by Jenna Rhodes
He watched as Narskap stopped and put his hand out, almost as if sifting through a current in the air. A damp wind stirred around them. One of the horses lifted its head, ears flicking back and forth, but did not whicker. Narskap had trained them well, a man who could do much when he put the shreds of his mind to it. Quendius had come to depend upon him. Perhaps too much. Perhaps this was the time to make utmost use of him.
Narskap tilted his head and looked back at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and said quietly, “We are close. Stay here.”
Quendius stayed, shifting his weight, feeling the bow upon his back as the leather quiver moved and settled a bit between his shoulders. He watched Narskap take two more cautious steps forward before stopping abruptly. “Here. Do you wish to cross here or have me follow along the border?”
“Here is as good as anywhere. They will be after us once the wards alert the Anderieon rabble.” There was timber upon these hills, which would give him cover until he got closer. Once upon a time he had been in the eastern range, where he made an altar that desecrated the font of the sacred river Andredia. That altar had been built to bless the forges he erected in the mountain holding, the slag of mining and processing the ore, corrupting the Andredia further. He wondered if rivers could remember such a thing, and if it would shriek out at his presence to betray them. He decided that if it had been possible, it would have happened when he first befouled it, not decades later when its corruption was finally halted.
He joined Narskap and reached for the woman who sat slackly on his horse. A small string of drool glistened on her chin as her mouth hung to one side, but a fierce light fired in her eyes and then died out. It seemed for a moment that Tiiva knew him and might even think of fighting him. The coppery stink of old blood and putrefying flesh rose fully from her, in a suggestive aura. He dragged her down by her injured arm and a sharp cry came from her misshapen mouth.
He stroked her lank and greasy hair. “The border knows her. It should let us pass.” Quendius released her and gave her a sharp shove to the small of her back. Tiiva stumbled down the rest of the rough foothill, weaving and wavering as she walked. She dragged one foot slowly after the other, the hem of her long, luxurious dress torn and filthy.
She moaned and shambled to a stop and fell to one knee. She undoubtedly felt, as he did and Narskap did, the scalp-crawling assessment of the warded border though it let them through. He had heard, though it had never been proven, that the wards could slay a trespasser. More likely it would be the quick response of the armed rangers patrolling here. He did not doubt, however, that the unwanted might be stunned, stupefied, and made easy targets.
Quendius waited until Narskap passed him, horses trailing after him. He drew his sword. He circled around Tiiva until he confronted her. He lifted her chin with a fisted hand until her dull face looked up. The sword caught a ray of sun. He took her head off.
Then, with three more slaps of the sword, he topped a young sapling and sharpened its trunk into a crude stake. A last swing of the sword and Quendius slapped an arm, silken-sleeved with a lacy cuff, onto its new perch, slender hand pointing down into Larandaril. He laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
COULD HE SAY THAT the sparse timber shivered as he approached, that the land seemed to buckle under his footfall, that he could hear the scurry of small animals running, that the air itself seemed to thicken and yet quiver? It was said that once a year there would be a presentation ceremony where all those newly birthed or newly married into the kingdom would be introduced to that magic so that it could recognize and accept them. He did not know the truth of that. It seemed an inefficient and unlikely way to manage a border with or without enchantment, and he thought it more likely that the border was closed to all and only opened by force of will when necessary for the lower classes and only those immediately in Lara’s inner circle would have been initiated otherwise.
Tiiva’s body would serve as notice of what forged steel thought of magic. He dropped her head into a crude burlap sack that slapped at his horse’s withers as they moved.
He thought he could feel what Narskap warned of, a thickening of the air, a resistance to his very being, and then he punched through, Narskap following at his heels, and it became easier to breathe.
His hound drew in a hissing breath through his teeth. “So easy,” he said.
“Yes,” murmured Quendius. “Good.” He took the reins for his horse from Narskap’s hand and swung up. “I suggest we hurry. We’ll have cover most of the way, if the maps I have are true.”
“Have you a target?”
