by R. K. Thorne
For now, they marched up the stairs and met the woman at the top.
“Welcome back,” she said to Jaena alone, her small smile pleased.
Ro shot her a glance, one eyebrow raised.
“Thanks,” said Jaena weakly. “Can we go in?”
“Of course. Everything is quiet today.” The priestess gestured inside, then continued her way down the steps.
A man was sweeping the floor near the front of the temple. Golden light spilled through the large leaded windows of white and orange and yellow, making the dust motes he blew up shimmer and glow.
Jaena started back toward him. She passed the wooden statue without looking at it, although it felt like walking past someone staring at her, demanding her attention. He looked up as they reached the archway, but said nothing.
“I’m looking to get married,” she said. My, this temple put her in a blunt mood.
The priest tilted his head, glancing at Ro. “We don’t keep husbands in stock here. Candles and meditation beads, maybe.” He smiled very slightly.
“I have a husband,” she said quickly, gesturing at Ro, and then balked at the sound of those words. The word “husband” as something she might actually have felt strange on her lips, awkward—terrifying. “I mean, my intended and I would like to be married in this temple. Right now. If that’s a thing you do here.”
The priest nodded sagely. “Let me get High Priestess Gerana.”
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. He had turned away but now stopped and looked back. “I’m a mage. We’re both mages. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Are you planning on celebrating by controlling anyone’s minds?”
Ro snorted. “I should think not.”
Jaena frowned at the priest. “We can’t do any of that. Nor would we. Of course not.”
“Then I think you shall be fine as wine.”
To Jaena’s surprise, the discussion with the High Priestess was a rather simple one. In Takar, a wedding could be a highly elaborate affair, going on for days, every family invited. In Hepan, it was smaller but still rather an extended affair, sometimes going for more than a week. But of course they didn’t have a week. And Jaena and Ro had no family, really. His was all gone—or liars—and what was left of hers might be a continent away. Unless they counted their friends.
“Akarians tend to consider marriage a very private experience,” the high priestess explained. “Many worship Anara for marriage and venture into the waters, the ocean or the midcountry lakes, alone under moonlight to be wed. So you see, a simple ceremony is quite what we do here. If that is all right with you.”
“Yes, of course,” Jaena said.
Ro smiled up at the arches above him in amusement. “In a temple like this, I don’t know if we can call it exactly ‘simple.’ But short and sweet is fine with me.”
But in truth, the words were simple, and honest, and that made them all the more sweet.
The priestess put Jaena’s hand in Tharomar’s and wrapped her hands around them as she spoke about love, about life, about family, about pain, about persistence and devotion. About faith to each other and faith to the gods.
Jaena squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers back.
And then, just like that, it was done.
“By and in Nefrana’s golden light,” said the priestess, “I declare you are married. Go and bring prosperity to her fields, and give glory to her name.”
At those words, Ro’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, we will. Won’t we, Jae?”
She smiled back and nodded, but it wasn’t until they had turned and were making their way out of the temple when she whispered to him, “She has no idea.”
17
Siege
The forest stretched on endlessly for the first leg of Miara’s flight, until the trees started to space out a bit, the dark pines thinning to oaks. She flew on into the night’s darkness, forest had given way to grassy hills dotted with herds of fluffy sheep wandering over the rolling land in the moonlight. They looked like schools of fish from her height. Scri flew alongside her, occasionally amused or even mildly irked by the breaks she took in human form. But she had a very different definition of acceptable dinners than he did.
Finally, sleep demanded its due. She spent the second half of the cold night curled in a thicket—thankfully in her own body, although she broke down and grew extra fur to keep warm. She took to the air again far after the sunrise, for once allowing herself time to fully rest. She’d need the strength for the rest of the trip.
By the time she took to the sky again, Scri was eager to sore. Time seemed to slow as the sailed over the grassy hills. As the sun reached its zenith, a small stand of buildings to the north caught her eye. What looked like black sheep and dots crowded at the horizon line.
Too large to be a herd, of sheep or even horses. It had to be men.
Men forming up for battle?
She adjusted her course and soon was gliding over ranks and ranks of Akarian soldiers, some on foot, some on horse. Archers and crossbowmen, swords and pikes. No mages, of course. A few hundred yards back from the line, she found a small tent and perched on it, searching for anyone she recognized. Reaching out to into the distance, she could just barely sense the Kavanarian troops that loomed in the eerie quiet. Some were dousing cooking fires, but most were preparing for battle, forming up in ranks. She searched among them for what she most feared.
Yes, there they were. Mages. Hard to get a count, but perhaps twenty-five. Their energies were predominately wild—mostly creature mages and perhaps one air. Unless there were more somewhere else.
Twenty-five creature mages to one. And what would Daes have them do? She was tempted to simply try asking when a familiar head of blond hair caught her eye, on top of a white warhorse she knew as well.
Miara fluttered down, transforming on the way and hitting the ground with a running step. “Warden Asten!”
She needn’t have called out, because Asten saw her immediately, even as the transformation was completing. She reined her horse to a stop, startling the two riders behind her.
