A muscle was twitching in his clenched jaw. He nodded agreement, knowing Elandra was giving him sensible advice. He hated being helpless like this, but Elandra was right.
After a moment, he said grimly, “She told me a commander had taken her.”
Elandra drew in her breath audibly. “Which one?”
He shook his head.
“The army again!” Elandra said. “An officer!” She turned suddenly pale. “Do you think it’s Captain Hervan?”
“No, she said commander, quite clearly. That’s an army rank, not cavalry.”
“Yes, of course. Do you suppose this plot is part of the latest legion mutiny? Or someone discharged in the reforms, trying to take revenge against you?”
Too frustrated to speculate, Caelan spread wide his hands.
“You need answers. Until you have them—”
“I must wait,” he said. “Damn and damn and damn.”
Commotion sounded outside, and a centruin of the Imperial Guards rushed inside. He saluted the emperor and empress smartly.
“Centruin Lucrux, Excellency. Yours to command!”
“Thank you, Centruin. I’ve received a message from my sister, saying she’s in danger and taken captive.”
Shock paled the centruin’s face. “Sir!”
“I do not know as yet if it’s a true message or false,” Caelan said. He wondered now if the prior feelings of uneasiness he’d experienced had also been Lea’s attempts to reach him. Yet what good did frantic speculation do? He reminded himself to not let his boiling emotions cloud his judgment.
Studying the centruin’s young face, he found no guile there. “Has any report of trouble come in her escort’s dispatches? No matter how trivial or insignificant. Any indication of something gone awry?”
“Their weekly report is now two days overdue, Excellency.”
It was like being hit with a war hammer. Caelan took an involuntary step forward. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“The reports have been delayed before, Excellency. Hazards of travel, and so forth.” The centruin’s gaze wavered briefly. “It’s procedure to take no action unless a report is delayed by a week at—”
“A week!” This time, Caelan could not restrain his outburst. “She could be in the hands of Gault knows what kind of scoundrels, and we are to wait a week before we grow concerned? Who issued such a stupid order?”
The centruin looked like he’d been carved of wood. “Official procedure, Excellency.”
Quelling the urge to strike him, Caelan began pacing back and forth. Several moments passed before he trusted himself to speak. “What did the last message say?”
When the centruin hesitated, Caelan spun around to glare at him. “Well?”
“I cannot tell you, Excellency. I—I am not privy to Captain Hervan’s reports.”
“Get them!” Caelan roared.
Saluting, the man fled.
Caelan resumed pacing, fuming with every step. His suspicions were on fire. “It’s a plot,” he muttered. “Not road bandits at work. Has to be a plot. The palace in league with—”
“Perhaps,” Elandra broke in. “Let us assess this cautiously, and not mistake inefficiency for treason.”
“Inefficiency!” He felt like he was choking. “If she’s—”
“Caelan, you must stay calm. You are not thinking, dearest. You are far too upset. I know this is hard, very hard. I love her, too, but a web is growing around us, and we must take care.”
Troubled, he blew out his breath and nodded. “Vindicants at work?” he asked. “Hiring mercenaries to abduct her, perhaps?”
“Led by a disaffected officer swept out of the army by the reforms?” Elandra said thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Such a large convergence of woes is coming at us too quickly to be accidental.”
“Agreed. The Vindicant brotherhood reached deep into the army. Its influence isn’t going to be easily erased.”
Elandra hesitated. “If it is Vindicants who hold her hostage, they will ask you an awful price for her ransom.”
Caelan sighed. He needed no such warning from Elandra to see the implications Lea’s abduction would have. His sister was as precious to him as his wife and Jarel, and who in the empire did not know this? Who in the empire, who among his numerous enemies and detractors hated and resented him more than the priesthood he’d abolished along with the shadow god?
If the Vindicants haven’t abducted her, they will take her from the one who has, he thought. They will hurt her, as they long to hurt me.
The thought of Lea being mistreated almost unmanned him. He knew she would be used as leverage to bring him down, and he did not know how he would be able to withstand their terms.
