Three Coins for Confession

by Scott Fitzgerald Gray

  Farenna slowed often, the rest of his riders spilling out of formation behind him. When he did, Chriani could see a pulse of pale blue light at his hands as the captain held the bloodstone talisman high, its steel chain wrapped around his fingers. With no one but Dargana behind him to see, Chriani made the moonsign more than once. This was only the light of Farenna’s magic, though, the dark chip of stone still showing no pulse of blood-red the one time Chriani circled close enough to see.

  It was strange to his eyes to see a mage armored in mail, but the Ilvani sorcerers were also warriors by nature, proficient with weapons and armor in a manner the Ilmari war-mages almost never rose to. Or perhaps the Ilmari mages simply embraced any excuse to stay out of combat. Farenna’s chain-clad arm was set outstretched and sweeping before him each time they stopped, his eyes closed as if he was sensing the direction of the unseen connection between the relic and those who created it. Then he would spur ahead without a word, the others following down side trails or pushing through undergrowth and pale bracken to reorient their course.

  Over a long first day of riding, that course led them steadily north, Chriani judged, watching daylight shift through the trees as the day wound on. The unseen sun was bright above them, the light filtering down from the canopy as wind-shifted waves of green. Without that light, Chriani was certain that his sense of direction and distance would have been long gone.

  They made short stops at regular intervals as they had before, Chriani feeling less fatigue overall as his body grew accustomed to the rhythm of the grey beneath him. His balance had continued to improve, so that he had less need to lock his legs as tight to the horse’s flanks as he had behind Farenna.

  While they rested, the Ilvani focused on their horses more than they did themselves. Chriani did his best to rub down and clean the grey without the felt and tools his ranger’s saddlebags had always held, following Dargana’s lead when he needed to. The animosity he had felt from the Ilvani on the ride from the Hunthad had mostly been replaced by a lesser indifference on this ride. Taelendar remained the exception, her expression ice cold each time Chriani’s gaze accidentally crossed hers. The other Ilvani had yet to speak to him, though. Chriani kept his distance, did his best to give them no excuse.

  They took their long rest after dark that night, Chriani more than ready to sleep by the time they stopped. He sought out Farenna first, though, not used to the silence of the ride that had left too many questions churning in his mind.

  The captain sat alone as he ate, but he nodded to welcome Chriani where he crouched beside him.

  “How do you ride, friend Chriani?”

  “Haven’t fallen off yet. I’ll take that for now.”

  Farenna smiled as he offered Chriani a portion of his bread, but Chriani shook his head. Not hungry for some reason. Too much on his mind.

  “How much farther?”

  “We break the wall of Muiraìden at daylight,” Farenna said. “Were we to cross the sand hills at speed, we would be within and nearly across Nyndenu before the sun falls. But our goal is closer than that, I think.”

  Chriani didn’t know whether it was some lingering sense of having had Veassen in his mind, or just his unexpected immersion into this new world over the previous two days, but his understanding of the Ilvalantar was sharper somehow. “You can tell where the cult is? Your magic?”

  Farenna nodded. “The lóechari’s power as I sense it is not far into the forest. A reason, perhaps, that our patrols have seen no sign of them. They would understand that moving within sight of the wall of Muiraìden would give them away.”

  “What about griffons? Can they see us from the air?”

  “The gavaleria reach into Crithnalerean only under extreme need. The griffons sense the old magic there. On the ground, the Calala have pushed north in secrecy, to hide their numbers and purpose from Ilmari patrols. That stealth works to our advantage, for now.”

  They broke out from the Greatwood as the sun was rising molten-bright to the east, as Farenna had said. On any map Chriani had ever seen, the Ghostwood was an island of the Greatwood, splintered off from Muiraìden by the open space of the unmarked border between Crithnalerean and Laneldenar. He had seen that border from the north and at a distance, marking it as an expanse of sand hills that cut between the great stands of trees. Seen from the south, though, that narrow sea of sand was marked with an archipelago of dark groves that spread out between the two forest walls, like the Ghostwood had been torn away from the Greatwood and left a trail of fragments behind.

