Elgar winced, growing pale, though his eyes were intent. “The corpses in the first pile had been burned, charred a perfect black, though fire had touched no other part of Mist’s Edge, and there were no traces of one ever having been built. In the second pile, not ten feet away, the bodies were frozen from the inside, blood like ice in their veins. And in the third pile … the third pile was not so much a pile of bodies as a collection of limbs and scraps, gashed with a thousand cuts, broken and twisted and torn. It was a scene of total, impossible devastation.”
Elgar paused, drawing in a breath. “And in the center of the courtyard, cross-legged at the foot of the charred corpses, was a single man.
“He was Aurnian, perhaps no older than you. They said he wore a cloak the color of fresh blood, but the rest was all black, from his collar to his boot-heels. And there was something odd about his face: it was somehow gray, as if he were half a corpse himself. He stood up as they entered, and faced them calmly. ‘I’m here to deliver a message,’ he said. ‘We are greatly displeased with your master.’ The men were very insistent about that: he said I at the beginning, but after, ever after, it was we.”
Varalen was still trying to comprehend how such a series of deaths could take place at all, let alone what the motive behind it could have been. “Who did he mean by we?”
“He did not say, and my men were too distracted to ask. A couple made as if to apprehend him, but he merely smirked at the bodies behind him and asked if they were in such a hurry to join their companions. They didn’t dare approach him again after that, and he was able to deliver his message more or less unopposed.”
“And the message?” Varalen asked.
Elgar clenched his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I was to understand that they would not allow me to keep the castle, and required me to abandon it at once. ‘It belongs to us now,’ he said, ‘and the dead. All who set foot in this castle without our leave will die, this we swear to you.’
“He said they assumed I would try to test them—that I would think, Oh, what are fifty or a hundred men to me, when I have thousands? But they needed me to understand that their quarrel was with me, and it was a very personal one. ‘We considered attacking him directly, even if we had to seek him in the Citadel itself,’ he said, ‘but many people would die.’ He stated this as a negative, yet the men claimed the idea did not seem all that unpleasant to him. ‘Many, many people would die. So we have chosen to take our revenge in this way instead. But if he tries to take it back—if we find a single one of his men so much as looking at this castle—we will pursue him with everything we are. And you’ll find, if our work here hasn’t already convinced you, that we are not insignificant.’”
Elgar leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. “Naturally, one of the men took that opportunity to ask something entirely beside the point: he inquired after what made this quarrel of theirs so very personal.
“‘He killed our brother,’ the man in the cloak replied. ‘And in so doing he has made mortal enemies of us forever.’”
“Did you kill his brother?” Varalen had to ask.
Elgar shrugged. “Probably. I’ve killed enough people in the course of my life; I don’t doubt many of them had brothers.”
Killed them how? Varalen wondered. He had never seen him do it, never even seen him practicing. He wore a sword and a knife, but Varalen had never known him to so much as draw either of them; he’d always figured they were intended more for ceremony’s sake than for any practical use. Was Elgar merely referring to the admittedly long list of people who had been killed on his orders? “Did this man say anything else?” he finally asked, just to say something.
Elgar shook his head. “Not that I could get out of the sentries, anyway. He delivered this message of his and then left, leaving them stunned and slack-jawed in his wake.” He folded his hands. “Well? What would you do, Varalen, if a man like that issued such an ultimatum to you? Would you try to take back Mist’s Edge, do you think?”
Varalen hesitated. “My lord, I can’t really … believe such a thing—”
Elgar scoffed. “Still you insist on doubting everything? Nothing but magic could have killed those men in such a way.”
“You never saw the bodies yourself, did you? There must be some explanation—”
“There is a very obvious explanation. You just don’t want to see it.”
Varalen ignored that; it was the same old argument, and in the meantime something else had occurred to him. “But, my lord, if you were so concerned about this, why on earth did you agree to come back to Mist’s Edge in the first place? If you truly give credence to this strange man’s threats, it’s a wonder you aren’t dead already. It’s a wonder we all aren’t.”