Too late now to tell himself he shouldn’t have sent her to Trau as his representative in the upcoming holdenthal, a festival where, by Trau tradition, the hold masters gathered to forge trade and property agreements with each other and renew fealty to their emperor. Their loyalty oaths had of course been sworn at his coronation, according to imperial law. But the holdenthal was an old custom, as old as the ancient kings of Trau.
When the invitation came, he’d listened to his council’s wishes that he not attend in person lest he be seen conferring too much favoritism on his home province. Lea had begged so prettily to go as his representative, and at the time it had seemed like a harmless expedition. Lea was homesick, although she didn’t complain, and he’d enjoyed seeing her so excited and full of anticipation.
Against his better judgment he’d sent her back to that cold, forbidding land of their birth, but how could he have refused her? Had he not sworn to himself that he would grant her anything she wanted for the rest of her life? Even that would never make up for those years of separation, of not knowing what had befallen her, of thinking her dead and torn to pieces in the forest by wolves.
Guilt slammed against his conscience. He told himself now that he should have protected her better, should have sent an entire army cohort to safeguard her journey, no matter what she said. Left to her own devices, Lea probably would have set forth with her protector and a cheap cloak as a disguise—unaware that no artifice could mask her beauty or inner radiance. She hadn’t wanted the army with her, and so Caelan had chosen a squadron of cavalry instead, seeking officers slightly more refined, less violent and battle-worn than army professionals.
You fool, Caelan thought harshly, condemning himself. You have put her in jeopardy a second time, as bad as when you abandoned her to perish in the ice caves. He wished with all his heart that he’d refused to let her leave the palace gates.
“Beloved.” Elandra touched his hand. “If you really do think this trouble comes from a Vindicant plot, shall I send for the Penestricans? We’ll need every ally we’ve got.”
Fighting back the stinging in his eyes, Caelan nodded. “Yes. I think you’d better.”
Chapter 20
Intent on setting up his ambush, Shadrael had chosen a location where the trail narrowed through a slender gulch. Standing atop a rock, he was busy deploying his men. Pointing them here and there along the top of the gulch, he watched critically while they took cover in the thorny scrub. Satisfied, he was about to take his position when he felt a shift between the spirit world and reality.
Startled, he broke off in midword to Fomo and spun around. As always, his reactions were faster than those of his men. Fomo was still frozen, gaping at him, while Shadrael saw the air ripple and shred apart.
He drew his sword. “The Hidden Ways are opening. Men! To me!”
Fomo squawked a hoarse cry of his own, cracking his whip in warning.
Already horses and riders in the short red cloaks and plumed helmets of the Crimsons were pouring out of the darkness. As their bugler sounded a battle charge, they galloped through the trees straight at Shadrael.
The narrow gulch was behind him, cutting off retreat. On his right, the ground dropped off steeply. The only maneuvering room lay to his left, but he had no chance to reach his mount, no ti
me to do anything other than tear off his cloak and brace his feet. His helmet was strapped to his saddle, out of reach, along with his war axe. All he had to hand were his sword, long dagger, boot knives, and throwing stars.
Beside him, Fomo drew his sword, cursing fiercely. “How’d they—”
Too late for chatter; the charge was upon them. Shadrael stood his ground coolly, aware of his men pouring down the hillside behind him in great, stumbling leaps, just that much too slow and too far away to meet the first onslaught. To his credit, Fomo stood shoulder to shoulder with Shadrael, and did not run for his life.
At the last moment, just before a shouting cavalryman plunged his sword through Shadrael’s chest, he severed and twisted aside just enough to avoid being run down. As the rider swept past him, Shadrael snapped his threads of life and saw the man go tumbling from the saddle. Quick as thought, Shadrael snapped the threads of life of three other men before the rest veered off, milling in the confined space. By then, Shadrael’s men had joined the fight in a screaming melee of clashing swords. They were all too tangled together now for him to cut any more threads of life without risking the lives of his men.
He came out of severance, staggering slightly to keep his balance, and saw Fomo deflect a cavalryman coming at him. Fomo’s blow was clumsy and desperate, serving its immediate purpose but failing to bring down his foe.