“Oh, yes. One which shall bring that old fox Bistel Vantane out of his hole, I believe.”
Narskap’s head snapped around, his gaze bright and hard. “Vantane?”
“He has something I want.” Quendius’ mouth thinned. “And I shall have it.” Without further explanation, he heeled his mount downslope leaving his hound to follow and wonder.
The room fell silent as Sevryn entered although he did not feel he had interrupted any great argument, as Osten Drebukar sat next to Tranta Istlanthir, their Houses sharing the burden of the great Jewel and Shield of Tomarq, and Osten’s face which had near been cleaved in two looked both thoughtful and distressed. His heavy hand drummed on the table in front of him, belying his seemingly relaxed, burly form slouched back into his chair. He nodded gravely at Sevryn who apologized before taking his seat. A map of the First Home of Kerith was upon the table, the same map he’d looked upon every day that Lariel had held talks upon the war and how she planned to carry it out, and that map had never changed. Sevryn wondered what the Mageborn had thought when they sat about planning their warfare and how their deeds would inextricably change the face of their lands, the very foundation and seas of the continent forever recarved.
Jeredon put out a fist and bumped it against Sevryn’s shoulder.
“Beg pardon for my lateness, Highness.”
Lariel considered him only briefly, her attention dropping back to the map and the pieces she had placed upon it, although her massive general continued to consider him with a frown. “I had thought,” Osten finally rumbled, “that you were a dagger man and one of finesse. Trained by Gilgarran and all. Yet I hear that you are out in the arena daily, pounding down my men as though they were clay poppets to be remolded at will.”
“It seems wise,” Sevryn told him, “to hone whatever abilities I can.” He pointed to Lara’s helm which sat on an end table at the wall behind her chair, and the fetish which dangled down from it. “The Raymy are not likely to ask what my strengths are before they attack.”
Tranta’s jaw dropped. He stared at the helm for a moment. “Is that— I’d heard but I did not know for sure. Where did they come ashore?”
“South at the old salt bay.”
“In force?”
“A few handful made it to land, but we’ve no idea how many boats lay out to sea.”
Istlanthir ran a hand as pale as marble through his sea-blue hair. “Then it makes my news all the worse, which is why I came to deliver it in person. There is a flaw in the Jewel since the attack against it. I’ve been unable to repair it. Think of it as a . . . blind spot . . . in its sweep which clouds its view.”
“How vast a blind spot?”
“I had not thought it significant, since it sweeps side to side . . .” Tranta paused, gathering his words. “This discovery changes my perception. The Shield faltered and let them through. It’s a slender gate, like the eye of a needle, and I thought we could close it. It was not the blind spot which brought me here, however. I’ve been trying to discern and calculate it, but I cannot, yet the problem exists and can’t be ignored any longer.”
“It gets worse?” Jeredon dropped his chin to his chest with a low mutter.
“It does. The Shield is a Way, as you all know. The gem and the cradle which rocks it are the result of will melded with engineering. The Jewel holds a charge which it focuses. Anything which trespasses in its s
ight is incinerated. Sigils to reflect her beams are few and expensive and extremely well regulated.”
“Tree’s blood, man, get to it.” Bistane shoved his chair back and stood, his entire body vibrating with unspent agitation.
“She is losing her charge. She is constructed so as to gain it back, day by day, on her own with very little interference from the Istlanthir who guardian her. The sun, even the fire of the stars, feeds her. But now she weakens. There is no other word or explanation for it and I can’t replace what she is losing. The Shield is failing, every day, slowly but surely, and as it does, the fracture within the Jewel grows and so does the blind spot. When she fails ultimately, the bay and Hawthorne and our coast will be cracked wide open. The smugglers will learn of it first, but then—” Tranta stopped, with a hard swallow.
“You’re certain there is no repair?”
Tranta faced Lariel. “We haven’t found one yet.”
She tilted her head slightly as she did when she thought deeply. “The sweep of her vision hardly reaches as far south as the old salt bay. It’s the treacherous storms and reefs which keep it clear of friend or foe there.”
