Ridmark frowned. “My place is here with the Anathgrimm.”
“It is,” said Mara. “But if we are to have any hope of victory in this war, we need allies. I hope Prince Regent Arandar prevails against Tarrabus, but we cannot count on it.”
Qhazulak nodded in approval. “In war, victory goes to those who take the initiative, rather than responding to the foe.”
“You appointed me the magister militum of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark.
“I did,” said Mara, “and I regret it not. But I appointed you to lead our warriors to victory…and the Keeper’s plan is our best chance for victory.”
“Fear not, Lord Magister,” said Qhazulak. “I shall lead the army in your stead. We have learned much from you…and the Anathgrimm have been raiding the Northerland since the men of Andomhaim first settled beyond the Lake of Mourning.” He smiled, which made him look no less fierce. “It is a style of warfare we have practiced many times before.”
“I shall go by your leave, Queen Mara,” said Caius. “Zhorlacht and the other priests have been well-instructed in the faith of the Dominus Christus, and they can continue the teaching of the Anathgrimm in my absence.”
They fell silent and looked at Ridmark.
“So be it,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “I shall see you safely to the Range and back again.”
Calliande nodded, and Gavin saw the quiver of a muscle near her eye.
“Then it is decided,” said Mara. “You shall leave in the morning once you have been fed and equipped with supplies.”
“And I,” said Jager, “have some documents to forge.”
“It’s not forgery if you are the Prince Consort,” said Caius.
Jager sighed and then grinned. “You know, I’ve missed how you take the fun out of everything.”
Chapter 8: Third’s Tale
Calliande was exhausted, but could not sleep.
The accommodations were comfortable enough. They slept outside, but that was all right because it never rained or snowed or grew hotter or colder inside Nightmane Forest. A woman could sleep in perfect comfort upon the forest floor. The Anathgrimm women were as stern and fierce as their men, but they provided blankets and excellent food, and Calliande ate better than she had since leaving Castra Carhaine. There were also pools for bathing, thanks to natural springs rerouted by the Traveler’s engineers, and Calliande enjoyed a hot bath by the simple expedient of using a fire spell upon the water into it steamed.
After a good meal and a hot bath, she should have been able to sleep, but she was restless.
At last, she rose from her blankets, donned a shirt and trousers and her boots, picked up her staff, and left her tent. Ector’s men had made camp not far from the clearing where Mara had held court, and the Anathgrimm had dispersed to their wives. The Anathgrimm considered it fortuitous to conceive a child after returning from battle, and Calliande was amused to reflect that she was not the only woman in Nightmane Forest who wasn’t getting any sleep.
Outside of the tent, the camp was silent. Two of Ector’s men stood watch. Gavin had wrapped up in his cloak and lay sleeping outside of her tent. Antenora did not need sleep, but instead sat cross-legged upon the ground, her hands resting palms-up on her knees. Two spheres of fire orbited her head, throwing shifting shadows over her face and black-clad body as she practiced her magical skills.
Antenora opened one yellow eye.
“I can’t sleep,” whispered Calliande. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t wake Gavin up.”
Antenora nodded. “Gavin Swordbearer requires his rest.” The look she gave the sleeping Swordbearer was almost fond. Calliande wondered if Antenora was falling in love with Gavin, or if she was even still capable of feeling such an emotion.
“Yes,” said Calliande, and she left the camp, wandering through the blue gloom of Nightmane Forest.
It would have been a terrifying place had the Traveler still ruled here. Now that Mara ruled Nightmane Forest, Calliande could admit it had a strange, eerie beauty. Spheres of blue light danced from tree to tree, and some of the ferns and mushrooms growing on the ground let off their own glows. The Traveler might have abandoned reason and forsaken mercy long before humans had ever come to Andomhaim, but he had possessed a keen eye for beauty. This place would have been a beautiful hell for the Anathgrimm, enslaved to the will of the mad prince they revered as their god.
Yet their god was dead now, slain by one of the daughters he had tried to enslave, and the Anathgrimm had a new God and a new Queen. Calliande knew the Anathgrimm would never live as other men did. Orcs loved to fight, but even the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk settled in villages and raised crops and cattle and families. The Anathgrimm had been twisted into weapons, and weapons they would remain.
It made her sad…but perhaps she was no different. When had she ever known peace? Her whole life had been spent in the war against the Frostborn and Shadowbearer. Centuries ago, she had sacrificed her entire life and everything she had ever known to stop the Frostborn and Shadowbearer, to keep the war from repeating itself on an even greater scale.
And she had failed.
God and the saints, how she had failed.
Calliande paused for a moment, resting her forehead against her staff until she could get her emotions under control. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and it would not do for anyone to see the Keeper of Andomhaim sobbing alone in the forest.
At last, Calliande took a deep breath and kept walking, her mind turning over her many failures, wondering what she could have done differently. Maybe if she had been able to defeat and kill Imaria Licinius during the Challenge of Magistri in Coldinium. Perhaps if she had been able to persuade Uthanaric that Tarrabus was a serpent.
Or maybe it would have been better if she had died long ago, if she had passed the office of Keeper onto another. Perhaps her successor would have done better.
