Shadows of Prophecy

by Rachel Lee

  Now his plans had to change.

  “We return to Anahar,” Jenah said. “We choose the battlefield and wait for them.”

  Archer shook his head. “I don’t think so. Anahar was built as an open city, a ceremonial heart, not a fortress. There are too many avenues of approach to defend. If we established our entire force across one, the Bozandari would choose another. If we tried to defend all, they would defeat our detachments one by one. Have no doubt that they will bring overwhelming force to bear. And while our men fought bravely tonight, we fought what was largely a sleeping, drunken enemy. I doubt the Bozandari will make that mistake again.”

  “We cannot simply let them take the city, Lord Archer,” Giri said. “Anahar is the soul of the Anari people, the legacy of the Ilduin themselves.”

  “It is also our library,” Tess said. “A living library in stone. Sara, Cilla and I have much more to learn before we are ready to confront the Enemy. Anahar cannot be razed, but it must not be violated. It is holy ground.”

  “But neither can we defend it directly. Our army is simply not large enough.” Archer pointed to the symbols drawn on the Bozandari map. “They have two full-strength legions at hand in the southern lands of Bozandar. Have no doubt that both would come to crush us. We could not stand against such numbers, no matter the depth of Anari courage.”

  “What, then?” Ratha asked. “You started this campaign with a plan, my Lord. Surely that plan is not wholly rubbish to be cast aside. Consider, if you would—”

  Ratha stepped forward and looked at the map for a few moments, then began to trace his fingers over the symbols.

  “Your plan will still work, my Lord. We must make changes, though. We know that the two remaining camps will march for Anahar as soon as they hear of tonight’s battle. Their hope was to reach it before we knew of their movement, and force us to attack them at a time and place of their choice. We cannot do that, for all the reasons you have explained. But…we know of their plans. Surely we could ambush them in these passes, here and here. We can catch them on the march and unprepared. It is as close to drunken and sleeping as we can hope for.”

  “But what then?” Archer said. He had some sense of where Ratha was going, but he wanted to hear the rest of the plan.

  “My brother’s force suffered the most tonight and will need time to recover,” Ratha said. He looked up at Giri. “Do not deny it, brother. Honesty counts for more than courage in this time.”

  “I do not deny it,” Giri said. “But neither will my men want to be left behind. They have bloodied themselves on the altar of Anari freedom. They will accept no less now.”

  “Worry not, my brother,” Ratha said. “It was not my design to take you out of the battle. Far from it. Lord Archer, what I propose is this. Jenah’s column was the least engaged in tonight’s battle. They are the strongest among us. We send them to the east, to catch the Bozandari from the coastal camp here, in this pass. My column will head west, to intercept the Bozandari coming down from the mountains. We must move quickly and strike them hard.”

  “And my men?” Giri asked.

  “You will be our eyes and ears on the frontier,” Ratha said. “You head north. Your job is to find the advancing Bozandari legions, shadow them and let us know by what route they advance. If possible, you will steer them onto a road of our own choosing. We must force them into a long, narrow canyon…this one here, or over here, would be ideal. Then they cannot bring their superior numbers to bear, Lord Archer. We trap them and fight them where Anari courage can turn the day.”

  Archer studied the map, calculating force, distance and time. When he glanced up, he saw that Jenah and Giri were doing likewise. It would be a close run thing, this plan. But he could find no better course.

  “I agree,” he said, nodding. “But we have not a moment to waste. All will depend on speed now. We must deploy our detachments quickly enough to concentrate along the enemy’s line of march and prepare our defenses. Jenah and Ratha, form up your men, and get them fed and rested. They must leave on the morrow at first light. Giri, your men will finish securing this camp and whatever tools and weapons we can recover. You will also march the prisoners to the Bozandari frontier and release them. We cannot hold them, and to release them here in Anari lands, without food or water, would be a sentence of death.”

  “A sentence justly deserved,” Giri said.

  “One should not burn the bridge across which one may one day need to pass,” Tom said, breaking his silence. “We may find need of Bozandari allies in the war against the Enemy. A gesture of humanity may do much to ease the way of that alliance. A massacre, on the other hand…”

  “Yes,” Giri said. “Of course.”

  “Be at peace, my brother,” Ratha said. “Justice may be served in many ways.”

  “Oh, it will be served,” Giri said, his face bearing the apparent memory of the men who had been slain under his command. “It will be served.”

  After the council had broken up, the two brothers remained. Giri had not been able to spend a moment with his brother since before the murder of their cousin. Now he felt as if he were looking at the face of a changed man.

  “You have become quite the commander,” Giri said. “It is a good plan.”

  “You would have thought of it a moment later if I had not,” Ratha said.

  “Perhaps,” Giri said. “My thoughts at the time were for my own column, however, and those who had fallen. I fear I was too angry to think clearly.”

  “Of that burden, at least, I have been relieved,” Ratha said. “The stones spoke to me. They told me of the countless years they have spent watching over our people. They have shepherded us, in their own way, guiding us to their inner beauty, sharing it with us, giving us shelter, participating in our art and our music. Never have they needed rage or hate in that service. Neither do we.”

