some dismay—noted the elegant curve of his own sika resting against the frame of his sleeping pallet. He had hoped never to touch the blade again, but it had been brought by one of the men assigned to him as personal aides. He would, he realized only then, have to wear it, and perhaps use it.
The flap parted, and Captain Josel entered. Having not identified his voice, Arad realized that the man had not spoken at all on their first or second meetings. This surprised him, since the man had the authority of a leader about him, and certainly didn’t seem the type to defer. Why had he kept quiet?
Josel was only slightly above average height and weight, but seemed taller; he was broad across the shoulders and stood quite straight. He also moved with the grace and deliberation of a man who was accustomed to getting his way. He had fair hair—for a Somrian, meaning that it was medium brown—which he wore medium short, no doubt to keep his naturally tight curls under control. His eyes were relaxed, but his eyebrows were thick, lending him a serious air that was enhanced by the thick moustache and beard he wore on his chin—a rarity among Somrian soldiers.
He bowed formally, though not deeply; a polite gesture regardless of rank, which Arad returned.
“Would you like some wine?” Arad offered. “It is responsibly watered.”
“My thanks. No,” Josel replied.
Arad accepted his refusal smoothly, and motioned to a chair at the table. Josel sat wordlessly; Arad joined him.
“Are you a spy?” Josel asked suddenly.
Arad weighed the man with his eyes. Was he trying to prod a reaction out of him? He saw no sign of it, if so; Josel awaited his reply so matter-of-factly that it was almost as if he hadn’t asked so volatile a question.
“No,” Arad finally answered.
Josel took a deep breath, and released it. He nodded slowly. “Well, that’s good. It would have ended badly.”
He seemed to have completely accepted Arad’s reply at face value. Was he so confident in his capability to read people? Arad found himself wondering how many spies the man had interrogated. Was he one of those silent, violent psychopaths who seemed friendly until he put a knife in your throat?
Oddly, Arad couldn’t help but begin to trust the man. He came across so . . . clearly.
“Why are you here, then?” Josel asked.
Arad frowned. He had already answered that question in the group meeting, but Josel seemed to be asking it differently. He couldn’t specify why or how. “To capture the island,” he said.
Josel was shaking his head slowly, his lower lip tight. For a moment, Arad felt like he was a boy standing in his father’s office after being caught in some mischief. He consciously pushed the feeling away. He had no reason to feel guilty—it was his father who had done the wrong!
“Fairly said,” Josel commented flatly. “But what’s your motivation? It isn’t ambition. Or loyalty.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Or duty.”
Arad eyed Josel, who was gazing intently back. How could the man read him so clearly? Was it that obvious? “What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference,” Josel answered seriously, straightening. “I lead for glory and honour. To make a name for myself. To challenge myself against great men.”
Arad nodded. “Worthy ends. I won’t disgrace you,” he added suddenly. Why did I say that? He wasn’t comfortable with the direction the conversation was going. “Captain Josel, it’s been a long day, and—”
“He’s got something on you,” Josel said slowly. “Your father. You’re here because he wants you here. But you’re not happy about it.”
Arad glared at him. He was standing, he discovered. Josel had pushed his buttons, and he felt a cold fury building in him, yet it wasn’t directed at the captain. The rage was pure, and directed at his father. “Captain Josel, this discussion is leading nowhere,” he said quietly.
Josel shook his head. “Very wrong, Arad. A clear understanding of your motivations is very,
very important to me. I believe I’ve found it. Am I correct?”
Josel was still sitting, and appeared quite comfortable; Arad felt the rage fade suddenly, and he slumped back into his chair. Josel’s face was serious, but his eyes were friendly, and he had no reason to hate the man.
“My woman,” he said, not entirely sure why he would share such a thing. “He’s holding her hostage.”