  The ruined groves where Dargana had taken him and Lauresa were the forest’s northern flank, close to the Clearwater Way and edged off by the scorpion wastes that spread into the Sandhorn. Chriani and the Brandishear rangers had passed within far sight of that flank as they rode the Clearwater Way two weeks before, but Chriani had kept the shadow of what happened there far down in his mind.

  All the land from the Sandhorn to the Greatwood in the south had been the territory of the Crithnalerean exiles. Dargana’s people. But Dargana had called the Crithnalerean broken now. They saw the signs of that as they rode north, making their way carefully across the unseen frontier. They slipped from grove to grove when they could, watching for a long while against the threat of patrols, then sprinting across open scrub and sand into the next pocket of green. In each sheltered copse, they saw abandoned settlements — well-built shelters and corrals blended seamlessly into the trees, almost invisible until they’d been stumbled into.

  Chriani saw broken arrows scattered, signs of horses having stampeded. No bodies, though. No evidence left to warn Ilmari patrols of whatever clash of Ilvani had happened here.

  The sun was at its height as Farenna called an unscheduled long stop within a broad grove of limni, the Ilvani watering their horses at a small stream that twisted through the trees and north toward where the wall of the Ghostwood loomed. That was the direction the captain faced as he knelt with the talisman in his hand, shrouded at the edge of the grove. The pulse of blue-white light that surrounded the relic was brighter now.

  “Stay sharp.” Dargana’s voice came from behind Chriani, her black mare sidling toward him. “If there’s trouble, this is where it starts.”

  “I’ve fought the Ilvani before.” Even at a whisper, Chriani’s response caught the attention of Taelendar, who gave him and the exile a dark look.

  “You’ve fought the Ilvani on your ground,” Dargana said. “Along the frontier. You’ve never seen Ilvani fight Ilvani in their own lands. Just watch yourself.”

  Chriani simply nodded as he stepped his horse forward. Dargana spurred up to stay alongside him.

  “Watch out for the unexpected,” she added, but in Ilmari. Her voice was the faintest hiss in Chriani’s ear, not wanting the others to hear her.

  His response was lost to a change in the echo of the grove behind them. The wind was faint within the trees, but it shifted suddenly. The sound deadening, then rising again. Drawing closer. Dargana and Taelendar both heard it as he did, twisting their horses around, shifting back into shadow as they drew weapons. Their movement was enough to alert Farenna and the others, blades drawn and gleaming in the half-light. No one spoke.

  The war-band appeared through the trees as a straight-line attack, racing toward them in unnatural silence. Not just the voiceless assault that was the Ilvani trademark, but a deadening of all sound that could only come from spellcraft, and which had let the Ilvani draw close enough to mount their ambush. They were a force of six in matching grey leather, some kind of uniform Chriani had never seen before. Most had blades in each hand, their horses running free, silent hooves tearing the ground.

  Even as they closed, Chriani saw the flash of gold in all the grey-armored Ilvani’s eyes.

  It happened almost too fast to follow. Farenna’s riders spread to both sides as they shot forward, Chriani following Dargana by instinct. Trying to choose a target as the Ilvani squad split to surge past on both sides. Hoofbeats rose from out of the s
ilence as they did, Chriani sensing how that silence was centered on the lead rider. That leader was the first to fall, Farenna racing past him with sword and long-knife raised, flashing in silence and a spray of blood. Then the ambush leader had fallen and his spell was broken, and the drumming of hooves filled the grove as the Ilvani tore each other apart.

  Chriani had fought against the Valnirata a half-dozen times. Those dark days along the Clearwater Way. Minor skirmishes on the frontier, including the assault that had followed him to Rheran without his realizing it. He had grown up on tales of the deadly battle prowess of the Valnirata. Had seen it directed against him and the rangers who rode at his side. But before seeing that combat skill unleashed against itself, taking both sides of the battle, Chriani realized he had never seen and could never have imagined the full extent of its deadly perfection.