Wrapped in her black thoughts, she did not notice as the forest ended around her. Calliande blinked in surprise as she stepped onto a terrace of worked white stone. It overlooked one of the small valleys that riddled Nightmane Forest, a stream rushing through the center of the valley on its way to the River Moradel.
Ridmark stood with his back to her, his armor and cloak gone, his staff extended.
For an instant, Calliande wondered what he was doing, and then she realized that he was practicing. He swept the staff through a series of swings, high and low and then high again, and repeated the sequence, his movements a blur. Calliande watched him, entranced. He moved with grace and power, and she could not look away. She had always been drawn to him, if she was honest with herself, had always been attracted to his strength and determination.
Ridmark turned and saw her watching him.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
Calliande forced moisture into her dry mouth. “Couldn’t sleep?” she said at last.
He thought he would walk away, but to her surprise, he spoke.
“No,” he said at last. “Bad dreams.”
“Ah,” said Calliande. “Morigna?”
He frowned, but not at her.
“That would make sense,” said Ridmark, half to himself, “but I rarely had nightmares. Not after Aelia, and not after Morigna.” He shrugged. “I suppose one advantage to wandering through the Wilderland all day is an exhausted night’s sleep.”
“Truly,” said Calliande. “If I can ask…if you do not have dreams about them, what do you dream about?”
“I don’t remember,” said Ridmark.
“You can’t remember these bad dreams?” said Calliande.
“No,” said Ridmark. He tapped his black staff for a moment. “I can never remember them, and they always jar me awake. For an instant, when I wake up, I can remember pieces of them. A white hall and…fire, lots of fire, I think, though I could be wrong. Then it fades entirely.”
“I see,” said Calliande. She directed the Sight at him The Sight revealed the altered aura of the black staff in his
hand, the glow of power from the dwarven dagger sheathed at his belt. As she focused the Sight, visions flickered through her mind. She glimpsed him standing over Aelia in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, her blood pooling upon the tiles of black and white, or standing over Morigna in the keep of Dun Licinia, her black eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, and she glimpsed his rage, the fury eating him out from the inside…
She shivered a little and dismissed the Sight.
“You’re cold,” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Calliande. “Well, a little. I just…I’m sorry, Ridmark. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” said Ridmark. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You should get some sleep. It is a long journey from here to the Range, and you shall need your rest.”
Before she could answer, he turned and walked away.
Calliande watched him disappear into the trees. He was in a great deal of pain, and some of it was her fault. If she had realized Shadowbearer’s true nature, or if she had killed Imaria, then the Frostborn would never have returned, and the Enlightened would have been defeated.
Morigna would still be alive.
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She ought to go lie down. If she was going to rebuke herself, at least she could do so while wrapped in a warm blanket…
“You are the Keeper.”
The voice was flat and hollow and devoid of emotion.
Calliande spun, raising her staff and drawing upon her power. A pale, black-haired woman stood a few yards away at the base of a tree, clad in dark armor, short swords of dark elven steel at her belt.
“Third,” said Calliande, lowering her staff.
“I startled you,” said Third. “I apologize. That was not my intent.”
Calliande hesitated, annoyance and surprise warring for control.
“Mara once told me stealth is a difficult habit to unlearn,” she said at last. “It seems she was correct.”
Third stared at her, and one corner of her mouth started to smile. “This is so. My sister the Queen is wise.”
“If you didn’t want to startle me,” said Calliande, “then what did you want?”
“I wished to speak with you,” said Third.
“All right,” said Calliande. “What did you want to talk about?”
“The Lord Magister,” said Third.
Something inside Calliande cooled.
“What did you want to know?” she said.
“I have observed him for nearly a year,” said Third. “I have seen him in every mood. Yet when he heard you were coming to Nightmane Forest, I had never seen him react that way. Therefore, I wish to learn what…”
Calliande’s last bit of patience vanished.
“Have you and Ridmark become lovers, then?” she said. “Is that it?”
Third displayed no reaction, save to look quizzical.
“No,” she said. “I have no wish for physical contact.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Calliande.
“For a thousand years,” said Third, “I served the Lord Traveler. Like all dark elves, he rejoiced in cruelty. Sometimes when he wished to slay prisoners in a particularly cruel fashion, he bade me to lie with them. Then, at the moment of their climax, I slew them. I fear the experience has left me with no desire for physical contact.”
“Oh,” said Calliande. “I’m sorry. I spoke rashly.”
“It is of no concern,” said Third, still unruffled.
Calliande frowned. “But who are you? You were one of the Traveler’s urdhracosi, were you not?”
“Yes,” said Third. “Long ago, the Anathgrimm took my mother captive, and the Traveler fathered me upon her. As happened to so many others, when I came of age the dark power in my soul transformed me, and I became an urdhracos, bound to the song of the Traveler’s will. I was among the greatest of his servants, and I killed and worked dark magic at his will for a thousand years. Then the Queen slew the Traveler in the depths of Khald Azalar, and his hold over me was broken.”
“You’re not an urdhracos now,” said Calliande. “How did you change?”