Josel sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve changed my mind.” Without asking, he walking over to the wine vessel and poured himself a cup. He didn’t speak again until he had returned to the table and sat, sipped at the watered wine, and was again gazing at Arad. His expression was somber. “Sherzi—your father—is a superb strategist, and a dutiful officer. Unfortunately his honour is not always without question, and his methods can be . . . unnecessarily harsh.”
Arad was flabbergasted. Did he truly hear the man say such a thing to him, the son of the Commander-General? He became abruptly aware of the fact that they were in the middle of an army encampment. “It might be wise to keep your voice down in discussing such matters,” he suggested quietly.
“My men are all around us, and they are unquestioningly loyal,” Josel said calmly.
“So are mine, and I can’t vouch the same for them,” Arad replied pointedly.
Josel shrugged. “If the Commander-General decides to start executing his men for having opinions, the Overlord will quickly become suspicious of him.”
“Yalcin Rex wouldn’t have such a problem with a court martial,” Arad countered.
Josel considered. Then he shrugged again. “I doubt even your father would go around removing his most successful officers in wartime,” he said; not a boast, Arad realized, but a mere statement of fact. “But that’s meaningless. So he’s holding your woman to force you to battle. It would not be the first time,” he observed. “Though it’s usually reserved for cowardly patricians who refuse to fight for their nation.”
Arad nodded numbly. “You needn’t worry about my performance. I’ll do anything to win this fight, to keep her safe.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Josel laughed. He drank from his goblet as Arad frowned at him. “I can win this battle without any help at all.”
“Then why haven’t you?” Arad asked. It was only half a barb, and he momentarily felt guilty, but Josel only chuckled.
“Good question. Simple answer. Too many cooks . . .” he started, waggling his finger as if writing the rest of the saying in the air about him.
“I see,” Arad replied thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve been sitting here attempting to come up with a brilliant strategy, but I have no experience leading an army, not to mention doing so on an island in the south seas. Are you saying that you know how to win this, but haven’t been able to do so because of lack of cooperation from all of the other captains?”
“Not all,” Josel clarified calmly, raising a finger before his nose. “Just one. And yes, if he wasn’t preventing me from implementing my plan, this would be over within a tenday.”
“I wish I could help,” Arad said, exasperated. “But I can’t even—oh.”
Josel was smiling at him with a feral expression.
Arad drank from his cup, the warm wine sour in his throat. “What are you suggesting I do about it? I’ve already made it clear that I am not taking command of this army. If I change that position, I’ll lose them all.”
“You already told him what would happen if he refused to accept your position as your father’s representative. You’ve also made it easy on him by not giving him a reason to challenge you. So . . .” Josel pausing, raising both eyebrows, then closed his eyes and took a long sip from his wine. He placed it on the table firmly. “Give him a reason.”
Arad considered. “You’re asking me to put a lot of trust in you,” he observed. “From a single conversation. You haven’t even told me how he’s preventing you from succeeding. Or why he would do such a thing,” he added.
Josel nodded slowly. “That’s true. Do you?” he asked.
“Do I what?” Arad asked, confused.
“Trust me,” Josel replied.
Arad sat there for a long moment, looking at him. Josel sat across from him quietly, holding his gaze, and waiting. He appeared to already know the answer. He appeared to already know all the answers.
It scared him to admit it, but Arad was certain he already had one answer, anyway. He hoped it wasn’t the wrong one. “Ya,” he admitted.
Josel stood. He wasn’t smiling. “Promise to get rid of Lukos,” he said quietly, as if he were finally concerned of being overheard, “and I’ll show you my plan. You will have them off this island in days, or you can have my sword. Think on it. If the answer is yes, just give me a few moments before dawn, and you’ll be ready for your briefing.” He turned and strode briskly out.
Arad sat there for a long time. He had only just arrived, and he found himself in the middle of a squabble between officers. His training told him that he should send both the captains home, removing the issue entirely, then decide the fate of the mission himself.
But his instincts told him otherwise. Though he had spent precious little time with the man, he had a sense that Josel was truly a brilliant tactician, and an honourable man. He believed that if he could remove the obstacles in Josel’s way they would be victorious, and he could go home with his father’s prize firmly in hand.