“That’s why I had to go,” Elgar said. “I had to find out as much as I could before I invaded Reglay. It’s been more than two years since that man delivered his message, and I had started … not to doubt, but to wonder. I wondered if this strange man and his we had really been living at Mist’s Edge that whole time. And if they were somewhere else, how would they know if one of my men did so much as look at the castle? I wondered, but if I was wrong … I didn’t want to risk it. And then that boy made his move.” He stroked his beard. “He proved … not that they were never here, but that they’re not here now. And if they were willing to let him steal their castle without so much as a squeak of protest, I wondered what they would do if I set foot within its walls—as a guest, of course. The bargain wasn’t that I couldn’t go to Mist’s Edge, was it? It was that I couldn’t try to take it back, and I’m not. If this man was lax enough to allow Kelken to take over again, and if Kelken wants to invite me here for dinner and a coronation, I expect that’s within the rules.”
It was still strange. How could Elgar be so paranoid about some things and so cavalier about others? “None of your men ever saw this apparition again?”
“None,” Elgar agreed. “And he sent no more messages—or, if he did, I never received them. I might almost wonder if he ever existed in the first place.”
“Are you so sure he did?” Varalen asked. “It couldn’t have been … I don’t know, some elaborate hoax? A plot by your men?”
Elgar actually laughed. “By my men? Gods no. My men couldn’t half dream up something so intricate. They’re all like you—they don’t have any imagination.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ritsu hadn’t tried to kill them yet; Deinol could say that much for him. He hadn’t tried much of anything, to be honest, and that included speaking. He’d expected the man to try to bolt as soon as they were out of sight of the village, or else, at the very least, to appeal for permission to bolt. But he’d just kept trotting faithfully along after them, without so much as asking where they were going.
He didn’t speak to Deinol much, although Deinol could usually get him to answer direct questions, if cryptically. Seth seemed to have better luck, but even he was sometimes thwarted; Ritsu never openly disdained a question, but sometimes he frowned or said he didn’t know, and sometimes he let whole sentences pass as if he hadn’t realized they were directed at him.
Seth was the one who had asked him how old he was, and Ritsu had replied that he’d stopped counting years ago. “I’m sure I’m older than I look, though, because some people still call me boy, and I must be over twenty at least.” And what kind of person simply stopped counting? Deinol wondered. He’d known people who never knew, sure, but none who used to keep track and simply gave it up one day.
Part of him had hoped Ritsu’s strangeness would resolve itself as soon as they’d gotten away from his accusers, that they could find some starting point from which to understand him. But the man—even Deinol found it hard not to think of him as a boy—only seemed stranger the more he revealed about himself. Where on earth had he come from?
When he’d put that question to Ritsu, he had hesitated. “I was born in Aurnis, but I didn’t come here from there. I left when it fell, and after that I went to many plac
es.” And that had smacked unpleasantly of Almasy, but where Almasy had felt slick, Ritsu seemed almost guileless, like a child or an idiot.
It didn’t stop Seth from feeling the same way about Ritsu as he had about Almasy, of course. Around people in Sheath he had always been shy, but perhaps he felt responsible for Ritsu on account of this Sebastian fellow he was supposed to look like. (His attraction to Almasy was, and always would be, inexplicable.) Deinol could already tell they were going to get into a row once he proposed they’d taken Ritsu far enough and Seth protested that they couldn’t just leave him alone, but he couldn’t see how to avoid it. They weren’t making this journey for their own pleasure, after all, and no doubt Ritsu didn’t want to get involved in the search for Almasy any more than Deinol wanted him to.