“Madness filled me,” said Third, “and in that madness I returned to Nightmane Forest, intending to slay until I was myself slain. The Lord Magister found me and fought me, and I begged him to slay me. Yet he refused. Brother Caius suggested that I be baptized and repent of my sins, that I might die with my soul at peace. I did so…and the power lost its hold over me. I faced myself in a vision, and when I awoke, I was as you see me now…and my will was my own for the first time in a thousand years.”
“So Ridmark saved you,” said Calliande.
“The magister militum and the Queen both,” said Third. “Mara was the first of the Traveler’s daughters to be free. I was the second, and someday we shall free others.”
“If you’re the second,” said Calliande, “why do you call yourself Third?”
“I no longer remember my name,” said Third. “It has been too long, and I have had three lives. The first was with my mother. The second was as an urdhracos. The third began when the Lord Magister and the Queen freed me.”
“I see,” said Calliande. “I am sorry if I was harsh with you. I was…startled, that is all.”
Third nodded. “Your politeness is appreciated, but unnecessary. Your reaction was informative.”
“How so?” said Calliande.
“You reacted in much the same way as the Lord Magister when he learned you were coming,” said Third.
Calliande let out a long breath. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“My sister commanded me to protect the Lord Magister,” said Third. “To do so I must understand him in all aspects, if it is necessary to protect him from himself. The Queen told me of his wife and the sorceress he loved before the Frostborn returned.”
“Morigna,” said Calliande.
“I presume he makes war upon the Frostborn in vengeance for her death,” said Third.
“He does,” said Calliande.
“Yet the Queen did not mention you were once the Lord Magister’s lover,” said Third.
“I wasn’t,” said Calliande.
Third tilted her head to the side. “There is no need to lie.”
“We weren’t,” said Calliande. “It was…complicated. He saved me from the Mhalekites on Black Mountain. We kissed once, but I didn’t remember who I was and…some other things happened. So he ended up with Morigna. I was at peace with that…”
Third’s expression turned dubious.
“I was at peace with that,” insisted Calliande. “And then Morigna was murdered, and…as I said, it is complicated.”
“It is simple,” said Third. “You are in love with the Lord Magister, and feel guilty about it because of the murder of Morigna. Furthermore, you feel further guilt because of the distraction from your duties as Keeper. It is simple.” She considered it for a moment. “Albeit uncomfortable.”
“Truly,” said Calliande. “And this could all have been avoided. If only I had realized the truth about Shadowbearer, if I had…”
Third offered a shrug. “Such recriminations are futile. War is chaos. No one may see the outcome. That is why the Lord Magister’s raids upon the Frostborn have been so effective, for he turned chaos against the enemy. But you cannot blame yourself for an outcome you did not foresee.”
She was certainly wrong about that.
“What does Ridmark think?” said Calliande.
“Rage drives the Lord Magister,” said Third. “He blames the Frostborn and the Enlightened for the death of Morigna, and will take his vengeance upon them or die in the process.”
“Did I upset him?” said Calliande.
“No,” said Third. “He is afraid.”
“Of me?” said Calliande, baffled.
“Of your death,” said Third. “His wife and Morigna were close to him, and they died. He cares a great deal about you. A man who has taken two serious wounds is loath to endure a third.”
“That’s irrationa
l,” said Calliande. “Anyone of us could die at any moment. It is the nature of human life. Even without the Frostborn and the Enlightened, our lives could end at any time.”
“Emotions by nature are not rational,” said Third. “It is no less rational than blaming yourself for the return of the Frostborn.”
Calliande scowled. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps,” said Third. “But I am a thousand years old. There are very few things I have not seen before.”
“All right,” said Calliande. She let out a long breath. “Thank you. I feel better.”
Third inclined her head.
“And let me help you,” said Calliande. “The Queen wanted Ridmark kept safe. So do I. Let us work together to that end.”
“Agreed,” said Third. “The Traveler always feared the powers of the Keeper. I wish to ask you a question.”
“Ask,” said Calliande.
“The Lord Magister has nightmares,” said Third, “for no discernable reason.”
“He mentioned that,” said Calliande. “He cannot remember them. Given all the things he has seen, that is to be expected.”
“On several occasions, after awakening he has said the phrase ‘burn with me’ and forgotten it later,” said Third.
“Burn with me?” said Calliande.
“Does that mean anything to you?” said Third.
“No, I’ve never heard it before,” said Calliande.
“What do you think it means?” said Third.
“I don’t know,” said Calliande.
Whatever it was, Calliande suspected, it would be nothing good.
Chapter 9: Winged Claws
The next morning Ridmark awoke with a splitting headache but felt otherwise rested. That was just as well. He had not been lying when he told Calliande they would need their strength for the journey ahead.
“Our best route,” he told Mara and the others once they assembled in the Eastern Court, “is to ford the Moradel and then cross the Northerland as quickly as possible. An army could not do it, but a small band of thirty horsemen should manage it. Once across the Northerland, we will keep between the Qazaluuskan Forest and the shore of the Lake of Mourning. From there, we can cross Mhorluusk and Caertigris, and then arrive at the Range and the lands of the manetaurs.”
Frostborn: The False King Page 13