can take."
Vahanian nodded. "I wondered that myself. I'm the wrong one to ask about magic. But remind Spook that if he gets his royal ass fried, the rest of us hang. And personally, I'm counting on doing some damage to Arontala. So… he needs to stick around for the party."
Kiara smiled at his irreverence. "I'll remind him- in so many words," she chuckled. "Go on now, or the tea will be cold. Let Carina know it will be
tomorrow before the court healer can see her- there was an outbreak in the village and Staden sent the healers to help." "I'll tell her," Vahanian replied, heading for the study.
AT THE STUDY, Vahanian knocked lightly at the door. When no answer came, he frowned and knocked again, more insistently. "Carina?" he called quietly. "Kiara asked me to bring up some tea. It's Jonmarc."
When there was still no answer, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and swung open at his touch. Carina lay sprawled on the floor, her book fallen beside her.
Vahanian rushed inside, and the door swung closed behind him. The tea was forgotten on the table as he knelt beside Carina, turning her over gently.
Carina was pale and feverish. A fresh gash bled on her upper arm, and Vahanian guessed that she had fallen against the edge of the table. From the lump on her forehead, it was obvious that she had hit the floor hard.
Gently, Vahanian lifted Carina into his arms and carried her to a small couch. Although he possessed none of Carina's healing magic, Vahanian had seen enough battle-and enough battle healers-to make a fair assessment of her injuries. Carina's breathing was steady and her pulse was strong. Vahanian spotted Carina's healer's bag near the fireplace, and rifled through it with a practiced eye. He selected a few herbs and a stretch of cloth, and brought the small iron pot of water that simmered on the fire. Within a few minutes, he had fashioned a rough bandage from part of the strip and made a poultice from the herbs to bind up the gash on her arm. He mixed some powders with the tea to bring down Carina's fever, and made a compress with a rag and the water on the washstand.
Carina began to stir as he patted the cool water against her face.
"Take it easy," Vahanian instructed. "You had a nasty fall."
"How-"
"Kiara asked me to stop off with some tea on my way by," Vahanian said, helping her sit to sip the tea. "She said to tell you that none of the palace healers could come by until tomorrow-some kind of plague in the village has them all busy."
"Then where did the poultice-"
He chuckled. "As you love to point out, I've been in more than my share of fights. Just a little battlefield healing, to return the favor."
Carina gingerly touched the fresh bandage on her arm, and sniffed the air. "Acycla leaves and cass root, with featherwort. Not a beginner's mixture."
"I spent a few years helping a hedge witch gather herbs," Vahanian said off-handedly. "You learn things."
Carina looked at Vahanian, meeting his eyes as if she were trying to read his thoughts. "Who are you… really?"
Vahanian recognized the question. It was the same loaded query he had tossed her way alter the slavers' rout in the Ruune Videya. Something in her eyes made him take the question seriously. He ran a hand back through his long, dark hair.
"Why do you care?" he asked quietly, refusing to look away.
"Because the answer matters."
"It's a long story."
"I don't think I'm going anywhere." She closed her eyes and sank back against the couch. "I saw you once, when we were at Westmarch, down in the forge. You handled those blacksmith's tools like you were born to them. For a merc, you've been a lot of strange places. So I'll ask you again-who are you, really?"
Vahanian took a long breath and looked toward the fireplace, unsure how to answer. Finally, he drew up a chair and sat down. "My mother was a weaver and my father a blacksmith, up in the Borderlands, near enough to the Northern Sea that the ship captains and the traders gave us good business. I started working in his forge from the time I was old enough to carry the tools. We made a good living."
"But you didn't stay."
"When I was fifteen, raiders came. We made too good of a living, I guess. My father died trying to help hold the gates. I grabbed his sword and tried to protect the forge, but I was just a kid. First time I got stabbed," he said ruefully. "When I came around, it was over. The village was looted, half of it burned. My mother and brothers were dead. I tried to get help in the next village, but I didn't make it through the woods."
"What happened?'