When they stopped for water, Deinol unsheathed Ritsu’s sword, which he’d been carrying with him since they’d left the village. Ritsu had surprised him yet again by not asking for it back, though perhaps he merely guessed Deinol wasn’t about to trust him with it yet. Deinol took a few practice swings with it, listening to the blade whistle through the air. For size it looked like a common one-hander, though the grip was long enough to accommodate two hands, a not unusual modification. Not a tsunshin, then—had he been trained out of the Aurnian style? “Have you been using this blade long, Ritsu?” he asked.
Ritsu nodded. “For many years.”
There was something about the sword that irked him; it just didn’t feel right in his hands. Deinol swung it a couple more times. “You like it?”
“I am used to it.”
Deinol certainly wasn’t; he stumbled on the next swing, and frowned down at the blade. It wasn’t that it was too light; he preferred his longsword, true, but he’d used one-handed swords before. So what was it?
On a whim, he took a swing at a nearby tree—and nearly yelled in pain as the blow connected, shivering down the blade and through his arm all the way to the shoulder.
“What on earth are you doing?” Seth asked. “You can’t just bang his sword around like that.”
Deinol’s arm was inclined to agree, but at least now he knew what had bothered him about the sword. “This is weak steel,” he said to Ritsu.
The man looked at him blankly. “What?”
“It’s poorly made, I mean. Didn’t you see how hard it shook when I struck that tree? It nearly leaped out of my hands. I didn’t even swing it that hard.”
“Oh,” Ritsu said. “Well, that’s odd.”
“I’ll say. You didn’t notice?”
Ritsu touched his bottom lip. “It’s the only sword I’ve used for some time, so perhaps I would not know the difference.”
“But this…” Deinol cut the air with the sword again. It didn’t even sound right. “You’re a small man, so you can’t be that strong, and with a sword like this … I don’t understand how you wouldn’t be overpowered every time.”
Ritsu seemed to understand that, at least. “It’s true I am small, but I’m stronger than I look. And I was taught to use speed, not power. Speed, technique, precision—that’s what I was taught.”
“Well, it seems to me you’d be faster and more precise with a better blade.”
“Perhaps I should get one, then,” Ritsu said mildly. “But as you don’t even wish me to use this one…”
“Eh, aye, I guess the point’s a bit moot.” He sheathed the sword again, crouching by the river. “Where is it you’re going, Ritsu?”
Ritsu had lowered his face to his cupped hands to drink, but he looked up at the question, water dripping from his chin. “Going? I didn’t have a destination. I just didn’t like staying in one place for too long. Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps eventually I’ll find a place I would like to stay, and then I’ll stay there.”
“Weren’t you looking for someone?” Seth asked, propping his chin on his hand. “You wanted to find someone, but you didn’t know where to look?”
“Yes,” Ritsu agreed. “I was told … hmm.” He sat on the bank, a bemused expression passing over his face. “Who was it who told me? Was it my father? I think it may have been.” He tapped his wet chin, staring off into the trees. “Yes, that feels right to me. My father told me once that whenever you are defeated, it is because the enemy swordsman knows something you do not.” He laughed. “Yes, I remember now. I asked him what if the enemy swordsman knew he had an army at his back and you didn’t, and he told me to stop trying to make a fool of myself. That was the way of things in Aurnis—the truest combat was single combat, that moment when you brought your whole being to bear on someone else’s, when they became your whole world. And if you lost then, my father said, it was always because you did not know something, and your opponent did. It might simply be the best way to place your feet before a lunge, the way to counter your favorite stroke, but there was always something, always. You just had to find it.”
“So does that mean you’re looking for someone who defeated you?” Seth asked.
Ritsu frowned. “Not looking, because I don’t know where to look. It just occurred to me that I wished we could meet again, that’s all.”
Deinol stretched out across from him. “Well, what do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” Ritsu said.
“Come on. Surely not nothing at all? You must remember what he looked like, at least, or what sort of blade he used.”
Ritsu nodded, very slowly. “Yes. I remember the blade. A tsunshin, like my father used—like I used to use, when I was younger.”
“That narrows it down more than you might think,” Seth offered. “Elgar killed so many of the shinrian when Aurnis fell, and since then the style’s fallen out of favor.”