He supposed that he would then be able to demand Sayri fairly, and his father might just acquiesce.
Was it all just fancy?
He hoped not. He had to have faith in something.
32 SAYRI
Sayri woke with a start. She had been dreaming of bees in a forest, whirling in a cloud amongst the trees and bushes. Somehow, she hadn’t been watching the bees; she had been the swarm. All the bees, all at once. The impression of being a multitude of tiny entities, all swarming together, moving, thinking, and acting as one—it hung with her as she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Could a person be one of many, part of a myriad whole, and yet still be aware of herself? It seemed foolishness, but somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling.
It was still dark outside when she stepped out to the patio, wrapped only in a robe; one of Ooji’s, and too short for her. The air was becoming colder, she noticed; it was probably close to snowing in the Lower Valley, if not already. Her face scrunched up in worry as she thought of home—it had been nearly a year now since the horrible snowstorms of last winter, and she didn’t even know if her parents and brothers were all right . . . or even alive. She trembled in the morning chill and held her arms about herself.
They have to be all right.
Couldn’t she go back home, she wondered? See her family, and see the winter? Run in the snow, take Arad to see the frozen waterfalls in the hills—
Arad . . . thinking of him brought new worries to her mind. Where was he?
Sayri sucked in the cold air and felt it fill her lungs and cool her chest. When she released it, she could just barely see tufts of mist in the dry air. She had been at Win Wal and Ooji’s house for nearly a full turning of the moon. Win Wal had not returned. Ooji had gone to the garrison every day to look for Arad and ask after him, albeit carefully; she didn’t want to tip off Arad’s father of Sayri’s presence.
Every day she came back with no news, of Arad or Win Wal. Ooji wasn’t concerned for her man; she knew Win Wal could take care of himself—”If army dig deep hole and bury Win Wal in, he not die, just eat dirt until he out,” Ooji had said cryptically when Sayri asked if she was worried. If it was a joke, Sayri didn’t get it, but clearly Ooji was losing no sleep over her man’s absence.
The same could not be true of Sayri, to be sure. Every day that no word of Arad reached her ears, she became more troubled. Where was he being held? How long would his father keep him locked up? Was he all right?
She was able, at the very least, to dismiss the last as a major concern. However the Commander-General was angered with his son, she refused to believe he
could cause harm to come to him. Why bring him all the way here just to kill him? No, thankfully she simply couldn’t believe that.
Ooji would already be in the garrison by now; she rose well before dawn, when the first blue glow appeared on the eastern horizon. Now, the sun was nearly rising.
In the Lower Valley, is it daylight already?
Her feet were cold; she had lost track of time standing barefoot on the patio. Sayri went back into the house and prepared to start a fire. Arad had built a hearth into the back of the house, and it had been welcome as the autumn nights grew colder.
She had just placed dried manure in the hearth—wood was too expensive in the north, Ooji had told her, though Sayri found this silly with a forest just over the Wall—when it came.
Go to the volcano.
She was startled; she hadn’t heard the Voice in many, many moons, except for the exercises with Ooji that first day, but that had been . . . different. She had asked, it had answered. Somehow, it wasn’t the same as when the Voice spoke to her unexpectedly, as if it were another person thinking with her mind. When was the last time? Had it been a year? She couldn’t remember.
She waited for more, but nothing came.
What is a volcano? she thought. Nothing.
How wonderfully helpful.
She had the fire going and was warming her bare feet before it, when she heard footsteps coming up the path. Sayri leapt up and went to the entrance, carefully concealing herself behind the corner as she peered out; then, seeing Ooji coming up the path, she went outside to welcome her, wondering why the old woman had come back so quickly.
“Ooji Elder, is all well?” she asked, seeing her teacher’s expression, which was creased with worry.
“I find news, Say-ree,” Ooji said as she arrived, slightly out of breath from walking so quickly.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 38