  “Battle breeds rage, brother,” Giri said, still seeing his cousins fall around him in the dark. “There can be no other way. We are not stones. Would that we had their strength, but we do not.”

  “But we do,” Ratha said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We are Anari, born of the stones, shaped by them, living among them, with them. Their songs run in our souls. Their strength runs in our blood. We are their children. We must find their heart within ours. For it is the heart of stone that can defend our people and win our freedom without sacrificing our dignity.”

  Giri considered his words. There was truth in his brother’s voice, but his brother had not spent these last weeks training the men. He had not lived with them, admonished them, pushed them, corrected them, drilled them hour upon hour. And, in the process, come to love them. He had spent his time in the desert, a spiritual retreat, and not on the training grounds. And while Giri had no doubt of his valor, nor of his skill, he knew his brother was not yet fully absorbed into the face of war, killing and death. He wished that he could agree, but the words were not there.

  “Tell me more of this after your next battle,” Giri said. “For myself, I cannot have a heart of stone. My heart is with my men, and I will bury too many of them in the coming days. In the end, my brother, I fight not for freedom or truth or the light of the Ilduin. I fight for them, the men whom I have trained, the men with whom I will march and stand, and die if need be. Freedom may be the battle cry. May the gods will that freedom is our legacy. But I fight for my men, and they for me.”

  Ratha watched his brother turn and walk from the tent. He could not chide Giri for his words. He would have said the same upon his arrival in Anahar. Perhaps his brother needed a time of purification. There was no time for it now, but after the war, he would suggest it. No, he would insist upon it. For he knew his brother’s true heart, his brother’s true strength. His brother would find it again. And again they would laugh.

  “Your face would make a woman weep,” Cilla said, standing in the doorway to the tent.

  Ratha smiled. “Weep not for me, cousin. How have the days fared you?”
>
  “Long and hard,” she said. “I still feel I have so much to learn and too little time. And now…the war is upon us. The time for learning must wait.”

  “You and Giri work well together,” he said. “It is good that my brother has wise counsel at his side.”

  “Wise counsel?” She smiled. “I do not feel like that. I know little of your strategies and maneuvers. And what I know of battle, I would rather not have learned. My role is to listen to my sisters, report what they tell me and tell them of what I see. Beyond that…I can do little but watch my people suffer.”

  “Their suffering is not in vain,” he said. “Pale words, I know, but true words nonetheless. We must live in the present, my cousin, but we must not forget the flicker of hope that guides us. Hope of seeing our people free again, and whole. Too long has it been since the Tel gathered without sons and daughters gone away in slavery. Soon we will be whole again. And then a day of celebration will be ours, a day unlike any before. Anahar will sing again, but there will be no sadness in her voice. She will sing in joy, her family finally home.”

  “But for those who have fallen,” Cilla said. “And I fear the sadness of their passing may overshadow the joy of our liberation.”

  She took a breath and looked down. After a moment, she met his eyes again. “Listen to me. You speak of hope and the heart of our people. I speak of little but ill and suffering. Our roles, it seems, have been reversed.”

  “Ahh,” Ratha said, “but I know of your heart, my cousin. Ilduin blood runs in your veins, pure and bright. Your heart will sing again. And perhaps then…”

  His voice trailed off, unwilling to give words to the hope that had come to beat within his breast. For in this woman he could see the light of his own future, and in her eyes the glistening eyes of his children.

  “Yes,” Cilla said. “And perhaps then. For now, however, we are bound to the fate of battle. And your brother needs my help in preparing his men.”

  He took her hand gently and lifted it to his lips. “Go to him, then, and offer what guidance you may. For his heart is burdened, and he will need the light that comes from within you.”

  “I am not sure what light I can share,” she replied, letting him hold her hand for a moment longer. “But I will do what I can. Farewell, Ratha. May the gods bless your march and protect you in the days to come.”

  “And you, my cousin. And you.”

  27

  The day was beginning to wane, and with the lowering of the sun behind the western Panthos Mountains, the breeze began to bite as cold air poured down from the mountains onto the arid lands on which the battle had raged.

  Men had labored to bury the dead in soil that had not been cleaved in human memory, but as the chill grew, the job was nearly finished. The stench of death had begun to give way to the smell of turned earth. The Anari burned piles of fragrant bush from the mountainside to carry the souls of the dead to the gods. The Bozandari prisoners helped gather the aromatic branches and leaves as if they, too, shared their captors’ beliefs.

  As the chill grew, Tess huddled inside the tent and wished the memories of the battle would stop hammering at her brain as if they were trying to pound open some securely sealed door. The vision she had had early that morning stayed with her, too, telling her that her past was no more peaceful than her present, and leaving her with a sense of internal sickness.

  Cilla stopped in the tent to check on her and make sure she would be able to accompany Archer on the morrow.

  “I will do what I must,” Tess told her.

  Cilla nodded. “I see the steel in your gaze, sister. But I feel the weakness in your body and heart.”

  “I will be fine. Please, don’t worry about me. But take care of Giri. I worry about him.”

