“This one isn’t,” Tiercel said briefly. “You should pick out some boots.” He glanced around. There were a dozen pairs of desert boots neatly lined up on the carpet. All the other tents on the row had already been flattened and were being folded and packed, and in less than an hour, they’d be on their way. “Just find a pair of boots that look like they fit you,” Tiercel said. “Be sure to shake them out every time you go to put them on, just in case of jarrari. Oh, and you need to put your chadar on. Where is it?”
“What? Oh, this?” Eugens produced his chadar, which he’d wadded up and stuffed into his sash. “I don’t really—”
“You need it,” Tiercel said firmly. “It’s protection from the sun and the dust. We wear them all the time.” He settled it on Eugens’s head, wrapped and tucked it firmly, and plucked the top forward to shield Eugens’s eyes. “You won’t even notice it after a while.” He resisted the urge to re-tie Eugens’s outer sash. It wasn’t going to fall off, and he could learn to do better later.
Eugens quickly picked out a set of boots, and by then the others had emerged to make their own selections. As soon as Ciniran saw that they were all out of the tent, she and several other Nalzindar went inside to pack up the bedding and the carpets.
The Armethaliehans took what Tiercel considered far too long to make their choices. Uncharitably, he suspected that Master Froilax and the Oriadans wanted to ask to see a better selection, and even though the first pair Vianse Pallocons tried on fit perfectly well, she insisted on trying on several other pairs as well. Finally everyone was shod, and Tiercel found to his dismay that he’d not only promised to personally find them cloaks at the evening stop, but promised to see if anyone had—or was willing to make—a comb for Mistress Pallocons’s use. He did his best not to contrast their situation with his and Harrier’s when the two of them had first arrived at Abi’Abadshar, because he knew that these eight people—even though Bisochim’s magic had seen to it that they were physically whole—had suffered moonturns of a hideous ordeal. But in Abi’Abadshar, he and Harrier had taken what they were offered and thanked Shaiara for it, not started making a list of thinly-veiled demands.
Soap. Shaving razors. Mirrors. Skin lotion. Shampoo. Scissors. Writing instruments. Wine. Tea. Bread. Hats. Hair ribbons. Different clothing in different colors. A basin to wash in. Someone in authority to speak to. Finally—although he knew he ought to be feeling sorry for them—Tiercel got tired of their constant requests for things that just weren’t here. Or weren’t here right now.
“Look, I’m sorry we can’t offer you a better welcome. But Ahairan has killed about three thousand of the Isvaieni—and probably more, Harrier’s the one who keeps count—in the past two moonturns, and she’s destroyed most of our supplies, and right now you’re kind of lucky Saravasse noticed you were in the middle of the Shambler army before Bisochim destroyed it. So if you’d like to come on, we can find you shotors.”
“Yes, of course,” Magistrate Perizel said, after exchanging a speaking look with Lord Felocan. “I . . . we’re just so grateful for our rescue. You can’t know what it was like, day after day, being forced to march on and on under that hellish sun, watching people die all around us . . .”
Tiercel ground his teeth until his jaw ached. He hadn’t quite been forced, but the rest of it had been the same. “You’re safe now,” he made himself say. For the moment.
“And I will certainly remember that you and your friends risked their lives to rescue us when I return to Armethalieh,” Magistrate Perizel said. “But I really need to speak to someone in authority immediately. You have to understand that, Lord Tiercel.”
After so long when he’d been just plain “Tiercel,” having people use his title seemed jarring and almost insulting. He bit back a Harrier-like response—I don’t have to understand anything—because snarling at these people wouldn’t help anything. They just didn’t have the facts. That was all.
“I know this is all really confusing,” he said again. “And I’m sorry. You’re talking about getting back to Armethalieh as if it will be fast or easy, but it won’t. Harrier says we’re about three moonturns away from Akazidas’Iteru here, and we really need to figure out how to resupply at Sapthiruk Oasis before we go any farther. And if you want to talk to ‘someone’ in authority, you can talk to me. Because Harrier and Shaiara are both busy right now, and Saravasse is annoyed with you.”
There was a moment of silence, then everyone started talking at once.
