“And if you lose, will we be any better off, with the Deceiver shaping our future?”
“To me, what you ask is by far the greater loss.” Her lips quirked in ironic amusement. “I can’t—I won’t—embrace despair, Giles Horvath, not when I see in my foe’s eyes the soul of someone who’s already walked that road.” She sank back to her chair, face revealing her astonishment at how unexpectedly she’d tripped over this revelation.
“That’s why she’s here,” Elora marveled. “Not out of hope but from its opposite. Despair. She’s lost everything, she’s said as much herself. That’s the core of her determination, to prevent us, but most of all to prevent herself, from enduring that horror again.”
“But is she you? Do you walk the same path? Taking action, Elora, may be the mistake that brought her to this pass.”
She nodded. “Could very well be. So all I can do, my friend, is ask you to trust me. Too many have suffered and died in my defense already. Right or wrong, I have to try.” She gave the Professor a rueful grin that made her look even younger than her years. “The Hope of the World,” she told him, “can do no less.”
Late the next day, newsboys were in full cry with the news from Tregare. The fort had fallen.
Comments over supper that evening in Giles Horvath’s loft were grim and the assessments bleak. There was speculation about the Council coming to some rapprochement with the Maizan. The rationale was persuasive. True, the Maizan were the most formidable of military foes, with little tendency to mercy on the battlefield, but the word from the territories they’d conquered over the past few years had been surprisingly good. Their rule was strict but the laws were enforced fairly; their administration could almost be described as “enlightened.” By contrast, the history of the Republic was thick with tales of the various Chengwei incursions, and the depredations that accompanied them. They were the stuff of nightmares.
In their hearts, the people still yearned to follow Elora’s banner, but this was a time when many felt the need to close the casket around their hearts and trust to their heads instead. To do what was practicable rather than what they hoped was right. They had faith, it just wasn’t enough to sustain them.
“You could rally them,” Giles suggested.
“I rallied the soldiers at Tregare.”
“And that battle may prove the stuff of legend. They stopped the Chengwei advance dead in its tracks for nigh a fortnight.”
“And how many of them escaped to tell the tale, Giles? I don’t want my legacy to be a fable celebrating how bravely and nobly my people died. Haven’t you heard the stories being told out on the street?”
“That lot respects nobody and nothing, ignore them.”
“The peace offered by the Prophecy of Elora is the eternal peace of the grave, that’s what they’re saying—and I haven’t much of an argument against them! I was just thinking earlier today, if I manage to find a way to victory over the Deceiver and restore the proper order of nature and the seasons, I’ll only make things worse. A normal winter won’t be much of a hindrance to the Chengwei onslaught and even if it was, all they need do is wait till spring and start again. Oh damn,” she cried, pacing like a caged cat back and forth across the nearly empty loft, Horvath having given most of his students liberty for the evening, “oh damn, this is so hard. Wheels within bloody wheels, every action interlinked, interacting with another. I can’t just deal with the Deceiver without finding a way to counter the other forces she’s set in motion.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Bless my soul,” a woman said, her familiar voice a surprise to Elora, as Khory Bannefin escorted her up the stairs to the loft. “The Sacred Princess Elora Danan actually asking advice, will wonders never cease.”
Elora drew herself to her full height, and allowed a thin-lipped smile as she noted she’d gained a couple of inches on the other woman.
“Anakerie,” she said, greeting the Princess Royal of Angwyn and the current Warlord of the Maizan as an equal.
There was one other title that Anakerie possessed, but did not use, that of Consort to the Castellan. She had known him since childhood and for a time had been wildly in love with him, in that special way unique to adolescent girls of a certain age and a rebellious nature. The regard she felt for his nomadic people was deeper, more akin to the love she felt for her own nation. Left to their wandering ways they could not help but become a lasting threat to Angwyn as the western kingdom consolidated its borders and inevitably expanded inland. Her goal had been to find a way to integrate them into the Realm. Thanks to the Deceiver that objective had been achieved, but in a way she never anticipated. Now it was the Maizan who held sway in her land and she fought, not for their future, but for the survival of her own people.