"The hedge witch's daughter was out gathering herbs. She found me and dragged me home. Guess I gave them a scare," he chuckled sadly. "After I healed up, they apprenticed me to their village blacksmith. A few years later, I married the hedge witch's daughter."
Carina said nothing, but her gaze made him look away, back to the fire. "There was a late spring that year, and the sea captains didn't stop at our port. Money was tight. I started pulling old relics out of the cave tombs-gold and jewelry and rare wood- and selling what I could find to traders just to get by. Then one night, after Shanna and I had been married about six months, a mage showed up, and wanted me to find him a relic." "Arontala?"
"Yeah," Vahanian said. "Offered a year's wages if I'd bring him back a talisman. So I went up there, and I found it. Put it on a strap around my neck to keep it safe."
"The charm we saw at Westmarch-the one that keeps the magicked beasts away."
Vahanian nodded. "All these years, I thought that damned thing called the beasts." He paused for a moment, swallowing hard, until he could find his voice once more. "The beasts came that night and there was nothing to stop them. Nothing I did made a difference. They couldn't kill me, but they gave me this." He tilted his head so that the scar showed from beneath his collar, a jagged line that ran from his ear down under his shirt.
"Everyone died-everyone but me," he said quietly. "All these years, I thought I brought the beasts." He dared to meet Carina's eyes, knowing that she struggled with her own ghosts. "I didn't believe Royster, didn't believe Tris. But Tris summoned Shanna's spirit, and I believed her."
His voice caught, and he looked away. "That's what I meant when I told you that the dead forgive us. That's how I know.
"I got as far away as I could, which was Eastmark. Only thing I had to sell was my sword. I was barely eighteen-younger than Tris is now by a couple of years. Met Harrtuck there, in a mere troop. He taught me the basics, kept me from getting killed. But I learned fast, got field promotions, and a general in the Eastmark army asked me to join them. He was a hero, and I was flattered." Vahanian's voice was bitter. "Made full captain by the time I was twenty. It was nice, for a while."
"Kiara told me… about Chauvrenne."
Vahanian nodded. "I figured she would. After that, I had the bad luck to get captured by the Nargi as I was trying to get back to Margolan. Almost drowned in the Nu River when I escaped. Washed up on the river bank, and a lady named Jolie took me in, gave me a job, taught me to smuggle on the river. And that's what I was doing until Harrtuck hired me as a guide."
Any chance I had with her probably just disappeared, Vahanian thought with a sigh, looking down at his hands. Why should someone with her gift, her connections, look twice at someone like me?
Vahanian looked up, startled, as Carina's hand slipped over his in a weak clasp, warm with fever. "Thank you." For once, her green eyes did not seem so guarded. She did not let go of his hand. "Stay with me, please." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and he daubed her face once more with the cool cloth.
"As you wish, m'lady," Vahanian said, lightening his tone with a smile, and daring to kiss the back of her hand. Carina smiled as she closed her eyes.
Vahanian watched her relax, until her breathing was deep and measured, and she finally fell asleep. He looked down at her hand, small against his, in amazement.
Maybe, just maybe Vahanian thought, an outlaw turned noble has an outside chance with a noble turned outlaw. He shifted in his chair, careful to
make sure that his sword was clear to draw and that he had a good view of the door. Then he settled in for the rest of the evening, lost in thought, standing guard until dawn.
CHAPTER SIX
SOTERIUS RUBBED HIS newly-grown beard, a reddish brown complement to his darker brown hair. He brushed back his hair, usually cropped short for a battle helm, now also grown long. "This is going to take some getting used to," he said with a glance toward Mikhail.
Mikhail chuckled. He had also grown a beard and let his dark hair grow long. "I don't know, it's something of an improvement. Hides your face."
Soterius gave him a sour look. "You should talk. Took you one night to grow both beard and hair. And I bet your beard doesn't itch!"
"Being undead has its rewards," Mikhail commented. "Actually, it's a bit of a relief. To keep the hair short and beard gone, I had to cut both each evening. Goes with being vayash moru."
"Let's just hope that it fools some of the guards we run into. I'd just as soon not be recognized by every soldier we pass."