  “So do I. Perhaps I should have sent him into the mountains along with Ratha.”

  Tess nodded slowly. “Ratha is a healed man. Whatever happened to him, I wish he could share it with his brother.”

  Cilla smiled. “I will work on that.”

  Tess managed a smile of her own. “I will keep an eye on Ratha for you.”

  Cilla blushed. “My thanks.”

  “Love is all we have, Cilla. We must cherish every nugget of it.”

  Then, once again, Tess was alone, wondering how she could find the love in herself, for surely it could not be as blackened and withered as it felt at this moment.

  “Tom!”

  Tom had been standing alone as the last of the burials were completed, staring at the changing face of the mountains as the sun set ever farther behind them. His mind seem to be dancing on silvery strings, going this way and that, seeking something he would know only when he saw it.

  But at the sound of Sara’s voice, all that faded. She came riding up, still wearing the dust and dirt of the march, then slid from the saddle in one smooth movement.

  His arms were ready for her, clutching her to him as if he would never let go.

  “Oh, Tom,” she sighed, clinging as tightly as he while the rest of her went soft as yearning was answered. “Oh, Tom.”

  He caught her face between his hands and showered it with kisses, leaving no spot untouched. “Sara,” he breathed again and again. “Sara…”

  Minutes, hours, it would not matter. The universe itself did not hold enough time for their yearning to be satisfied. Until the stars fell from the sky, they would still long for one another.

  “You come with me tomorrow,” she whispered urgently. “I cannot bear to have you out of my sight. I have worried since we left Anahar.”

  He lifted his head, searching her face in the waning light, and finally a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yet you would have left me behind.”

  “That was different. I thought you would be safe there.”

  He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, sealing his love for her. Then, “No.”

  She stiffened and opened her eyes. “No?”

  He shook his head. “I must stay with Archer.”

  “But…But if you see something, I can pass the information instantly to Tess.”

  “It matters not. I am called to stay with Archer.” He brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb. “It is not my choice.”

  “Not your choice?” She pulled away from him, anger and despair both crumpling her face. “It is your choice. Say you will come with me and it will be so.”

  “I cannot.” His voice broke on the words, as his breath seemed to lock in his throat.

  “You cannot. You cannot? Who says you cannot?”

  He reached for her again, but she stepped away.

  “Answer me, Tom. Who commands you?”

  “Something greater than any of us. I would it were not so.”

  Her hands clenched—her entire body shook—as she stared at him. “I could make you come with me.”

  He shook his head. “But you will not.”

  For long seconds she stood rigid, as if in the grip of a power she fought to restrain. Then she began to crumble.

  He caught her and held her close, murmuring endearments, stroking her hair gently.

  She spoke brokenly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I have seen so much horror this day. How am I to part from you?”

  “You have also done much good this day,” he reminded her gently. “You saved many lives.”

  “All I did was help Tess. Tess is the focus of it all.”

  “I know. I know. But without you, she would have been too weak.”

  He kissed her again, and slowly her sobs eased. “We must follow the path the gods have set for us,” he said when she had calmed. “We must do what is required. For now I must go with Archer.”

  At long last she nodded. A quivering sigh escaped her as she burrowed into his shoulder.

  Night fell completely while they stood there, clinging to one another as if to life itself.

  Archer joined Tess just as the last of the light was fading from the sky.

  “We march at first light, Lady. Will
you be able?”

  “Aye. I am weary now, but recovering. I shall be able to ride on the morrow.”

  He crossed the small dirt floor of the tent and fell to one knee in front of her. Gently he took her hands and turned them over, as if he could read her strength there.

  “You must eat,” he said. “You are fading to nothing, Tess. You will burn yourself out.”

  “I feel no hunger.”

  “Hungry or not, I will have a bowl of stew brought to you. ’Tis actually quite tasty. The Anari know how to cook.”

  He went to the door of the tent and said something to a guard. “There. A few minutes, and hot food will fill you. If you don’t feed yourself, I will feed you myself. You cannot keep exercising your power without replenishing yourself.”

  “It was the power of many.”

  “And you were the focal point. I know how it works.” He pointed to the cot on the far side of the tent. “Some Bozandari was kind enough to leave that for you. After you eat, you will sleep. A guard will watch throughout the night.”

  “Those who fought must be even more tired than I.”

  “I did not say who would be the guard.” For an instant, a puckish smile lit his face, and in spite of herself she smiled in answer.

  An Anari soldier appeared bearing a large stone pot full of steaming stew. “My Lord, there is a Bozandari prisoner who would speak to Lady Tess. He claims it is urgent.”

  He set the stew and eating utensils on a folding table and awaited the answer.

  Archer looked at Tess. “I leave it to you. I doubt anything ill is planned, but if it is, I will be here, and so will Freesah.”

  The soldier thus named stood a little taller. “I will protect the Lady Tess with my life.”

  Tess smiled. “Thank you, Freesah. Let us hope that does not become necessary, for I would like to hold your grandchild someday.”

  Freesah grinned. “I would, too. Shall I get the prisoner?”