She was a woman of character, which is to say she was not pretty. Paradoxically, hers were the kind of features that would mark her in any crowd and make her the natural center of attention. She possessed an allure that was the hallmark of a leader and needed no enhancements to proclaim the fact. Her clothes were plain and serviceable, remarkable only in the quality of material and workmanship, so fine in both cases the work had probably been done by fairy tailors. Her hair was gathered in a thick mane and, save for an insubordinate forelock, held in place by her only ornament, a narrow circlet of silver. She appeared to be unarmed; no sword hung from the empty frogs on her belt, but Elora knew that was a deceit. In a fight, Anakerie could be trusted to be as prickly with steel as a porcupine with quills and far deadlier with their use.
“How’s Ryn?” Elora asked of Anakerie’s brother, grievously wounded weeks ago when a band of High Elves had attacked Sandeni during a parlay between Anakerie and the government of the Republic.
“I returned him to the sea.” That had been a hard decision for her. “My medicines could do nothing for him, he felt he had a better chance among our mother’s people, the Wyrrn.” She liked admitting that even less.
Giles coughed uncomfortably. Though no official state of war existed between Sandeni and the Maizan, that was considered only a formality. Both states currently stood on the brink of open hostility because the Deceiver’s goal was to subdue the entire continent and that could not be done while Sandeni remained free. He knew Anakerie by reputation, which was fierce, and wasn’t at all thrilled to have her in his library. Neither were the few remaining apprentices, who very quietly drifted close beside their weapons as Anakerie climbed the stairway.
In its way, their reaction was a gesture of considerable respect and Anakerie responded with a smile of appreciation, a regal nod of the head. The odds against her were considerable but save for the presence of Khory and possibly Elora herself, she had little doubt of the outcome of any fight. Then, after a second, far more assessing glance toward Giles himself, she amended that assessment to include him as a foe worthy of the name.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” Giles said with the courtesy he felt was due even an uninvited guest, “but my understanding was that discussions between you and our Chancellor were broken off after the attack.”
“It seemed prudent since our safety in Sandeni could not be guaranteed. What a difference a few weeks makes, eh? An accommodation that was anathema then is suddenly quite feasible. And at the invitation of the Sacred Princess, an elven Princess dances with a Daikini, only a wee while after a Wild Hunt of those selfsame elves butchered my escort, my brother, and damn’ near me in the bargain? Your timing could be improved, girl. And your wisdom.”
“Some moments have to be seized. They dictate their own timing. For myself, I’d rather have Greater Faery as an ally. I’d rather have the Maizan there as well.”
“We are sworn to our Castellan. We are obedient to his will.”
“Then why have you come, Keri? You know your precious Castellan is dead—!”
“Yes! And what monster wears his face and
form like a cloak. I don’t need you to tell me that. But Mohdri is Maizan born and I am of Angwyn. Yes, I’ve proved myself in battle. Yes, the Maizan will follow me. But only to a point. I’m taking my heart in my hands by simply being here. I need to know your intentions.”
“The better to defeat them?” Elora challenged.
Anakerie made no reply but kept her eyes locked on Elora.
“Do you ask this for yourself, milady?” Elora demanded.
“Am I the Castellan’s cat’s-paw, do you mean?” Anakerie was genuinely amused by the accusation. She had to concede, though, that the girl was growing into her role far faster and more effectively than any had expected. “If so, then there’s nothing left of me.”
“You could stand with us.”
“If I were as free an agent as Bannefin, that’s a call worth consideration and I thank you for it. But I’m as bound by obligations as you and Drumheller, Elora—to Angwyn by birth and rank, to the Maizan by a pledge of honor. I’ve shed my blood for both and sent warriors to die at my command. I’ll not abandon them. I look to you, girl, for a hope of saving them. Until then, I do my duty—and if that means taking Sandeni by diplomacy and negotiation instead of by storm, I’ll weep no tears.”
