Moments after he ghosted from her side, she heard the repeated clack of flint against steel. A tiny flare of light bloomed in the woods as Fess relit the fire.
When the flames had strengthened to the point she could see again, Fess stood facing her. “Bronwyn never mentioned such a use of the gift, Lady Deel. She maintained that any attempt to give one person’s memories to another would fail.”
“There are too many unspoken questions there for me to know which one you intend to ask,” she said.
When he dipped his head in acknowledgement it cast his eyes in shadow, making him appear older. “If we are found, it will be some hours from now,” he said. “We have time, I think, for you to answer all of them.”
The scent of cedar, fresh and burning, filled the air. He stared at her, waiting for his answers, but she found it easier to speak if she watched the fire. “Our gift allows us to enter another’s mind and live their memories and emotions as though they were our own. In the annals of the Vigil it is recorded that the early holders of the gift believed it could be used as an instrument of instruction. They thought to use the gift to bring peace to the world.”
A frown passed over his expression. “Peace?”
She nodded. “The men and women of the Vigil have never been accused of lacking ambition, Fess. The early fathers and mothers in the gift surmised that if the knowledge of the devout, those men and women who were strongest in their faith, could be given to kings and nobles, the world would see an end to war.”
“Ah,” he said. “Perhaps if you had gathered the memories of soldiers who’d experienced it and discovered only grief at its end, it might have worked.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “Oh, that was tried as well, along with the memories of healers wielding their saws on the battlefield, and wives and mothers grieving endlessly over loved ones lost. Then the Vigil tried combining them until the load of implanted memories was nearly as great as those the kings and nobles already carried. The early Vigil spent over a hundred years working to eradicate war from the world.”
“It’s just as well you failed,” he said.
She searched his tone for irony or sarcasm but found none. “How so?”
“Centuries of peace would have created a world the Darkwater and Cesla could have destroyed in a fortnight,” he said. “The evil would have emerged from the forest to find a warren of rabbits.” He paused briefly. “If our instruction was doomed to fail, Lady Deel, why did we attempt it?”
She turned to regard the fire. “Failure and success are connected by any number of possibilities between them. Over the years we found that we could gain some measure of success if the implanted memories were strengthened with instruction.”
“The power of story,” he said. “That’s why you had Lelwin tell them everything she knew.”
“And why we continued to give her memories to Oriano’s men throughout,” she added. “The memories are transitory, but her stories conjured images within their minds. By giving them Lelwin’s memories as they created their own, we can give them some measure of permanence.”
“Some measure?” he asked. “How long?”
The temptation to shade the truth kept her silent until he stirred, probably to ask the same question again. “If those under Cesla’s control attack tonight, the combination of real experience with Lelwin’s instruction may be enough to cement Lelwin’s memories as their own.”
“May?”
“We are at war, Fess,” she said. “As Bolt would say, we must use any weapon that comes to hand.”
“They could all die out there tonight, Toria Deel.”
She summoned the courage to face him at last. “And doubtless some of them will, Fess, even under the best circumstances.” She would have added some qualification, but anything else she might have said would sound dishonest. She waited in the silence for some response, but none came.
“Brekana hates you,” he said later. “Have you considered she might allow some from the Darkwater to slip past their defense and attack?”
“More than once,” Toria said. “I thought the possibility likely enough that I wanted to—”
His hand closed on the upper part of her arm, dragging her so that they stood against a tree on the far side of the fire. “They’re coming.”
Suggestions of movement flitted among the shadows cast by the fire. They broke from the darkness into its dim light, two men racing toward them across the clearing. Fess broke from her side as they leapt, springing into the air, but Fess kept his feet on the ground, changing direction so swiftly it made Toria’s head hurt to follow him. The two attackers flew toward her, daggers out and screaming.
But one would land first. Earth flew from beneath Fess’s boots as he came behind him, his sword moving faster than Toria could follow and the first man was down, taken by a stroke that cut him almost in two. With the first man’s blood still in the air, Fess intercepted the second, lunging as his feet touched the ground.
Toria pulled a ragged breath. “Th—”
“Quiet,” he said.
She held her breath, stifling any sound as Fess stood with his head cocked to one side, listening. He straightened from his fighter’s crouch a moment later to sheathe his sword, and her breath gusted from her. “Is it done?”
“At least for now, Toria Deel. If there are any more out there, they are too far away for me to hear.”
She looked up through the thin canopy of leaves overhead, hungering for daylight. “How long until sunrise?” she asked.
“Three hours.”
Her eyes burned with a desperate need for sleep. “And therein lies the flaw,” she said.
“Lady Deel?”
A memory of war decades old slipped from behind one of her mind’s doors, a door whose memories belonged to a long dead captain of Owmead. “‘Fatigue can defeat an army as easily as superior force,’” she quoted.
Fess assented after a moment’s thought. “Oriano’s men will have to march all day after fighting all night. How long can a man last on chiccor root and fear?”