“Possibly. Unless the Raymy came along our coast, probing for a weak spot in our observations and finally found it turning south. You’ve a trophy dangling from that helm. Who gained it for you? Were they scouts or a fighting force?”
“Daravan found them,” Sevryn told him. “If they were scouts, Gods help us when the fighters come ashore.”
“The old stories do them justice?”
“And then some,” he answered solemnly.
They all looked to Lariel then. “Why are we fighting east if the Raymy lie to the west?”
“Because I know what I know and if Diort is not laid down in his tracks, we’ll be sandwiched between them. It’s a dry winter. I want to take him now before the warm currents from the sea bring the Raymy in with them in the spring season. Our shipbuilders and traders tell me that is the most propitious time to come in from the western sea. I will see Diort dead or bowed before his people. We will all starve when this dry winter turns to a dry spring and we must face the Raymy with empty bellies and broken vows.” Lara stood. She leaned on her hands. “We don’t know if the Raymy seek alliances, or if they are even an enemy which would consider such a thing, but we do know Abayan Diort. He has shattered villages which would not submit to him and cajoled the others. He may know what we know of them and think he can deal with them in his delusions. For now, he is the enemy. My enemy. Beat him, and we will enfold his fighters and his people, and then face what we have to face. It’s the only thing we can do.”
“You don’t know his intent.”
“I have seen his actions. They speak for his intent.”
“Lara, he’s not come into the lands outside of the old domains of the Mageborn. Not with force.”
“He’s been so close to the old boundaries that if he breathed, he breached them.”
“But not crossed them.”
“He will.”
Bistane paced the length of the room. He stopped long enough to trade looks with Osten, then returned to pacing. “We muster. It could be he is moving into place only to keep an eye on us, to see what we are doing.”
“It could be,” Jeredon said quietly, “that she is baiting him to do what he normally would not.” He wouldn’t look upon his sister’s face as he spoke.
Lara slapped her hands upon the table. “It takes days upon days to move an infantry into place. I won’t waste energy and valuable supplies toying with Diort. We’ve already divisions where I want them.”
"Then what?”
She looked down at the map. “We muster at Ashenbrook. We go to war where Kanako won before falling.”
“And we hope history does not repeat itself?” Jeredon’s dry words fell on them, but Osten held up a hand, his face creasing even more deeply than its scarred visage. “A moment.” He rubbed his hand across his brow. He looked to Lara. “Time, my queen.”
She took a deep breath, then straightened and stepped back from the table. “All right, then. Another subject, one closer at hand. Tiiva crossed the wards into Larandaril about a candlemark ago.”
“What?”
Osten nodded heavily. “We’ve not had a sighting, but her presence is unmistakable.”
“Where did she cross?”
“We think from the low hills, northwest, by the Drebukar border.”
“She’s a hunter,” Jeredon remarked. “She knows these lands as well as I do, and if she wants to come upon us relatively quietly, she can do it.”
“She’s a traitor.”
“She may be a traitor with news or an offering,” Lara said flatly. The silver in her blue eyes glinted. “I don’t want our hand tipped to her.”
Bistane stopped. “As if any of us would do that.”
They stared at one another across the table for a very long moment, then a bit of color blossomed on Lariel’s face before she dropped her gaze and said, “I did not mean to suggest any of you would.”
“You suggest much these days, my queen, and we only ask that you take us into consideration before you do.” Bistane made a half bow in her direction.
Her mouth twisted. “You sound more like your father every day. He disapproves of what I plan to lead.”
“Yet he stands ready to help when asked, and a division from our House has joined your muster,” Bistane reminded her gently.