  As they had when pursuing the rangers from the Greatwood that day, the Ilvani rode at full speed — but toward and through the enemy ranks, not away. No one fleeing, no one seeking distance or trying for range. Horses crashed past each other through the trees, twisting in and cornering back in impossibly tight turns, no one slowing. Blade on blade rang out again and again, coursing like a whirlwind of blood and steel.

  Chriani wasn’t fast enough to be part of it. His horse was surging, trying to run, but he was balking at the reins, the trees of the grove too close. He desperately wanted to take up his bow, but there was too much cover. Too much movement for him to focus, though that didn’t stop the Ilvani from firing point-blank. Arrows hissed into the center of the fray from riders on the outside, were slashed from midair with sword and knife by riders at the center.

  The attacks of the archers were joined by the bright light of spell-fire, flashing to all sides now. That light was the warning that let Chriani spin to see an Ilvani warrior crash into view ahead, racing straight for him.

  He kept the reins lashed tight in his left hand, felt the backsword’s unfamiliar balance as he arced it into motion. He caught the downward slash of the figure’s sword on his own blade, ducked below the follow-up attack of the long-knife that arced above his head. Then the Ilvani’s golden eyes went wide as Chriani twisted around, following through the arc of his swing to hack through muscle and bone at the shoulder. The warrior lurched as he was torn from his horse’s back, tumbling to the ground.

  Chriani thought of Kathlan. Thought of the wonder she might feel to see this fight play out, the perfection of movement in horses and riders. A stray thought, tugging at him. Making him falter as another Ilvani surged past him, slashing out. The grey moved to evade, faster than Chriani could ever have commanded it. He rolled with the horse but got his blade up too late, the Ilvani tagging his shoulder with her long-knife as she flashed past.

  The grey had twisted around and was racing after the Ilvani by the time Chriani realized she was breaking from the grove. Fleeing north. He dropped the reins and pulled his bow, the sword tossed to the ground behind him. Instinctive action, not thinking. Passing out of the trees and into bright sunlight, a hundred strides of open ground spread out ahead of him, the Ilvani warrior already halfway to the green shadow that marked the wall of the Ghostwood. She was riding a twisted course around low stands of scrub, keeping anyone behind her from a straight-line shot.

  Chriani made no attempt to guide the horse, letting it pick its own course as he twisted to adjust his position. He let two arrows fly, saw one of them hit, catching the Ilvani in the shoulder. She lurched but held on, disappearing into the trees.

  Hoofbeats rose from behind him, Chriani realizing that they’d been following him the whole time. Though he felt like his horse was running at full speed, Dargana and Taelendar were beside him, then past him, racing into the trees where the cult warrior had disappeared.

  A dozen paces into shadow, Chriani saw them pull up quickly. He nearly lost his balance as the grey slewed to a stop.

  In a stone-strewn clearing, the Ilvani warrior and her horse were both dead, a long swath of torn moss and scattered rock marking where they’d fallen. To judge by the way Dargana and Taelendar were circling, watching the trees warily, neither of them had been the ones who finished the warrior.

  Chriani moved in closer, paced the grey around the dead Ilvani. She’d been caught under the horse as they’d both dropped, its weight holding her fast now as the last of a deep-rooted convulsion took her. He saw the flash of gold at her mouth. A coin gleaming through a trickle of blood.

  The horse falling made no sense to Chriani, and he wondered if the throes of the Ilvani’s unnatural death had spooked the animal, sent it tumbling to break its neck. Ilmari horses often shied from spellcraft, but surely the horses of the Ilvani would be inured to magic. Unless the power of the coins carried a darkness that even the Ilvani steeds would fear.

  He wondered further at what had dropped the warrior in the first place. His arrow shouldn’t have been enough to kill her, but she might have been wounded already. Or perhaps her fleeing the battle had triggered the death that her confession to the cult had promised her.

  From the corner of his eye, Chriani saw the pulse of blood-red light at the fallen warrior’s wrist.

  He was off his horse without thinking, Dargana hissing a warning that he ignored. The hunter’s heart that the lóechari wore was a match to the ones they had tracked him with before. A jagged chunk of bloodstone set in gold, strung on silver cord this time. But this one was pulsing as brightly as the first talisman had when Chriani found it. The Ilvani dead in the black grove, his body broken before the forest shrine.

