The second mode of surrender: forgetfulness of self. Oh, why wouldn’t he shut up?
“I’d guess the prince is a very good reader,” Tynaiv said, amusing himself. “Top notch at recitations, hmm?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Just last night he read me a poem. What was it, ‘The Tale of the Rat from Talon’?”
Tynaiv stepped in front of her and put his sword to her collar. “I gave you a chance to come willingly, remember? To surrender that wretched thing so there would be no war. You chose this for yourself.”
She searched his face, unbelieving. “How do you change so easily? You allowed my escape. You made me . . .” Tess paused. “You made me believe you cared for me.”
Tynaiv lowered his sword. The skin beneath his eyes reflected a dull, dark purple. “And yet, you made no sign you cared for me,” he said sharply.
Tess found it suddenly difficult to breathe. He lowered his gaze.
Tynaiv softened. “Remember the first time I saw you, at the festival?”
The third mode of surrender—Tess gritted her teeth and started to walk again—let go of what you want to happen in the future.
“You were so proud and fine, already drinking in the privileges of your position,” Tynaiv said, following closely. “But you aren’t the same girl now. Dressed like a common villager and joining up with goatherds.”
Tess heard Tynaiv pause. She turned, and he pointed at her with the sword. “You remind me . . . you look like the village girls from Talon dressed like that. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve had a healthy dose of reality down with the little people, Tess.” The dimple in his scruff appeared, and he looked her up and down.
“The only little person I have ever met is you,” Tess snapped. “Men like Asher are courageous and loyal. You are courageous only in the dark, and loyal only to yourself.”
Suddenly, violently, Tynaiv pulled Tess toward him by her arm. “You want me to prove myself to you? You want some kind of grand gesture?”
By now, Tynaiv and his army had reached the top of the cliffs, where Nobleman’s Road intersected with the main road. Glademont Castle lay visible in the distance. And while the men came to an uneasy halt, Tynaiv stood among them, gripping Tess’s arm.
“Lieutenant Pilt,” Tynaiv called to one of his soldiers. The lieutenant trotted up from among the Sands. Tess didn’t like his guarded expression.
“For King Nabal, till death, General,” he muttered with a half-hearted salute.
Tynaiv patted the lieutenant’s shoulder. “This lady will give you a very valuable bauble. I want you to keep it safe, and when you present it to Nabal, he will reward you handsomely.”
“This is your grand gesture?” Tess tried to shove Tynaiv away, but his hand clasped fast about her arm.
“Give it to him, Tess, and I’ll let you go. I swear it,” he whispered inches from her face. “I’ll meet you. Back in the Hinge. Under the sugar maple . . .” He held her there, blue eyes watering and sun-tanned arms flinching.
“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” she shot back. “You should be.”
“Gladly, General.” Pilt pulled a deadly hatchet from a holster. He grinned at Tess.
“Stand down, Lieutenant.” Tynaiv pointed a finger at Pilt.
“You’re nothing but a cowardly barnacle,” Pilt said. “Leaching wherever you land. I know your game, friend. You want me to do the dirty work, and you’ll take credit.” He twirled the hatchet. “You never come right out and say what you’re doing, do you, General? Come now, Lady Tresseme. Let us see this bauble.” Pilt gathered Tess’s loose hair in his fist. She pressed the shenìl against her stomach, pulling away from him. Tynaiv retreated.
“You don’t know what you are doing, Atheonian,” she cried.
Pilt yanked her head backward, and Tess felt her neck might break. He pushed a knee into the small of her back, forcing her to the ground. From behind, he slid the blade of his hatchet under her hands so the orbs of the shenìl rested on the shining metal. The surrounding men cheered, calling for her blood. Pilt released Tess’s hair to reach for the object in her hands.
“No,” she screamed.
Pilt’s fingers grasped the copper orbs, and Tess felt a jolt of heat surge through her body and into her hands. The shenìl remained cold and dull. But Pilt stumbled backward, yelling in fear.
“Argh . . .” He groaned and swung his arms. “My eyes!”