She searched through memories—her own and those she’d collected over the last century—before she answered. “It depends on the man. Three days, perhaps four. After that, the ability to discern friend from foe disappears. Often men and women will see visions conjured by the mind, images born of fatigue that don’t exist.” She searched his face across the fire. “Without horses for Oriano’s men it’s four days hard marching to Treflow, and men without sleep can’t do it.”
“We need a wagon,” Fess said. “With our horses, it would allow Lelwin and Oriano’s men to rest while we traveled during the day.”
“We’re half a day away from the outer cordon if we head straight south,” she said. “They’ll have wagons for their supplies.”
Lelwin led Oriano and his soldiers back to the copse of trees as the sky lightened to charcoal. Of the thirteen, eleven came back, all of them stumbling with fatigue. Wag trailed them to the edge of the trees before breaking into a lope that brought him to Toria’s side. She slipped a hand from her glove to scratch him behind the ears. How many did you have to kill?
Four, Mistress.
Two of the pack have died.
Yes, Mistress. A pair of scents, both belonging to men, came through the link. The man-things panicked, making sounds of a frightened pup, and were killed before I could safeguard them.
She pulled her hand from his head to greet Lelwin, who stood next to Oriano, wrapping the cloth around her eyes. “How many did you kill?” she asked.
But it was Oriano who answered. “Ten.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, Toria Deel.” His mouth pinched. “It’s not war the way I’ve read of it. In the tales, you don’t put an arrow in a man’s back.”
Lelwin, still under the influence of Brekana’s personality, laughed a harsh sound just short of a bark. “You left the tales behind when you left your home, Oriano. In the tales, you’re fighting men with a sense of hon
or and everyone has the decency to die quick and clean.”
Oriano, visibly shaken, turned to Toria. “Cold, that one is, but this is the first I’ve heard of any outpost getting the better of the Darkwater. I’ll stay with you.”
“Thank you, Commander,” she said. “You and your men need rest. We’re half a day from the outer cordon. Sleep now. Fess and I will wake you in four hours.”
After they woke, Oriano guided them south toward the nearest camp on the outer cordon. As they crested each hill, Toria found herself clenching her knees to her horse while she searched the sky for telltale signs of fire, but there were none. When they cut through a stand of hardwoods, they found the camp in a broad clearing, the stumps of trees and saplings stripped from the palisade that defined its walls. Beyond a few scorch marks on the green wood, there were no signs of fighting. Guards stood at the gates, and in the distance she could make out the mounted men patrolling the countryside for those attempting to sneak into the forest to search for gold.
Fess stared in disbelief. “They weren’t attacked. Does the Darkwater boast so few men?”
“No,” she said. “There is something deeper at work here. Oriano, stay here with your men. Fess and I will see if we can search out the meaning of this.”
A few minutes and two escorts later, she and Fess stood in the tent of the commanding officer, Warena, a lieutenant of middle years with a heavy bandage around one leg and a pronounced limp. If her current wounds concerned Toria, the faded scars that crisscrossed her forearms provided some measure of comfort. The commander was a veteran.
“What news do you have from King Rymark?” Toria asked.
Warena bent to retrieve a small sheet of parchment with Rymark’s signature at the bottom. Her close-cropped gray hair hardly shifted with the effort. “This came three days ago.” She licked her lips. “I don’t usually question orders, Toria Deel, but this one came with less explanation than most.”
“‘Hold your position at all costs until you receive orders to withdraw,’” Toria read out loud. “‘Keep the enemy within the cordon and await orders.’” She turned the parchment over, but there was nothing written on the other side.
“There’s no explanation for the change,” Warena said. “Without the inner cordon, we can do little more than defend against attacks.”
Toria kept her expression neutral, unwilling to divulge Rymark’s purpose. Instead, she turned her attention to her purpose. “Lieutenant, we’ll require horses and a cart.”
Warena signaled her consent. “You’ll have them.”
“One thing more,” Toria added. “How many men can you spare?”
The lieutenant lifted her hands. “That’s impossible to know, Lady Deel. I have a hundred under arms here, but only half are veterans. We’ve seen little fighting to this point, but King Rymark’s orders are worrisome.”
“They’re necessary,” Toria said.
“If we extend the time on patrol, I can spare ten percent of our force without compromising the king’s orders,” Warena said. “But if it comes to fighting, I’m going to need every veteran with even the slightest physical gift.”
“Then we won’t take any veterans.”
“Begging your pardon, Lady Deel, but I don’t see how you can get much use out of conscripts who haven’t been tested yet.”
“I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but our requirements are different. How well do you know your soldiers?” Toria asked.
“Any commander spends as much time learning about their men as we can. Our lives depend on each other.”
“Set aside your veterans,” Toria said. “Of those remaining, I want those most comfortable in the darkness and who have a talent for space and temperaments for observation or impulse—preferably both.”
Chapter 58
The fact that Erendella contrived to have me ride next to her without Bolt or Gael nearby wasn’t lost on me. Even Mirren had been systematically shunted outside the ring of guards that enclosed us. Only Herregina rode in our company, a circumstance that I attributed to her royalty. Despite Erendella’s earlier admonition, we rode in silence, and I locked whatever questions I had behind my teeth. I had no desire to give the queen further cause to despise me.