Deinol wrinkled his nose. “Narrows it, sure, but unless the shinrian you fought was Lucius, I doubt we can help you.” He paused. “It, er, wasn’t Lucius, was it? Half-Aurnian, about my age, long black hair, nose even sharper than his chin? It wasn’t, right? It can’t have been.”
Ritsu pressed his lips together, his fingers tightening in the grass. Deinol waited, but he said nothing. He hadn’t seen anything like recognition or surprise in Ritsu’s face, but then why was he so reluctant to answer?
“Look,” Deinol said wearily, “I understand we just met, and there are some things you don’t want to tell us, but if I have to travel around with you wondering if you want revenge on my friend—”
Ritsu looked up in surprise, holding his hands out in front of him. “No, no, not revenge, nothing like that. It was an honorable fight, and I’m just happy to be alive at all. I only wanted … to see if I could find it out. To see if I could learn whatever it was I didn’t know. That’s all.” He bit his lip. “I don’t think it’s your friend, anyway. It may not be. It probably isn’t.”
Deinol opened his mouth to question him further, but stopped when Seth shook his head. “Let’s hope not,” he said instead. “I’ve caused him enough trouble already without unwittingly freeing one of his enemies.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The oaken table was not small, but the map covered it entirely, leaving the White Waste to dangle over its edge into empty air. Imperator Elgar paced on the far side of the room, stealing downward glances at the map every so often; Lady Margraine reclined on a cushioned chair, her fingers curled gently around a glass of wine. Kel felt restless himself, but his legs didn’t agree, so he was seated as well, trying to keep from fidgeting.
All three of them had agreed it was best to remain alone together for the duration of their negotiations, but that didn’t mean they had to like it. Without Eirnwin or Cadfael, or even Lessa, it was difficult to pretend he wasn’t caught between two vipers, and doubtless Elgar found these terms too even for his taste. Only Lady Margraine seemed content, but she was watching both of them carefully all the same.
Elgar spoke first. “I would venture we all want the same thing: peace, of any acceptable sort.”
Lady Margraine laughed. “I’d wager we do all want the same thing: our kingdoms.” She
took a sip of wine. “The difference, of course, is that Kelken and I only want our own, and you would have them all.”
Elgar inclined his head. “If you are determined to be so hostile from the very first—”
“There is no hope of our coming to terms? Do you think there is any regardless? We know what you will say, and you know my answer, at least.”
“I wish to unite our sundered lands,” Elgar said, holding up a hand. “I will not deny that. Valyanrend was once the crown jewel of an empire, and I will make it so again. But I am not so unreasonable as you think.”
When neither one of them said anything, he continued, “I have no desire for a Council, as in the days of Elesthene, but neither can I be everywhere at once. I will need stewards to take the day-to-day matters of each region in hand when I cannot be present.”
Lady Margraine laughed again, more harshly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you really proposing what I think you are?”
“My lady, if you understood warfare even as well as your father did, you would see that you have no chance. Why is it laughable in me to wish to spare your life, not to mention countless lives from both our armies?” He laid one hand against the edge of the table, his fingertips brushing the map. “You can still sit your throne—you can both still sit your thrones. Esthrades will become a province of the empire, just as it was in the beginning, and—”
“And Reglay can no longer be a kingdom, of course,” Lady Margraine finished, “but names are only words, isn’t that right? You will need, naturally, to give me a husband, someone you can trust to seize the reins of power from me, and the boy, once you take away his crown, will only be a boy, and thus unfit to rule an imperial province. You shall place another of your men above him—perhaps you’ll marry him to the bastard sister for good measure—and assure Kelken that he can take over administration of the region once he comes of age. It wouldn’t be unreasonable of you to hope he dies before that day comes, given his physical condition. Even if he does not, what power will he have to demand that which he has already given up?” She smiled. “Have I summed it up adequately?”
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