Tess kicked the inside of the lieutenant’s knee, laying him flat. Then, an earsplitting cry of anguish tore through the air. Terrified, Tess scrambled to her feet and saw an Atheonian soldier lying in the road next to Pilt, a painted arrow through his heart.
“We’re under attack,” cried Tynaiv’s men.
Tess scanned the ranks behind her and thought she saw a flash of gold.
“They’ve come up the cliffs,” said an officer as he drew his sword.
In an instant, heavy arms encircled Tess and tossed her in the air. Tynaiv threw Tess over his broad shoulder and ran between his own men, away from the cliffs.
“Formation around the battering ram. Archers, make for those boulders and bring the animals down first. No prisoners.” He continued sprinting through the ranks, away from the fray.
Tess tried to scream for help, but his shoulder jabbed so violently into her stomach, she could hardly keep from vomiting. Atheonians scattered all around Tess as she fought for one breath, then another. She heard a beautiful sound in the distance—the shrieking whinnies of ponies and the rowdy cries of horse breeders. With every ounce of her strength, Tess fought against Tynaiv’s grip to watch the battle behind her.
Then Tess saw them.
A magnificent cantering elk stag carrying a rider with a longbow emerged from the dust. They took the road, passing Atheonians on both sides. The elk blasted archers with spells from his nose and mouth while the rider kept his next arrow fixed on one target alone: Tynaiv.
“Halt, foreigner,” Linden commanded when they finally gained on Tess and her captor.
Tynaiv swung around, flinging Tess to the ground. She rolled in the dirt and landed on her back. The clear sky seemed to spin, and Tess couldn’t find her voice to call out to Linden.
“I warned you, General.” Linden leapt from Currant’s back. “I said if you hurt her, your blood would be mine by rights.”
“Who, this lady?” Tynaiv studied the prone Tess like a botanist with a bloom. “She looks all right to me,” he said, drawing his sword from his waist. “A little soap, maybe . . .”
With fists clenched and face flushed, Linden charged at Tynaiv, who nimbly stepped aside. Linden stumbled but managed to pivot. He swung on Tynaiv, his fist landing squarely on the sailor’s ear. Tynaiv fell and his sword flew from his hand.
Linden stood over him, waiting.
“Oh, I see.” Tynaiv spat the soil from his mouth. “An honor code? Bad manners to kick a man on all fours?”
“Maybe.” Linden flexed his bruised hand. “Or maybe I’d like to watch you fall again.”
He stooped to grab Tynaiv’s shirt, and Tynaiv kicked Linden in the ribs with surprising speed. Two blows to the side, and Tess could hear the crack of bones. Linden doubled over, gasping.
“Now would be a fair time to inform you”—Tynaiv got to his feet—“I adhere to no such code.” He drove a knee against Linden’s chest and sent him sprawling.
Currant leapt forward, planting himself between the rivals.
“I could kill you just as easily as I did those hounds on the cliffs,” he warned.
Tynaiv kept his eyes locked on Currant as he took a cautious step toward Linden. “I’ve made a living of being underestimated, my friend.”
Tess finally found her breath again. She managed to pluck Tynaiv’s sword from the ground.
“You are surrounded, Tynaiv.” Tess dug Tynaiv’s sword none too
gently into his back. Tynaiv did not move.
Then, out of the midday sky came the humming of arrows. Dozens of them sank into the ground all around Tess’s feet, and one arrow glanced against Currant’s antlers and slashed Tess’s side. Crying out, she dropped the sword.
Linden rose to his feet and dove for the sword. “Get back to the FOM, Currant,” he commanded with difficulty, grasping the Atheonian weapon. “Stop the battering ram.”
Currant paused as another volley of arrows shot over their heads. The clamor of battle had reached them. Despite the efforts of the FOM, the battering ram was advancing.
“Go,” Linden repeated.
Currant turned back to the battle, formed a spherical golden shield, and repelled a fresh barrage of Atheonian arrows.
Meanwhile, Linden brandished Tynaiv’s sword with a drooping arm. The seaman drew his dagger. They locked eyes.
