by Tia Reed
Wilshem supported an elbow on one hand and his chin on the other. Stroking his moustache with a finger, he digested that piece of unsavoury news. “Did you not say Mahktos countenances this war?” he asked when it became apparent Strauss was not going to finish.
“I do not presume to know the mind of a god,” Strauss replied.
“But there would only be one inexperienced apprentice. They have only one quartz.”
The mahktashaan remained silent and stolid. Wilshem pursed his lips. He needed no great knowledge of the mahktashaan to understand they would bow to Mahktos if the god deigned to grant the Myklaani access to more crystals. The order made it crystal clear they served their god before all others.
“They do not worship Mahktos. He will not succour them,” Cromwell said.
Again, Wilshem dismissed him. Conjecture was worthless. “What do you see as the army’s greatest challenge?” he asked Mazronan.
The Swordmaster rose and with the help of two servants unrolled a large map of The Three Realms. It covered the length of the wall. “Moving an army through the Termyk Pass will be difficult. It’s defensible. Even if we move troops into Verdaan and use both passes at once, we’re likely to suffer heavy losses before we break through.”
“Admiral Yorish,” Wilshem cued.
The trim, weathered man, having sailed to both eastern and western continents numerous times, had held the former shah’s utmost respect. Unlike the two captains Wilshem had invited, he had prided himself on keeping in both physical and mental shape. He could often be spotted navigating the more treacherous stretches of Lake Sheraz as a means of recreation with his abundant grandchildren on a lazy Moonsday. He rose and took Mazronan’s place.
“While it would be easier to move significant troops by sea, the ports are heavy with guards. The fleet will be spotted by the watchtowers at Point Kalos and Point Rai even if we aim to drop troops off in uninhabited areas. If we divert far enough to sea before turning for the coast we might stand a chance of arriving undetected, but we risk a ransacking by Nertese pirates down the longer route to the west, and catching on the outward currents along the more obvious route to the east.” The admiral sniffed in deq Ikher’s direction and grinned. Citrus, he had long asserted, was a sailor’s tonic.
“Within this room, I welcome all suggestions,” Wilshem said, making eye contact with Captains Yeer and Vesh. The white-haired men were veterans of the internal feuds and border skirmishes common during his father’s rule. He was about to promote them.
Clearing his throat, Baiyeed deq Ikher jumped in. “Verdaan would advise caution. And request mahktashaan travel with any troops they dispatch.” His left cheek twitched once as he spoke, careful to avoid the coloured eyes of the mahktashaan.
“Naturally,” Wilshem said, cutting him off and signalling to Vesh as Yorish returned to his chair.
“The border patrols will be light until they are certain we are coming,” the captain offered. His knowledge of strategy was legendary but the extra pounds of flesh were not going to serve him well in the time ahead.
“They know,” Wilshem said. “Prince Mariano requested Myklaan return a stolen crystal and quartz. Ordosteen is fully aware what my reaction to his denial will be.”
The two captains blinked. Wilshem had not seen fit to brief them on the details of the dishonour Princess Kordahla had perpetrated. They would intuit it from this conversation or not. Their ignorance would not cheapen their contribution.
“The Myklaani can have reinforcements at the border before we are halfway there,” freckled Yeer observed. He had the resigned look of a man who would welcome the chance to retire.
“If we avoid the passes by marching elite troops through the hills, it may allow us to surround and take both the forts and San Sidris,” Mazronan said.
“The Olono Range is notoriously difficult to navigate. Our men could wander for days. And the Myklaani will send scouts. An army would never be able to hide its presence,” Yeer said. His brown eyes watered as he blinked. Wilshem scrutinized him. Weak eyesight would hinder the man in battle.
“Food is abundant and with small units of the right men, we can take out the scouts,” Vesh countered. His hands had found the flab on his stomach, as though sustenance was his primary concern.
“Which would alert them to our presence,” Yeer said.
“That’s not inevitable. The Hill Tribes are not known for their hospitality,” Mazronan said.
“And so will offer resistance to our incursion before we set foot in Myklaan,” Yeer said, voice rising.
“Primitives we can overcome,” Vesh countered with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“But who will tire and weaken our men.”
Wilshem cast a keen eye over his mahktashaan. Not a word of advice from men who were as much soldiers as magicians. “Your thoughts, mahktashaan,” he said.
Cromwell opened his mouth but Garzene stood, and so commanded the right to speak. Tall but lean, he possessed the innate confidence of the mahktashaan. “The logistics of moving men across the border are fraught with difficulties whichever route we choose. Taking the forts will be critical to moving our troops into Myklaan. Holding them will be key to ensuring we can cart enough provisions to sustain our men until we subdue the enemy. Our magic will do no more than tip the balance. As we are no more capable of traversing the hills or seas than other men, it will be up to the army or navy to navigate into a position that will allow us to strike.”
“Can the Mahktashaan travel with speed upriver?” Wilshem asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Strauss and Garzene answered.
“If the mahktashaan can transport our best men, it will afford a strike force the time needed to navigate the hills,” Mazronan observed.
Wilshem nodded. “Between you, assemble ten advance groups of the most seasoned soldiers and mahktashaan. These strike forces are to spread through the hills and procure guides by any means necessary. They are to avoid detection by Myklaani scouts at all costs. Their mission is to seize control of the two forts and the city of San Sidris. In the meantime, the army will march to the Termyk pass. Once the strike teams have control of the forts, our troops can march into Myklaan.”
“Your Majesty,” Mazronan said. Wilshem nodded his permission. “Assuming our soldiers are in position, the strike force must hold off the Myklaani army for a minimum of three days for our army to negotiate the pass.”