An hour later she spoke without turning her head, her voice directed between the twin peaks of her horse’s ears. “You might wonder at my affection for my father,” she said. “His nobles noticed his weakness. Many regarded him with disdain.”
I caught the carefully worded indignation that included me and chose my words as carefully as I could. “Your father did something no one has ever been able to do, Your Majesty.”
In silence, I waited, hoping that Erendella’s curiosity would compel her to ask the obvious question. I had learned over time that the etiquette of inquiry often served as a balm to the emotional wounds people carried. If Erendella trusted me enough to ask me a question, she might forgive me for failing to save her father.
“What?” she asked finally, but without breaking away from the contemplation of the landscape before us.
“He found a way to keep the evil of the Darkwater at bay for weeks on end,” I said. “No one’s done that before.”
She shook her head. “If the tales are true, Lord Dura, you’ve done it.”
“No, Your Majesty,” I said. “My survival has nothing to do with me. I owe my life to chance or providence or both.”
Now she looked at me, her gaze searching me for motives. “Your manner is strange. Given an opportunity to claim some skill or favor and elevate yourself in the eyes of one of the seven monarchs of the north, you opt instead for humility.”
“It’s safer,” I said. “If I pretended to some virtue I didn’t have, it wouldn’t take long for you to find me out.”
“There it is again,” she said. “You hold the most powerful gift in the world, and yet you continually offer me deference.”
I took a moment to gaze at the ring of guards that rode around me. “I have reason.”
She might have laughed or sighed or sobbed. It was difficult to match her expression to the sound she made. “Lord Dura, my father threatened you because he had nothing to lose. I do.” Her expression turned curious. “Are you that ignorant of the authority the Vigil holds?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “If I harmed you, the church and the rest of the Vigil would break my mind like a twig and my rule would pass to another.”
“They might thank you,” I said. “My guard tells me with every other breath that I’m a nuisance.”
“A nuisance who saved my life,” Herregina said.
I’d forgotten that the young queen-apparent rode with us. She’d adopted a similar posture of speaking over the head of her horse. Perhaps the affectation came with the gift of kings. Regardless, the comment carried an edge to it, like a dagger still in its sheath, but present, and Erendella took note. I wondered what conversations I might have missed.
“To be fair, Your Majesties, I’m leading you both into danger,” I said. “Whatever gratitude or regard you feel you owe me should wait until you’re safe in your palaces again.”
Erendella shook her head at me. “You’re either the worst negotiator I’ve ever met or the most skilled.”
“Perhaps I’m just honest,” I said.
“Regardless, Lord Dura, you’re in no danger from me.”
Herregina added a nod that might have been due to nothing more than the gait of her horse. A bit of Erendella’s reserve slipped, and instead of a middle-aged queen I saw a girl who missed her father.
“I would have saved him if I could have, Your Majesty.”
She blinked several times, quickly, and returned her attention to the road ahead. “Thank you, Lord Dura. I believe you.”
We rode until an hour before sunset, stopping at a small town along the Mournwater River and set out at dawn the next day. We followed that routine each day after, pushing the horses as hard as we dared and buying or commandeering new ones when we had to replace them.
/> A week after leaving Vadras, we saw the first soldiers retreating from the forest. Two men, each with an arm that would need the healer’s saw, led a horse-pulled cart filled with soldiers on the edge of death. The horse, ridden and worked to exhaustion, clopped past us, its head barely off the ground. The smell of blood filled the air, and it was difficult to tell who would die first, the horse or the men.
Our company, nearly twenty strong, stepped off the road to let them pass. From my spot next to the queen, I caught Bolt’s attention and gestured toward Mirren. With a nod, the pair of them peeled away and left to speak to the men leading the cart.
They caught up to us about a mile later, Erendella’s men parting to let them through. “Bad?” I asked Bolt.
“Not good,” he said. “It’s not the type of war we want to fight.” The planes of his face hardened.
“You mean it’s not the kind of war we can win.”
He scowled at me. “I think I just said that.”
“Errant Consto,” Herregina cut in, “please explain.”
He dipped his head toward Mirren. “I think I’d better let her tell you what she saw. You’ll need the context. There’s not much I’ll need to add.”
Mirren wet lips that had gone bloodless, and I knew something in those memories had done more than just scare her. “Ten nights ago their outpost came under attack. Men and women bearing the look of ordinary craftsmen and laborers broke through their palisade. Before they could organize resistance, the enemy was in their midst, moving like gifted. The entire post was wiped out except for the men we saw in the cart.”
“How did they survive?” I asked. Bolt nodded his approval at the question.
“They huddled by the watch fire,” Mirren said. “The attackers avoided the light, but that ploy only worked to a point. They came under arrow fire that poured into them until an hour before dawn. Then the attackers left.”
“Which way did they go?” I asked, hoping that Mirren would tell me they’d gone back to the forest. I hoped that the attack was nothing more than Cesla’s desire for blood and vengeance.
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