  He remembered the oily touch as that first talisman had reacted to him, stumbled back from this one like he was afraid he might brush against it accidentally. As he did, he pulled the talisman he carried from his belt, checked for the golden disk meant to ward him from the Ilvani’s detection. Panic rose in him at the thought that he had lost it.

  The badge of Chanist’s mages was still set in its place, though. The talisman he had carried from Rheran was dark, not so much as a glimmer of light seen within the stone held in his shaking hand.

  Hoofbeats behind him heralded the arrival of Farenna and two of his riders. Chriani understood that meant one missing, saw the grim look on the captain’s face.

  “Eladen has fallen,” Farenna whispered, “as have the lóechari. We hid his body and theirs, let the light take them…”

  He stopped short to see the talisman’s pulsing light, hissed a warning to the others. They dropped to the ground as one, taking cover behind their horses with bows drawn. Dargana kept axe and dagger in hand, shifting back into the shadows. Her gaze was tight to Chriani’s, some kind of warning there, but he looked away. Farenna knelt beside the body, whispered an incantation as he plucked the glowing talisman from the dead figure’s wrist.

  “It’s not me that led them to us,” Chriani said. He showed the lifeless stone in his hand as Farenna stood, saw the talisman the captain carried at his own wrist just as dark. “They were tracking someone else…”

  The faint creak of a bow drawn behind him was the barest sliver of sound. Obeying an instinct he couldn’t name, Chriani threw himself to the ground, pushing Farenna down. He heard three arrows pass overhead, heard the crack of skull on stone as the captain hit the ground hard beneath him. Farenna convulsed as his body went limp, Chriani rolling away.

  He looked up to see Taelendar toss her bow aside, drawing her sword. A light of molten gold was burning in her eyes.

  If the rites take the confession from mind and memory, then can the confession itself be forced and then forgotten?

  As Chriani rose, Dargana shouted a warning and fell back. Not fast enough. Taelendar twisted, shifting to cut through the rider next to her. The arrow that rider had nocked shot wild into the trees as his bow dropped, arms flailing as Taelendar severed his spine. He had ridden beside her since Sylonna, Chriani remembered. The two of them had rested at each other’s side on the long ride from the Hunthad. His mind was fractured images, memories playing out l
ike slow-flowing water.

  Our patrols are known along the frontier, and push often across the forest wall, Farenna had said.

  The other rider saw Taelendar’s attack, saw her spin toward her with blade held high. No time to process the scene before her, the first rider still falling, but she understood the gleam of gold in Taelendar’s eyes. The rider shouted out in anguish as she shot Taelendar twice at point-blank range, Chriani feeling something break in her voice. The sense of betrayal there. The Ilvani normally fought in silence, showed no sign of pain.

  The rider’s arrows took Taelendar in the side but didn’t slow her. She died as she was drawing her sword, Taelendar’s blade punching through leather and bone at her chest, out through her back again.

  The moment it took Taelendar to kick the body away, pull her sword free, was enough for Chriani to grab his bow and loose an arrow. He wasn’t fast enough to drop her, though, his shot arcing across to score a glancing cut to her shoulder as she shifted. Dargana appeared at Taelendar’s back, slashing in with dagger and axe, but Taelendar rolled beneath the attack, drove the exile back with a slashing strike across her mailed shoulder. Then the Ilvani warrior was running for Chriani.

  His next shot took her in the stomach even as he backed away, barely dodging a backhand blow that would have taken his arm off if it had hit. In the Ilvani’s expression, Chriani saw the single-minded focus of the cultists they had faced in the forest, on the rooftop in Rheran. No sign or sense of the animosity she had shown him before, replaced now with a deeper malice. A thing beyond anger, beyond any hatred of the heart or mind. As Taelendar swung in against him, forcing him back again, her golden eyes were the blank gaze of a scrubsnake, of the fell wolves of the southern mountains. The rare creatures that kill not for want or need, but because killing is all they know.