“Harrier’s in charge?” Eugens blurted out, and Master Froilax said: “Three moonturns? It can’t possibly take three moonturns to get there!” Lord Felocan turned to Eugens and demanded to know if he knew “this Harrier person,” and when Eugens said that Harrier was his brother, Lord Felocan demanded that Eugens bring Harrier here at once.
He then turned back to Tiercel. “Young man, you are far too young to be in charge of anything, let alone of all this. Now do be a good boy. Run along and bring us someone in authority to talk to.”
“Get off the carpet,” Tiercel said. “Natha and Narkil want to roll it up. And put on your chadars. You’ll burn if you don’t. The sun’s up.”
“Did you hear me?” Lord Felocan demanded.
“Yeah, I actually did,” Tiercel answered. “Move.” He stepped back, and the Armethaliehans, glancing warily at the patiently-waiting Isvaieni, followed him.
“Don’t,” he said, as Eugens started to walk off. Eugens stopped. “Look,” Tiercel said, trying to hold onto his fraying patience. “I know you’ve had a horrible time. The first time Shamblers attacked us it was really bad. The thing is, Ahairan’s been chasing us across the desert for the last three moonturns too, and everyone here has lost husbands, wives, children, families. Don’t expect a lot of sympathy. And I don’t know what you think Harrier can do. We’re going as fast as we can. We’re going north. We rescued you, and we saved your lives. What else do you want?”
“You have a dragon,” Master Froilax said. “Don’t they fly? Can’t it—”
“She’s been hurt,” Tiercel said shortly. “She can’t fly.”
“And why doesn’t the Wildmage Heal her—if he can Heal us?” Lord Felocan said challengingly. “Then we—”
“Because Ahairan has made that impossible,” Tiercel snapped. “Do you think we’re stupid? Do you think we haven’t thought of every single thing you’re going to suggest?”
“Sometimes a fresh viewpoint can be helpful, Lord Tiercel,” Kave Breulin said quietly.
“Yeah, I—Yeah. It’s just . . . not right now, okay? Let me help you with your chadars and then show you how to ride a shotor. Then it will be time to go.”
“Not without our cold mutton broth, I hope,” Breulin said. “I was quite looking forward to that, Lord Tiercel.”
The wry humor actually coaxed a smile from Tiercel. “It’s kind of awful. But you get used to it. And, uh, I don’t really use my title, you know. And my friends call me ‘Tyr.’ ”
“ ‘Tyr’ it is then.” Breulin made a short formal bow. “And since absolutely nobody calls me ‘Lord Kavelin’—a secondary title the family’s been trying to get rid of for years—I hope you’ll call me ‘Kave.’ And show me what to do with something that looks like my sister’s Light-day shawl.”
“ ‘Kave’ it is, then,” Tiercel said, returning the bow. He took the chadar from Kave, and looked around at all of them. “Here. This is what you have to do . . .”
IT was hard to remember now, after the hundreds of hours he’d spent riding them, how bad he’d been at riding a shotor at first, Tiercel thought. He found shotors for them, and showed them how to arrange themselves on the high wooden saddles, and how to wrap one leg around the saddle-peg and brace their knee against the high front of the saddle for added stability. He demonstrated the simple commands to make the animal get to its feet, to stop, and to kneel again so that they could dismount. He didn’t bother showing them how to make a shotor turn left or right—or to move from a walk, to a fast p
ace, to a trot—the shotors would stay with the rest of the caravan and match its speed. Lord Felocan, Magistrate Perizel, Eugens, and Kave all practiced mounting their animals and giving them the command to rise and kneel.
Mistress Pallocons had wanted to ride double with Lord Felocan, but Tiercel said they’d both be more comfortable on their own shotors. Mistress Pallocons had finally agreed, clutching the front of the saddle with white-knuckled hands and looking silently terrified. Master Froilax approached his shotor cautiously, saying: “There, there, my good fellow,” in loud hearty tones, only to leap backward with a startled cry when the animal swung its head around to regard him in bemused surprise.
“They’re really very gentle,” Tiercel said helplessly.
“They look vicious,” Goodlady Oriadan said firmly. “I won’t go near one—and Arhos, you stay away from those horrible beasts! Lord Tiercel, you’ll simply have to find us something else—I won’t ride one, I tell you—I won’t!”