“Arms Master! Well met.” Without wasting a moment, Asten was dismounting and heading for her. “What are you doing here? Visiting Dramsren stronghold?”
“Not exactly. Long story. What’s going on?”
“One of the Kavanarian units is closing in on us. The battle will soon be joined,” said Asten, her eyes flicking to the emerald and widening slightly. “Is Queen Elise unwell?”
Miara shook her head. “She devotes herself to Samul.”
A dour man looked down from over Asten’s shoulder and sniffed, running an eye over the dirty and now somewhat ragged gray dress that had once been so fine. He likely didn’t even recognize that now, did he? “King Samul, you mean.”
“This is hardly the time.” Miara narrowed her eyes at him, then turned back to Asten. “There are—”
But the man started up again first. “Warden, we need to get to the front line. There’ll be time for catching up with old friends—or mages—later.” He said the word with distaste.
Now it was Asten’s turn to shoot the man a harsh look. “This may be your regiment, General, but I decide when I get to the line. I am not one for turning aside knowledge of our enemy if it’s available.”
He clenched his jaw but said nothing.
“I estimate twenty-five creature mages on their side,” Miara said quickly, striving to ignore his fluffing and posturing. “At least one air. Could be worse, but not a great combination.”
“What do you think they’ll do? Any way to inform our tactics?”
Miara shook her head. “The creatures mages can heal troops, so only fatal wounds might get by their efforts—aim for the neck, the armpit. Anything that kills quickly. The smaller the wound, the easier they can undo it.”
The general’s eyes widened. “Undo it?”
“Yes, I—” She started to say more, but the sound of a horn split the air. From the far side
of the field.
“Get her a horse!” Asten barked at a nearby mounted soldier, shouting over the din.
The soldier glanced around and suddenly dismounted. “Here—I’ll find another one for me,” he shouted, handing her the reins as the horn faded into the pulsing of drums. The man trotted off and back toward the hold behind them even as the general opened his mouth.
“No!” shouted the general. “We need every man we’ve got. She can fly, as she’s clearly demonstrated.”
Miara mounted up, frowning but trying to keep her eyes trained ahead. Where were the mages on the field? Could there be more she’d missed? How the hell was she going to go up against twenty-six or so mages? What could she even do to stop them?
No plan was coming to mind.
“Shut up,” snapped Asten at the general, her patience gone. “You know they have archers. Flying over the battle would be suicide.”
“All battle is suicide. Who the hell is she?” he shouted, all directed at Asten. The warden only glared, then looked at Miara as if for permission to tell him.
Miara met the general’s eyes instead. “I’m Arms Master Floren; you heard the warden.”
“If you’re what you say, where’s your sword? Your shield? Anything?”
“I am my sword and my shield.”
“And she’ll been your queen too, someday,” Asten added.
The general’s mouth fell open. The thunder of the troops moving cut off the fool argument. Asten turned and rode for the front of the troops, the general spurring his mount on and following after.
Miara straightened, keeping her eyes on the empty field that was about to be bathed in blood. She reached out to the horse below her without tearing her gaze away. Hello there, she whispered. I’m Miara. And your name?
She sensed the horse’s surprise first, then his wary interest. Trenor.
Well met, Trenor. Are you ready to gallop?
Trenor whinnied and tossed his head enthusiastically.
She shared the idea of protecting a foal, a barn, a stable, the herd. Did horses conceive of bravery? Of protection?
Memories of his training flicked past her, the excitement and speed of battle. Good. He probably knew better than she did what they were getting into. She patted his chestnut coat, not so much darker than Kres’s had been, and a pang stabbed at her chest. She ran her fingers through Trenor’s mane as she reached out toward the mages again.
If she knew one of them, and if they hadn’t been spelled too completely, perhaps they could tell her what they were planning before the brand’s compulsion kicked in. The first few were unfamiliar, but then she caught her breath.
Sefim!
The mild worry that had been brewing in his mind bloomed into a joyful warmth. Miara! What are you doing here? So the Akarians have mages, then? We thought not.
It’s a long story. And no, there’s just me, and I wasn’t planned. What are you doing over there?
They’ve ordered everyone out. Everyone. Brother Lithan made it extra pleasant by proclaiming that the evil we were forced to commit was barely adequate penance for our deep, deep sin. He mentally shook his head. I figured there’d be more of a chance to escape out here than on the road, which proved true, but we’ve been in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been looking for the right opportunity, but I’m no outdoorsman. Even flying away—where would I fly? No idea where your inn was or if you were still there.
Well, you’ve lucked into the right place. If we survive this.
Cheery thought.
Can you tell me anything?
He’s ordered us to heal wounds the soldiers receive and to make any sacrifices necessary.
Miara’s eyes widened, a chill shooting through her, and she dug her fingers deeper into Trenor’s mane. Sacrifices? Who’s he? Daes? Was he here?
The Tall Master.
Miara gritted her teeth. Almost as bad. Maybe worse, in his own way. What sacrifices?
Starting with the forests. And the enemy.
The Akarians themselves? By the gods.