Osten shoved back from the tabletop, his thick hands on the edge of the map. He took one of the markers and lifted it, turned it about and about in his callused fingers. “We’re a little shy of troops, Lara, if you wish to accomplish what you want to.” He set the marker down, near the Rivers Revela and Ashenbrook. He said it as if it were a new revelation, when they had been arguing about it for days, but Lara did not react as she had in the past. “We have ild Fallyn, Istlanthir, Drebukar, Vantane, Arsmyth, Caranthe, and Ferstanthe, Naimilith, the lines of Igart, DeCadil, Elath, Inamatran, Sastrina, Briban, and Garanth. And then we have the unnamed but the followers of the Strongholds, Houses, and lines.”
Lara’s mouth curved into a disagreeing moue. “Then we’ll have what we need, when the time comes.”
“If you say so. I would give my life upon your word, but I owe the troops more consideration.”
“We’ve discussed this before, Osten.”
“And you’ve not been forthcoming either. Even if we bring in cavalry, we can’t do it quickly enough to give them the support they’re going to be needing. I know the House of Anderieon holds magic that you don’t reveal, but a feat of that sort would be nothing less than miraculous.” He cleared his throat, looking at her from under heavy, bifurcated brows. “I knew your grandfather well, and he never relied on miracles for battle.”
“Nor shall I. But I don’t intend to tip my hand. Not now and not here. If Tiiva taught me but one thing, it’s that there is no safety anywhere.”
Bistane eyed the faces of Lariel and Osten as words flew between them before commenting softly, “What expectations do either of you have? Are we looking to a pitched battle or a sortie that is likely to change Diort’s mind and send him retreating? Are we entrenching there for the winter?”
Osten shifted his massive legs. He tightened his jaw on whatever answer he might have made. Sevryn leaned forward. “We can, but I sense the thinking is to hit him hard, so hard it rocks him back on his heels and makes him retreat to where he can be comfortable and safe—and negotiate.”
“That would be preferable, yes,” Lara agreed.
“We can’t negotiate in strength if we’re the ones retreating.”
She looked to her brother. “I don’t intend to be in that position.”
“Lara, no one goes to war intending to lose, but there is usually only one victor.”
“Thank you for pointing out what I had not considered,” she told Jeredon flatly. Sevryn wished for the old days when she might have thrown a pillow at him when the only enmity between th
em came from natural sibling rivalry. Jeredon’s face creased slightly as if he shared the same thought.
Tressandre ild Fallyn had kept her silence, one hand on the arm of Jeredon’s carriage chair, her wind-tousled hair framing her beautifully guarded face. “It seems to me that it is possible one might already have been negotiating with Diort, if only to see if Galdarkans bend or if they are as stiff-necked as they are arrogant.” Her full mouth curved slightly. “You could offer me in marriage, but that would scarcely give you the safe alliance you wish.”
Her self-mocking words brought a chuckle about the table, bleeding tension away. “Barring that, you have other options. We can offer teachers and apprentices in craftsmanship even the Galdarkan can’t yet approach. And, there are others about your House which might bring the kind of marital partnership you wish. If our lovely, returning Tiiva weren’t a base traitor, she would have been a good offering. What is the worst we can expect of such a mating? Impossible for children, but what if there were a miracle? What do you fear, my queen?”
“I fear the Raymy and the return of the Mageborn.” Lara’s response fell into silence.
Tressandre recovered first. “Mageborn? You can’t be serious. The Gods of Kerith wiped out those bloodlines centuries ago. We’ve no rivals here when it comes to working magic.”
“Tressandre, you know more than most how lost bloodlines can be recouped. Is that not a specialty of your Stronghold now? Finding those with mixed blood and bringing back the Vaelinar strains in them through careful breeding? What makes you think that every last drop of Mageborn blood has been excised by Gods who were careless to begin with? It’s only a matter of time until one of two things happen: the Gods of Kerith deal with us as invaders directly or they raise the Mageborn again to do so.” Lara took a breath. “The Raymy may well be their opening gambit. We are the Suldarran, the lost, and there is no way home that we’ve found. Yes, we guard against ourselves, but we most stringently guard against an alien land which can never quite be home to us.” Her words fell into a sudden silence. They shifted uneasily in their chairs, and Bistane ceased his pacing, his slender body taut.