“One of us or the other will greet the new year,” Elora said, meaning herself and the Deceiver, as if she’d only just come to that decision. “Not both.”
Anakerie returned her proclamation with a curt nod, all business once more.
“Then I wish you well, Highness,” she said.
“And I, you, Royal Highness.”
“May fortune favor us both.”
The Princess Royal spun on her heel and with crisp, military cadence returned to the stairs. She paused before descending and without looking back, almost as an afterthought, tossed a last few words over her shoulder to Elora. “When next you chance upon Thorn Drumheller,” she said casually, “tell him he is in my thoughts.”
For Elora, there was nothing of either warlord or Princess in Anakerie’s tone, only the ache of a woman who misses the one she loves and can never have.
“As you are in his, lady.”
“Would that were so.” And Anakerie was gone.
“Where’d you find her?” Elora asked Khory.
“She found me, looking for you.”
“Everyone’s favorite pastime these days. I suppose we ought to inform Renny Garedo of how porous city security is. The next Maizan visit may not be so peaceful.”
“Actually, Elora Danan, it was the Constable who brought her to me. He’s waiting out front.” With that, the warrior hurried after the Maizan Warlord, to see her safely back the way she came.
“Discreet as ever.” Elora chuckled. “If he doesn’t come inside, he doesn’t see me. If he doesn’t see me, he can’t place me in custody. Very neat.”
“What was that all about?” Giles asked. Despite Anakerie’s departure, there was no lessening of the tension in the room. She had that effect on people, as did Khory. They were both so tangibly dangerous a presence it was impossible to relax until a fair while after they’d gone. No one wanted to be caught short if they came back. With those two, there was no such thing as a second chance.
“Just reminding me of the lay of the land between us, is all,” she told him.
“She cares for the Nelwyn, I caught that at the end.”
Elora said nothing, making plain that that was none of Giles’s business. He caught the message and let the subject drop as Elora leaned against the huge skylight and tried for a view of the street below. The angle of the roof made that impossible. A low mist made visibility worse, restricting her sight to less than half a block.
“I should have gone back, Giles.”
“To Tregare? Don’t be daft, child.”
“Everyone keeps calling me that,” she snapped with a flare of asperity. “I’m not, you know!”
“That point conceded. Doesn’t make the other any less daft.” He took her by the shoulders. “Tregare was a battle, Elora. This is a war.”
“I know the difference, Professor. Drumheller thought it right to stay—!”
“And as right to send you away. Was he wrong?”
“I understand his decision, all right? The people we evacuated needed me, and me alone, to bring them to safety. But I could have gone back, maybe gotten the others out.”
“Instead you stayed and availed yourself of a resource—myself, my students, my library—that might help you achieve ultimate victory. Those are the trade-offs required of a leader.”
“I’d feel better if those resources provided me with an answer or three.”
Giles smiled. “Have faith, as you’re so fond of telling others.”
She started to make him a rude face, and then stiffened, hushing the room with a peremptory wave of the hand as she turned in a slow pivot, head canted to catch a repeat of that wayward wisp of sound. On her shoulder, Rool checked his weapons, making sure they were loose in their various sheaths and scabbards, while Elora reached into her traveling pouch and drew forth the sword she’d brought back from the Dragon’s Realm. In a single, smooth motion, she tucked the scabbard through her belt and settled it over her left hip.
“Rool,” she hissed, “did you hear?”
“Not sure” was his reply. “Don’t want to be.”
“There’s trouble,” she told Giles as she bolted for the stairs.
“How do you know?”
“I just do! Trust me! And be ready.”
“For the Maizan?”
“We should be so lucky! I’ll be back, quick as I can!”