Tess was so transfixed on the duel, she did not see the skinny, stooping Atheonian bandit until he was upon her. “’Ere, you wouldn’t blind me, would yeh, m’dear?” He snaked an arm about Tess’s waist. She threw her elbow across his nose and spun out of his grasp. Even at a full sprint, she knew she couldn’t outrun the whole Atheonian army. She fumbled for the shenìl, but it was useless. She was too distraught over the battle between Linden and Tynaiv to concentrate on anything else.
“My lady.” Jesse emerged from a bundle of braided ponies, all sending ferocious streams of golden magic toward the ever-advancing battering ram. Above him sailed Wyndeling.
Tess scrambled onto Jesse’s back. “I am glad to find you safe,” he said.
“Indeed,” said the red owl as she landed upon Tess’s forearm. “So am I.”
“Wyndeling, thank Irgo you’re still alive.”
“I knew the archers would have me if I tried to free you myself. Or worse, Tynaiv would finish you. So, I flew for Currant and the prince,” she said. “I am glad to be at your side once more, my lady.”
Tess risked a look back into the battle and saw Tynaiv on his knees. Linden brandished the point of a sword under the foreigner’s chin.
Tynaiv smiled. The expression reminded Tess of their meeting in the royal garden, when he knew she was taken with him. Linden stepped forward and hammered the butt of his sword against Tynaiv’s skull, and the Atheonian general crumpled at Linden’s feet.
A cold sensation sprang in Tess’s insides.
All around them, scores of soldiers and a few dozen bloodhounds battled the ponies of Foggy Plains, whose sturdy hooves delivered blow after blow. But the herds had been severely cut down, leaving only a few skilled enough in golden magic to combat the hounds. Currant protected the remaining bondfellows, sending a glittering pair of antlers into the Atheonian throng.
Jesse shook his mane. “We must reach the castle before the battering ram, Lady Tessamine.”
Tess peered through the melee and saw Linden inspecting Tynaiv’s body. But a soldier assailed him from behind, and Linden disappeared from view.
“Linden!”
Atheonians covered the road ahead of the rolling battering ram. They were almost upon her. Jesse reared, bringing his hooves down on a soldier. His forelegs hit the ground again, and Tess knew there was no more time. Her heart struggled to beat under the weight of fear. She drew her head against Jesse’s neck. The stallion bolted for the castle and Wyndeling took flight. They raced northward, and Tess begged the skies for deliverance.
Chapter 45
king Nabal brooded on a stool in his tent, his battle-axe spinning slowly between his palms. He felt the revolting presence of that weasel Cojab quivering just inside the tent flap.
“Tell me you have broken through,” he said through his beaded beard.
Lord Cojab froze. Did he really think himself that inconspicuous?
“My king,” he began.
“Tell me you have gotten through that damned barrier, or I will shave that mustache off of your face—and your nose along with it.” It was something he’d been meaning to do, anyway.
“M-my lord, please understand; we have never dealt with this before. None of us knows magic, and the hounds are afraid to go near it. We lost so many when the bear—”
The king stood, lowering his axe to his side as he approached Cojab. The silk-wearing rooster stared in disbelief, as though no one had ever expected him to do anything before. Probably no one had, with King Yuir relying solely on his high ancestry to run a starving kingdom. Nabal’s broad hand caught Cojab by the shirt. “Glademont’s reinforcements are on their way here, right now.” He shook the man. “If we can’t get past that damned magic moat, we’ll be sitting ducks. They’ll have us cornered. This is our last chance, fool. With the goods from these lands, we can feed the people of Atheos. We will flourish again. Do you not see?” The aristocrat turned purple with fear. His fingers fumbled helplessly at Nabal’s hand.
In swooped the crow, landing impassively on Nabal’s shoulder. “Do not be troubled, my king. Your soldiers march from the crossroads as we speak, battering ram in tow. The rabble from the valley delayed us only a little.”
Nabal tossed Cojab to the ground. Of course he did not see. He wanted nothing more than to live in luxury as he always had, no matter how much the rest of his countrymen wasted away. Spineless. All of them. “Take reinforcements to the battering ram,” Nabal barked. “Go.”