“Fine,” Harrier said, striding up. “She can walk. I would’ve thought she’d be tired of it by now, but it’s her choice.”
Tiercel stared at Harrier, caught between shock at Harrier’s callousness and relief that he wasn’t going to have to continue to deal with the refugees all by himself, since all of the Isvaieni were politely pretending the northerners were completely invisible.
“Har, this is—”
“G’dlady Oriadan. Yeah. Ciniran told me. Magistrate Perizel, Lord Felocan, Master Froilax, G’dsir Oriadan, Gens, and . . .”
“Mistress Pallocons,” Tiercel said quickly, and Harrier nodded, obviously filing away the title for future use.
“We’ll be stopping around Noonday Bells and resting until half-past First Afternoon Bells, then going on until sometime between Evensong and First Night Bells,” Harrier said, turning so that it was obvious that he was speaking to all eight of them. “It’s three chimes before Second Dawn Bells right now, if you want to know how long you’ll be riding today before we stop.”
“I don’t see any bell towers around here, Har,” Eugens said.
Harrier pointed at the sky, silently indicating the stars and implying the sun. “You learn,” he said. “You really ought to get on the shotor,” he said to Goodlady Oriadan. “It’s hard at first, but it gets easier.”
“Lord Tiercel said you’re in charge here,” Lord Felocan said, stepping away from his shotor. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Well, look. I have an idea,” Harrier said blandly. “It’s going to be almost three full Bells before we stop. You’ll have plenty of time to petition the Eternal Light for understanding. If you still haven’t figured it out by the time we’ve stopped, come talk to me.”
Tiercel couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud before he could stop himself. It didn’t make matters any better.
“Do you have any idea of who I am, you Tradeborn fool?” Lord Felocan snarled.
Harrier smiled sweetly, but his eyes were murderous. “Sure. You’re the guy whose skin I saved yesterday. And while you’re calling me—and my brother—‘Tradeborn,’ just remember: our Da can buy and sell you and yours and not need to ask a loan to do it. Come on, Tyr. They’ll either figure out how to mount up and ride with us, or they’ll walk.”
Fourteen
Clash of Wills
HARRIER, LOOK—WAIT—Would you—You just can’t—” Tiercel said, hurrying after his friend. “Harrier—”
Abruptly Harrier stopped, spun around, and grabbed Tiercel. He pulled him so close that their chins bumped for a moment, then spoke into his ear so softly that someone standing even a few paces away couldn’t have heard. “You know that Fannas is ready to bolt. Right now the Kareggi want to throw him out, but if these people keep acting like this, they won’t do that. They’ll go with him. And Light knows who else will go with them. And Ahairan will kill them. I know they’re afraid. I know they have no idea what’s going on. But they have to stop acting as if they’re in Armethalieh and they have to stop it right now.”
Tiercel froze in shock. It had never occurred to him—not for an instant—that there’d been anything more to Harrier’s behavior back there than just . . . Harrier being Harrier. Not this . . . careful calculation.
“Don’t threaten me,” he said, pushing away. It was the first thing he could think of to say to explain what Harrier had been doing, because of course everyone had seen. He caught the quick flash of gratitude on Harrier’s face, and nodded very slightly to show he understood what Harrier was telling him. It went against every instinct Tiercel had not to rush back and do everything he could to ease things for the refugees, but Harrier had reminded him of something he’d managed to forget: Nine Cities’ customs were different from Isvaieni ways. He’d been edged into desert ways slowly, first by being coaxed gently out of his Armethaliehan manners in his long journey to get here, then by spending two moonturns in Tarnatha’Iteru before meeting Shaiara. If Lord Felocan and Magistrate Perizel tried to force the tribes to behave like people of the Nine Cities, there would only be trouble. More trouble than they already had, and they already had a lot.
“Fine,” Harrier said, still playing up. “Just . . . fine.” He stalked off toward the head of the caravan—which was still loading—and Tiercel went off to find something to do that would take him far away from the Armethaliehans.