Shadrael spun as the big horse passed him, and ruthlessly cut a tendon in the horse’s leg. With a scream, the horse stumbled and went down, flinging off its rider in a crashing fall. Skipping around the kicking, struggling horse, Shadrael pounced on the fallen rider and drove his long dagger through the man’s throat.
Freeing his weapon, he whirled to meet another opponent bearing down on him, and from the corner of his eye saw a Crimson in officer’s braid sitting apart from the action. The officer was wounded, with one arm bound awkwardly in a sling. Clearly he was unable to fight, and Shadrael’s eyes narrowed with calculation.
Then Shadrael was fending off attack, ignoring his disadvantage in fighting horsemen from the ground. He parried a blow, the blade of his shorter, heavier sword scraping against the serrated edge of a cavalry weapon, and drove his dagger into his foe’s leg.
A hot spurt of blood nearly hit Shadrael in the face. He slashed the girth of the man’s saddle and shoved hard, dumping his opponent onto the ground while the startled horse bolted out of the way.
Flailing for balance, desperately trying to raise his weapon, the cavalryman had no time to hold off Shadrael, who was already on him, cutting a great gash through the man’s shoulder and nearly taking off his arm.
Something hit Shadrael hard in the back, almost driving him to his knees. Catching his balance, Shadrael jumped aside. This new opponent was on foot. Reaching behind him, Shadrael grabbed a helmet plume and dragged his attacker forward as he spun around. The move pulled the man onto his dagger with a shock of impact that numbed Shadrael’s hand. The tempered black steel of his blade pierced the other’s cuirass, and Shadrael yanked up hard to drive his dagger even deeper.
Blood bubbled from the cavalryman’s mouth. He stared at Shadrael in astonishment, trying to speak, and crumpled.
Climbing over him, Shadrael saw Fomo cornered, outnumbered, and in trouble. Shadrael flung a throwing star into the back of one of Fomo’s opponents, then found himself face-to-face with a large, thick-chested cavalryman wearing lieutenant insignia. On foot and brandishing his longer sword with a ferocious grin, the lieutenant gave Shadrael a quick, mocking salute.
Panting a little, Shadrael balanced on the balls of his feet and drew his dagger again, holding it loose and ready in his left hand to balance the sword in his right. He did not bother to return the salute, knowing his foe was trying to distract him by any means possible.
“Come on!” the lieutenant shouted.
Their swords clashed hard, ringing out over the noise, and for a few moments they fought well matched. There was a dancing light in this Crimson’s eyes, a reckless laugh in his throat. He fought dirty, like a seasoned veteran, and he was quick for his size.
The rapid exchange of blows tired Shadrael. He could find no chance to use his dagger, and his shorter sword made it difficult to take the advantage that he wanted. Still, a cavalryman on foot was but half a fighter, and no match for regular army.
Yelling, Shadrael feinted right, then left, saw his opponent prepared for such an easy trick, and dropped to his knees, skidding under the lieutenant’s sword so close he felt its blade lightly graze his brow. The Crimson jumped to one side, evading Shadrael’s quick dagger slash at his legs, and swung his sword with two hands at Shadrael’s unprotected head. Shadrael ducked just in time, caught the sword with his own, and tried to flip it out of his opponent’s hand, but without success.
“Ha-ha!” the man yelled. “Come on!”
Blood was already running in Shadrael’s right eye from the cut he’d taken. He squinted, making adjustments for its effect on his vision, and lunged again from his knees, slashing hard to hamstring the lieutenant.
The tip of his long dagger caught target, while he took a hard blow to his shoulder in return and heard the scrape of steel across his armor. The double shoulder plating held, however, saving Shadrael from losing his arm. He saw, to his irritation, that he’d slashed boot leather only, not ten-dons.
Shouting, the lieutenant kicked at him, stumbling back in an effort to get out of reach. Shadrael wrapped his arms around the man’s legs and brought him down. Locked together, they rolled over and over in the dust and confusion. Something kicked Shadrael in the back, but he paid no heed as he tightened his hug on the Crimson’s legs and jerked his shoulder to drive its spike deep into the back of the man’s thigh.