"According to Carroway, you're in more danger being recognized by the ladies," Mikhail joked. Sorerius grinned. He stood a hand's breadth shorter than Mikhail, with a trim, muscular build suited for soldiering. Before the coup, both Soterius's good looks and his position as captain of the king's guard made him a sought-after companion for the ladies. And while both Tris and Carroway did their best to elude the marriage-minded young women at court, Soterius managed to juggle multiple relationships without entanglement.
By contrast, Mikhail was as tall as Tris and Carroway, with dark brown hair. He was solidly built, and even after death his posture and stance made clear his military background. Like Soterius, Mikhail had been a younger son of a Margolan noble who took to military service since his father's lands and title went to his eldest brother. Two centuries and a shortage of heirs meant the lands finally reverted to Mikhail, another benefit of immortality. Those lands, like the estate of Soterius's father, were in Margolan's northwestern corner, in the Borderlands near Isencroft.
Soterius laughed. "You're just jealous, being dead and all."
Mikhail shrugged. "You assume that such attractions end. But immortality isn't as lonely as you seem to think."
Soterius gave him a sideways look. "You're kidding me-right?"
It was Mikhail's turn to smile. "On the contrary. Liaisons among my kind can last for several lifetimes. And mortal loves-while necessarily brief and always tragic-aren't uncommon."
Soterius thought about that. "How is that possible?"
Mikhail was silent for a few moments, until Soterius thought the other might not answer. "Mortals' lives are urgent and passionate because they are brief," Mikhail said finally. "There's a jad-edness that comes with knowing you have all the time in the world." His smile was sad. "Some among our kind never look back. Others leave behind a mortal lover and don't want to let go. Nearly all of us, I think, at one time or another, are drawn back to the warmth."
"It works better than you might think-no more difficult than those who overcome a difference in religion or who fall in love from opposite sides of a war. But for us, your days are so short-just a few seasons-and the life and light fade. Afterwards, the cold is worse for having been near the flame."
"I never knew that being dead had quite so much in common with being alive."
"Being 'dead' doesn't. Being 'undead' is something else entirely."
TADRIE, THE FARMER Kiara had rescued on her trek across Margolan, met them at the entrance to the refugee camp. He was as tall as Soterius and lean, with broad shoulders and calloused hands that spoke of hard work. Soterius guessed that Tadrie was past his fortieth year, although he looked older. "Good, you're here." Tadrie bustled toward the two men. "I have a crowd for you." Soterius brightened. "You found volunteers?" Tadrie chuckled. "Oh, I found volunteers enough. Had to keep the women and boys from volunteering, that's the Lady's truth. Everyone in this camp wants to see that demon Jared off the throne."
"I feel the same way," Soterius said. "Let's see what you've pulled together." He gestured to the wagon behind him. "We've brought supplies for the camp-food and firewood from Prince Martris and King Staden, and weapons to help with the training." "And blankets?" Tadrie asked excitedly. "And blankets."
Tadrie whistled, and the refugees pressed forward. Soterius and Mikhail helped unload the precious cargo and smiled uncomfortably as the displaced farmers and trades people thanked them over and over again.
"They're Margolan people," Soterius said with a lump in his throat, looking at the ragged refugees. "Our people. Look what Jared's done to them!"
"It will be better if we can give them hope and purpose, and a share in reclaiming their lands," Mikhail said. He patted the pommel of his sword. "As refugees, they have no hope. As soldiers, they have the chance to make a difference."
Soterius repressed a sigh of complete hopelessness when he surveyed the "arms" the refugees bore. Sickles and staves, hoes and rakes made up the bulk of the weapons. Most of the volunteers carried a knife or two, dull things barely useful enough to peel a potato, hardly the weapons of an army. They were completely unready for the swords and quintains in the wagon. It took lesss effort than Soterius expected to convince the refugees that Mikhail was on their side. Soterius realized that in the farmlands, extended family remained close- whether living or vayash moru.
With a resolution born of desperation, Soterius and Mikhail organized the commoners into two bands and drilled them on how to swing, parry and fight. Children too young to join the fray cheered and played as they watched, dueling with sticks.