As she feared, the mist was murderously thick, making this a night for knife-fighting, up close and frighteningly personal.
She heard the faint tinkling of bells and she gasped with recognition, stifling a fear and a desire to run and hide.
“How can that monster be here?” she demanded, mostly of herself.
“Monsters generally go where they please,” Rool replied acerbically, to mask a fear of his own to match Elora’s. “Most folks believe in ignorance and bolted shutters to keep them out.”
“The mist diffuses the damn bells; I can’t tell where he is.” Despite herself, Elora sounded frantic, her voice jumping to the breathy upper register of a girl.
“Take some breaths, Elora Danan,” Rool cautioned. “Calm yourself. Then you can decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Whether to be hunter or prey.”
“You call that a choice, brownie?”
“It’s one brownies never have to make. Since all you Tall Folk consider us prey, we turn the tables by acting as hunters. Beats you near every time.”
“No sign of Khory or Renny or Anakerie,” Elora muttered as she moved along the center of the street, her sword drawn and held at the ready. “Franjean?” she asked of Rool, hoping he might have some contact with him.
“Masked,” the brownie told her. “All I know for sure is that he’s still alive.”
“That’s a start.”
Despite the dampness to the air, Elora’s mouth grew drier with every step. Her feet were silent on the cobblestones but she didn’t think that mattered, since her heart was pounding louder than a drum.
They reached the nearest river, the Paschal, and crossed the bridge that led from University to the isle of Madaket, and a new apprehension gripped Elora, a fear for her friends at Black-Eyed Susan’s, the tavern where she made her home in Sandeni. Her eagles were in residence there as well, Bastian and Anele, together with their brood of hatchlings.
She thought she heard those damnable bells again, almost cried out in relief as their chiming was suddenly overthrown by the grunt of colliding bodies, the sound of feet scuffling for purchase, the wailing ululation of a man feeling the burning stroke of a blade through his belly.
That
brawl nearly proved a fatal distraction for her as another body hurtled from the darkness to ram full-tilt into her. Down they went, limbs atangle, the analytical part of Elora dutifully recording that her assailant seemed as surprised by the collision as she, since both of them lost their main weapons, swords skibbling out of easy reach. Worse for Elora, her tumble landed Rool beneath her, unharmed but prevented from bringing any of his own weapons to bear. Her assailant kneed her, hoping for something soft and yielding in her anatomy and cursing when he struck her hip, which actually hurt him more. Next came a short jab to her skull that splashed stars across her vision and filled her mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He had weight on her and was gaining position; she didn’t want to consider her fate if he got wholly on top.
There was a dagger tucked in her belt, the smaller sibling of her sword, with a blade the length of her upper arm. In the same movement, she yanked it free of its scabbard and across the front of her foe, feeling it skitter uselessly across mail. Realizing she had a weapon, he flailed for her wrist but she was too quick for him, reversing her grip on the haft and plunging it into his thigh.
He shrieked, she kicked, and just that easily found herself free. There was nothing graceful about her own escape as she bellied herself over to her sword and tucked into a combat roll that brought her to her feet in a crouch, ready for battle. Off to the side, Rool had alighted on a cobblestone. He stood with bow drawn, arrow nocked, ready to charge the shaft with a portion of his life force and unleash it into the heart of their foe.
The man, recognized now by his uniform as a Barontës, lay still. That glance was all Elora needed to tell that he was dead, his hands still clutching his upper leg in a futile attempt to stem the geyser of blood from the severed femoral artery. The vessel was thick as a finger. Cut it and death would come in seconds.
A banshee sounded from the darkness, the ghastly cry the elves of Greater Faery used to announce their Wild Hunt, and Khory charged into the fray, flanged mace in one hand, short ax in the other. A half-dozen of the Barontës rose to meet her and fell before her almost as quickly as she laid about herself to lethal effect. There was no elegance to her attack and nothing in the way of rules or mercy.
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