The lieutenant howled with pain and struggled harder. Shadrael twisted the spike deeper, then yanked backward, using the spike to hamstring the man. Flailing and kicking, screaming oaths, the lieutenant struggled away from him, but could not gain his feet. Shadrael loomed up over him, plunging his sword into the man’s groin.
A great gout of blood gushed forth, and shock quivered through the lieutenant’s face. “Hervan!” he shouted. “I’m done!”
The sound of galloping hoofbeats made Shadrael whirl, bracing to meet a mounted charge, but the officer in the sling rode past him without engaging.
Surprised, Shadrael stared past the struggling bodies and flash of weapons, but caught only a glimpse of scarlet cloth in the trees as the man rode away.
Coward? Shadrael thought, fending off someone who blundered into him. No. The officer was riding off in the direction of the mercenary camp, riding toward Lea.
A murderous fury swept through Shadrael, and for a moment he knew nothing but a frantic urgency to go after the man.
“Here’s death from Rozer,” snarled a hoarse voice.
A blow struck him in the side, making him stagger. Shadrael turned, realizing too late that he hadn’t finished the lieutenant after all.
Grimacing in triumph, the dying officer sank down. Clutching his wound, unable to stanch the flow, Rozer slowly let the hilt of his weapon fall from slack fingers. He tipped back his head to stare up at Shadrael while a look of puzzlement filled his eyes. “I—I’m unsworn,” he said in a voice of wonder, and died.
Pain began to shoot through Shadrael’s side, but he severed it, disregarding the injury as unimportant, and fought his way through the shifting crowd of men to the nearest riderless horse.
He caught its dangling reins and jumped into the saddle. For a moment he felt oddly breathless as though he might pass out, but severance held. Shouting at Fomo, who brandished his sword in acknowledgment, Shadrael galloped after the officer in the sling.
Only now, as he ducked low to avoid the sweeping slap of tree branches, did Shadrael allow himself to think. How had the Crimsons found them? How had they opened—and used—the Hidden Ways? In that, they had completely surprised Shadrael, who hadn’t anticipated such a move. Who among them was still practicing shadow m
agic? Was it this officer, now on his way toward Lea? How did the knave know where to find her?
He’s the one using magic, Shadrael thought.
In Shadrael’s mind, Vordachai’s orders no longer mattered. He’d left survivors the first time, taking his one prisoner and letting the rest of the squadron go. But this time, he would see them all slain. And no one was going to take Lea from him. No one.
Chapter 21
With the palace looming behind her, Empress Elandra was making an official promenade across the east gardens. She wore a gown of Mahiran cloth, the threads an intricate weaving of spun gold and pale umber silk. Elaborate embroidery on the skirt made it stand out stiffly around her. A delicate spell sewn through the seams of the garment enhanced her beauty in a subtle way, dazzling the onlookers. Her long auburn hair was coiled neatly beneath a head-dress studded with pearls and topazes. A necklace of fat yellow pearls strung on chains of gold hung about her neck. In the newest fashion, a hammered gold chatelaine dangled from her waist.
A narrow carpet had been unfurled across the grass to protect her slippers, and diminutive pages carried her train. Her attendants, led by Lady Avitria, followed her at a decorous distance, preening in their best gowns, enjoying the chance to air their finery.
The empress made slow progress, for she took time to speak to various courtiers and their ladies, who were likewise parading along the longest axis of the gardens. The flowers, reviving in the cooler weather brought by recent autumn showers, were blooming profusely in drifts of magenta and yellow. And beyond the intricate fretwork of the fence, thronging crowds pressed close to the bars to gaze at the empress and her fine court. They cheered and called out to her, and now and then Elandra paused with a smile to wave in return.
A Reformant priest escorted her, chatting with her earnestly about acquisitions for the palace library, a place once used as a repository for Kostimon’s collection of pornography and odes to Beloth. Lord Nardeth was a learned man with a quick and agile mind, but although she favored his plans Elandra felt too distracted today to pay close heed to them.
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