Cojab mumbled a word of compliance before exiting the tent.
“That bear’s moat . . . ,” Nabal said to his counselor. A day before, he watched it pull the mercenaries down into the earth, as soon as they were within reach. Their deaths marked the beginning of the end of that battle. Nabal would not be so cavalier with the lives of his soldiers, some of whom helped him bring down Yuir.
“We will use the battering ram as a bridge,” the crow said. “The hounds will push the ram over it using their powers. Our men will cross over and pull the battering ram to safety.”
“Leaving what’s left of the rabble trapped behind that moat.” A smile of understanding crept across the king’s face.
“Precisely.”
Nabal pulled back the tent flap and looked out toward Glademont Castle. All around the royal tent, hounds and mercenaries nursed their wounds or cleaned their weapons, while raptors from the Hinge sulked on the branches of the pine trees above.
Nabal’s eyes settled on the glowing obstacle that surged in a wide circle around the castle. He gritted his teeth as he remembered the sight of the great bear splitting the earth open and filling the wide crevice with swirling golden water. Nabal was a great warrior, traveling all over the continent on Yuir’s orders. He and his men raided remote villages just to keep half of Atheos alive. It was never enough. Nabal’s skill as a hardened soldier eventually won him the throne. But in Atheos, things were easier; one could overtake a spoiled monarch with the strength of an axe. This place was different; it was bewitched.
“Counselor,” he said, “what do you know of this golden magic?”
“My king?” The crow flitted his tail.
Relying on magic was like playing with fire, that much Nabal knew. He rarely raided villages where animals were treated like people. The stars never worked in his favor, then. Nevertheless, he’d agreed to the hounds, against his better judgment. Here they were, reaping the reward for that foolish decision. King Nabal made a point never to meet an enemy blind, and he didn’t intend to be caught unawares again. “They say it was you who taught the dogs red magic.” He felt the crow on his shoulder stiffen.
“Idle gossip, my liege,” the crow replied calmly. “The hounds came to me already skilled in the art. That is what makes them so valuable to us.”
“You know nothing of sorcery, then? You could not take this moat down without the battering ram?”
“I am a simple creature, my lord. Feathers, mind, and beak are my tools.”
“I wonder.” The king
fingered his axe.
“Sire—” A mercenary tumbled toward the tent. “A lady on a horse is comin’ straight at us. Can we shoot her, m’lord, or do you want her? She looks like that girl you wus lookin’ for, Smooth Crow—”
“Mind your tongue,” the crow burst out. “You stand before the king.”
Nabal narrowed his eyes and started to say something, but the counselor did not give him the opportunity. “The girl, is her hair black? Does she ride a horse with a white mane and tail?”
“Yes, Counselor. Like I—”
“That scampering little mouse. I’ll break her neck myself—”
“What’s all this, Counselor?” Nabal demanded.
“My lord, this is that spoiled girl betrothed to Prince Linden. Capture her, and you will have Glademont on its knees. You could take the castle and not lose a single soldier.”
“I do not barter,” the king said. “I threaten, and then I make good on my threats.”
“Naturally, my lord.” Talons dug into the king’s shoulder like a cat’s kneading claws. “But the Glademontians don’t know that about you. They’ve grown so anemic, they do not recognize strength when they see it. You remember that pitiful letter? Keep the girl alive just long enough to get close to the scheming Aideen, then cut them all down.” His rasp thickened.
The thought of taunting the queen of Glademont appealed to Nabal. He pictured Aideen holding her arms out for the girl. Then he saw himself telling her that the prince was dead and she would have no heir. And with a stroke of his axe . . . the soldiers would love him for it. Atheos, in time, would honor him for it.
The king grasped his weapon. “Take down the horse and bring the girl here,” he shouted at the bandit, who scuttled away. “She may even know a thing or two about golden magic. Eh, Counselor?”
“One can only hope, my liege.” The talons relaxed.
Suddenly, the king felt beneath his feet the unmistakable pounding of hooves.
“Plague’s corpse, is that the princess brat? I thought I told you insects to shoot that horse down.”
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