I know. I’ve been ordered to do some awful things, but that tops them all. They’re hoping it will lead to surrender. Said the only thing that’d give them more bragging rights than defeating the Akarians would be actually forcing them to give up.
And if they don’t surrender—they’ll kill them all anyway, and half the plants in this territory. So why not?
I’m afraid so.
We have to stop them. How?
Before Brother Sefim could respond, she saw both sides lurch into action—both through his eyes and hers. Akarian riders started the charge, war cries filling the air, and the first line of mounted Kavanarians rode out to meet them.
“Pikes!” the general shouted. The Akarian troops shifted with precision, some forward some back, and pikes lowered toward the oncoming riders. The general and Asten were in a small group with two lieutenants and a handful of wardens, all mounted at the back of the line.
The scent of the air changed, and Miara looked up. Sure enough, the formerly clear sky had begun to thicken, the clouds coalescing out of nothingness and darkening, heavy with the threat of rain.
“Asten! Spread out the command group!” she shouted. “You remember what happened—”
She didn’t get to finish. The crash of steel on steel rang out. The screaming of horses split the air. Miara felt more than saw the first injuries, then deaths, and her instincts begged to heal the wounds. But that was unsustainable. She wasn’t going to sacrifice whole forests if she could possibly help it. If she wanted to win, she’d need to try something else.
Trenor fidgeted underneath her as Asten rode up alongside. “We’ll spread out,” she said quickly. “Good reminder. What’s your plan?”
Miara could only glance at Asten, keeping her eyes firmly trained on the battle. “Plan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m… still working on it.”
Asten clapped a gauntleted hand too hard on her shoulder, right over Scri’s talon wounds. Miara stifled her wince. “May the Balance protect you.”
“And you as well,” she replied before the warden rode off further down the line.
Miara’s eyes had been searching the opposing line automatically, hunting for inspiration. Now her eyes caught far in the back, a figure tall even on his mount, cloaked in dark cloth. The Tall Master glowered out at the beginnings of the battle. And beside him, another cloaked rider held a staff propped on a mount by his foot.
“Crossbows, now!” the general was shouting. Another line of Kavanarians, footmen this time, had charged forward, and the next line of armored men surged forth screaming as well.
Easing her mind toward the air mage cautiously, the crackle of lightning and the sharp smell of sulfur accosted her brain, and she reeled her mind back, hoping to go unnoticed.
No luck. Even at the distance she could see the man with the staff—the air mage—turn his head and speak.
The Tall Master and the air mage. If she could stop them maybe she could stop the battle. They were only two men, after all.
Thunder crashed above her, shaking the sky.
Shit. If the air mage knew where she was—
Before she could fully finish the thought, Trenor had felt the danger. He broke free into a gallop parallel to the enemy line, diving behind the ranks of the mounted Akarians. It wouldn’t hide her entirely. She had to keep moving.
She racked her brain. How? How could she stop them? Gods, to be an air mage, rather than the rabbit the air mage was hunting—
A rabbit! That was it.
She had no idea if it’d be enough, but she pulled Trenor to a stop and gripped the air mage in her mind, pulling life energy out of him and pouring it back in. His cloak collapsed in as his body twisted into that of a small, fluffy, gray rabbit.
The staff tumbled down, and she felt him slide from the saddle as if she were the one falling. She yanked her mind away, not wanting to find out if a fall from that height would kill a rabbit.
<
br /> She rushed into a gallop again, back the other direction along the line. She had to stay one step ahead, hidden. Trenor reached the end of the line of Akarians and turned back, but no more thunder echoed.
She cautiously slowed and eyed the spot again. The Tall Master was there, alone now. Creature mages crowded around the air mage’s horse. The energy that vibrated from the spot felt hot and intense with life.
He’d be back. Maybe she’d drained him and injured him too, but it wasn’t enough. She stopped, glancing around, looking for an idea.
What she saw was carnage. The field before her, usually green and pleasantly pastoral, was now a sea of swinging swords and axes, grunts and groans, broken up by shields gleaming red with blood. Hoarse screams and savage battle cries rang out, horses stamped and reared, and the smell, gods, the smell. Blood and worse. She coughed, trying to block it out. Men and women lay crawling, flailing, dying… dead.
She tried to reel her senses back, but their outcry of pain caught her like a wave, minds clinging to what life energy they could, groping for it in the air with all the desperation of death. One light winked out, suddenly falling still. Then another, drained nearly dry before they gave up from the pain and agony of it all.
This was just what Sefim had warned her of. Creature mages killing the injured to heal the living.
How could they do it—how could they—
Her eyes flicked to the far line, to the Tall Master, some instinct telling her something was wrong. His arm pointed in her direction as he shouted orders. She looked to the cluster of healers, several of whom were breaking off and transforming.
She’d stopped too long. They were coming for her.
She turned and raced Trenor back behind the Akarian cavalry, but deep down she knew that as the only mage on the entire Akarian side, their magic would always help them find her. Always.
Hiding was buying her nothing.
At the end of the cavalry line, she turned Trenor toward the battle, and together they surged forward. Skirmishes filled the field, and Trenor leapt over one fallen man only to dodge right as another two swordsmen staggered in their direction.