He saw Kave looking for him, and he was pretty sure that Eugens had gone looking for Harrier. Harrier would be easy to spot—even though his robes were sun-faded by now, Harrier was still the only one wearing blue—but Harrier was very good at not being found when he didn’t want to be. Fortunately Tiercel’d traded out his green-and-white striped robes for some that weren’t bloodstained as soon as he could, so what he wore now blended in with everyone else, but he wasn’t nearly as good at hiding, so he went and found Saravasse. He didn’t think any of the Armethaliehans would approach her too closely.
“It’s difficult to be confronted with your old life when you aren’t comfortable with your new one, isn’t it?” Saravasse said, covering him with her wing.
The stub of her other—injured—wing was still covered in its dull ugly sheath of tent-felt. Tiercel didn’t want to ask Bisochim how Saravasse’s wing was doing. He knew what the answer would be, and forcing Bisochim to tell him would only be cruel. He knew that Bisochim removed the covering every few days to check on the damage, and to make sure that the wing wasn’t growing into the bandages, but there was no medicine to give her for the pain, and jostling the wing hurt her even more. And—of course—every time Bisochim saw the damage to his Bonded, Tiercel thought he must be tempted to cast the spell of Healing that would doom them all.
If it had been Ancaladar—if, horribly, it had been Ancaladar—Tiercel knew he would not have had the courage to simply endure, knowing his suffering wasn’t a fraction of his Bonded’s. Saravasse could neither sleep, nor be Healed by her Bonded. She could only suffer—day after day—as Bisochim watched and did nothing.
It was Ahairan’s cruelest taunt.
As Tiercel tried not to think of these things, Saravasse craned down to inspect him. “That was why I never went back to the Elven Lands when my Beloved had chosen a path that made my heart die a little more each day. I could have. I wonder—now—if I should have.”
“I don’t know,” Tiercel said, leaning against her side. This early in the morning, her scales were only pleasantly warm. “There are so many things I think I should have done. Some of them I didn’t do for really stupid reasons. Others, I don’t know why I didn’t do.”
“You are younger than I,” Saravasse answered, sighing gustily. “Some would say it excuses the fault.”
“Not me,” Tiercel answered bitterly.
“We all know what we should have done as we look backward. Yet looking backward further still, we may say that all goes as the Wild Magic wills. And we must look forward if we are to live long enough to look backward,” Saravasse said.
“Harrier says we won’t,” Tiercel
blurted out. Harrier says we won’t live. Harrier says we’re all going to die.
“Harrier,” Saravasse said tartly, “is quite as young as you are, Wildmage—Knight-Mage—or no. And the defining quality of a Knight-Mage, or so I have always heard, is stubbornness.”
Tiercel reached over and patted her scales affectionately. “Then the Wild Magic definitely picked the right person to turn into a Knight Mage,” he said. I hope that’s enough to save us.
TIERCEL didn’t know whether some of the Isvaieni had helped them, or whether they’d actually absorbed enough of his brief lessons, but the survivors of The Armethaliehan Commission to Inquire into the Madiran Unrest were all on shotors when the caravan left the encampment half an hour later.
Tiercel was grateful that he hadn’t taught them anything about how to direct their mounts, because if he had, he was sure they’d have spent the morning’s ride chasing him and Harrier around the column wanting Light knew what. (Probably for the last several moonturns not to have happened.) It was only after Harrier had dragged him away from them earlier that Tiercel had gotten a glimpse of what Harrier was worrying about, but now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it, and it kept unfolding like those little folded sugar-paper lanterns the tea-houses sold back in Armethalieh for sweetening your tea, the ones that unfolded into the shape of a lantern while they were dissolving.
Had the Commission been sending preliminary reports back to Armethalieh? Tiercel frowned. He thought Eugens had said something about that. It was common practice, anyway. His father dealt with reports from fact-finding Commissions all the time on behalf of Chief Magistrate Vaunnel. He remembered that Eugens had said the Commission was about to leave Akazidas’Iteru, and they’d certainly have sent agents up the road ahead of them then to make sure their lodgings were prepared and that everything and everyone was ready to receive them. When the Commission’s representatives reached Armethalieh, Magistrate Vaunnel would have expected the Commissioners to be a sennight—two at most—behind them.
The Enduring Flame Trilogy 003 - The Phoenix Transformed Page 43