Looking into the determined faces of the refugees, Soterius knew that they, too, were aware of how much preparation was required.
At the end of the first night's practice, Soterius saw three young men pushing through the crowd. They were as ragged as the other refugees, but they held themselves like soldiers.
"Captain!" one of the men shouted as they grew closer, and Soterius brightened as he recognized the men from the barracks at Shekerishet.
Handshakes and hearty backslaps followed as Soterius introduced the three soldiers-Andras, Tabb and Pell-to Mikhail. As the crowd dispersed for the night, Andras invited Soterius and Mikhail to their camp, and the five men picked their way through the crowded refugees to reach the small square of bare dirt where the soldiers made their home. They had an army-issue tent, better shelter than most of the refugees. A neatly-built fire warmed them as they sat on logs around the fire pit.
"So it's true, what they say?" said Andras excitedly. "That you helped Prince Martris to escape?"
Soterius nodded, and accepted a warm mug of watered ale with thanks. "Harrtuck was with us, and the bard Carroway."
"Lady be praised!" Tabb exclaimed. "We were afraid that it was just a rumor, spread among the
Soterius leaned forward. "Tell us what happened in the barracks that night, and how you came to be here."
Pell took a Jong breath, and ran a hand back through his filthy blond hair. "That's a hard tale, captain." He glanced at the others. "We were on patrol that night, and we knew something was very wrong when we reached the city gates. Guards were everywhere, checking everyone. It was chaos with the parades and the pilgrims, and all of the drunks celebrating Haunts. But when we reached the barracks, they said the king was dead."
Andras jumped in. "The story we heard at first was that Prince Martris had killed the king-and his family-and that Jared only barely drove him off. They said that you and the others were traitors, and Jared put a huge bounty on all of you."
Soterius swore. "Jared paid slavers to hunt us. They almost got us."
"Even then," Andras said bitterly, "we didn't believe it for a moment. Oh, Jared had his friends in the barracks, that's for sure.You know how he used to come down and talk to the men, filling their heads with dreams of an empire. So some of them didn't think about it too hard when he blamed the murders on Prince Martris."
"We knew better," said Pell, anger
coloring his tone. "And as the next days passed, we saw our worst fears confirmed. Jared sent squadrons out to the manors of the loyal nobles. He put them under house arrest, or worse. Palace staff began to
disappear. Those who could fled as soon as they realized what had happened. Jared hanged a dozen of the servants, on charges of aiding the conspiracy."
"He declared martial law," Tabb said. "Told us that to protect Margolan, we needed to help him build a war chest. So he sent soldiers in twos and threes to shake down the merchants, the tradesmen and the farmers."
"That's how we escaped," added Andras. "We agreed among ourselves that we wanted no part of Jared's army. But we were fond of saving our necks. Then the order came to go to the farms outside the city and collect second taxes. No one questioned when we packed for the road. Once we reached the farmlands we warned the farmers, who gave us clothes and burned our uniforms. They helped us pass from farm to farm, and we protected the refugees who went with us." He spread his hands to indicate the camp. "We came here, and here we've been, without hope until now." He looked up at Soterius and Mikhail.
"If you plan to cross Margolan and recruit troops, you'll find an army waiting for you, captain. We heard tell of other soldiers who also went missing, from outposts and garrisons, hidden by the people. And we heard tell of others, who didn't flee, who either did the demon's bidding or were hanged for refusing orders." He shook his head. "It's been bad, sir, since the coup. When Prince Martris returns-and I pray to the Lady that he does-he'll have a mess to clean up."
Soterius nodded. "That's what we were afraid of." He paused. "By any chance, did you hear what happened to Lila? I was supposed to meet her after the celebration at the palace the night of the coup. She promised to save me a seat down at the Bristle Boar. I stood her up to save Tris."
Andras, Pell and Tabb exchanged glances and fell silent for a moment. Finally, Andras spoke. "Aye, we heard. A few days after the murders she came to the barracks, looking for you. Unfortunately, she didn't come to one of us. She went to Aeron, and he took her to Jared. No one saw her again."
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