Wilshem was well aware his father had held his throne against uprising by listening to his commanders. “Will this be a problem?” he asked the mahktashaan.
“With three mahktashaan at each key point? Not that we foresee,” Garzene answered.
“Advancing into the interior will require us to combat Myklaani ambushes. They will have the advantage of terrain, and defensive positions to rely upon,” Mazronan said. “Tactics have seen them come close to defeating our mahktashaan in the past.”
“The Crystal War,” Wilshem said with a pointed look at his mahktashaan. “How many mahktashaan must remain at the Crystalite Mines to prevent a repeat of that disgrace?”
It was Cromwell who answered, quiet but grim. “Twenty mahktashaan failed to hold off the Myklaani fleet at Cascade. Their tactics, stealth and surprise almost prevailed. Half the mahktashaan died before they knew there was a threat.”
Wilshem considered him for the first time. It was a rare man who was willing to learn from defeat. “How many?”
“Thirty if we are vigilant.”
“If we are aware, ten is all we need,” Strauss countered.
“Twenty,” Wilshem ordered. “Prepared and alert.” The irony of losing the source of the crystals when he went to war over two of the stones was not lost on him.
Admiral Yorish steepled his fingers as he thought. “We can ship men to San Xalid and San Tej. It will provide enough of a distraction to force the Myklaani to divide their troops. Let them see us coming. They will have to leave a large enough contingent to guard their ports. If we can take tho
se cities, we can advance on Kaijoor from all sides. If not, at least our advance troops do not face the full might of the Myklaani army at the forts.”
“You mean to sail through Shadow Strait?” Wilshem queried, chin on hand, finger tapping his mouth. He admired mettle in his men. History had demonstrated bold manoeuvres won wars. The calligraphy around the room boasted of it.
“They will not expect it.”
“Nor will they fear it. We’d be lucky to have a single ship survive,” Cromwell snarled.
Wilshem looked from Cromwell to Yorish with interest, and gestured for Yorish to respond.
“We hug the Myklaani coast,” the admiral said.
“And so risk their fire and their blockade.”
This time Cromwell’s reservations were valid. Wilshem took the time to consider. “Divide the fleet,” he decided. “Send half along the coast and the rest through the strait to San Xalid. Mahktashaan travel aboard both contingents.”
Stunned silence greeted his order. Three heartbeats later the three senior mahktashaan exploded into objections. Wilshem held up his hand.
“Your Majesty, not even our magic can counter the mystic forces that drift from Aower,” Garzene said.
The second he finished, Yorish, pale as a ghost, met Wilshem’s stare. “In fifty years at sea, I have never once traversed the middle of that strait, nor have I known anyone who has. Finding a crew to man the boats will be nigh on impossible.”
“But you will do it.”
Wilshem rose. This meeting was over.
Chapter 5
KORDAHLA HAD NOT thought a spark of life remained in her. Yet there must have been because at the sight of Mykver Fort, its brown stone bathed gold in afternoon sun, something deep inside her shrivelled. She remained on her horse as Mariano and Ahkdul dismounted onto withering grass to follow their Myklaani escort into the garrison. They would tell her what to do. Initiative was no longer a prerogative, nor within her capabilities.
“Your Highness.” Captain deq Lungo strode towards her, brown stems rustling beneath his boots. His uniform was creased and dusty from the day’s drill yet he moved, as always, with tireless determination. Her eyes passed across his pinched face and onto the fort. His chivalry was already a fading blur of hope. Her past and her future had fractured into separate lives. In the brief moments her mind chose to work, she wondered if this was how Timak felt.
“You are hurt,” the captain said, blinking to keep the slanted sunbeams from his eyes.
Mariano stepped into deq Lungo’s path, as sturdy as the hills behind the fort. His anger flowed out in a haughty wide-foot stance and an upward tilt of his chin. “The princess does not address men.”
Kordahla drew the edge of her green veil a little higher over her nose and mouth. Her mother’s veil; the veil with which Shah Ordosteen had traded her happiness for his. It would not hide the worst of her injuries but she could not care less who knew of them. The shame was for having the rough, strange men of the fort stare. Five days after Ahkdul’s beating the swelling on her cheek had not subsided. Sight was still blurry out of her left eye and swallowing the food they forced into her hurt.
“There is a physic in the fort. He will –”
“That will not be necessary,” Mariano cut in. “Shah Ordosteen sends a promissory note authorising provisions for our party. We will take what you can organise in the next quarter hour.” Her brother gestured and a soldier passed the note.
Deq Lungo skimmed the parchment and frowned. “It is late and you have a long ride ahead. We can provision you better if you lodge the night.” He glanced at her before scrutinising Ahkdul and Mariano from boot to turban, his mouth thin with distaste.
“There are yet two hours good for travelling. We will enter the pass this afternoon,” Ahkdul said. The early shadows accentuated the overhang of his prominent brow, his oversized nose.
Deq Lungo gave orders to a guard. “Perhaps the princess would care for a bath?”
“The princess will remain where she is. Your soldiers are not to address her, nor is she a spectacle for their amusement,” Mariano said. The Crown Prince of Terlaan and the Myklaani captain held each other’s eyes. Edard deq Lungo broke the stare first. Given who they were, he could not have done otherwise.
“Fare well,” deq Lungo said with gentle care, when the Terlaani soldiers had secured packs of rice and dried meat to the horses. He took a rolled fur from one of his men, and attached it to Mariano’s stallion himself. Kordahla closed her eyes. That touching concern brought a tear to her eye. Why was it, when she longed to drown in indifference, when indifference was the one way she might survive, the simplest word sparked a tremble in her shoulders?
Oh Timak, I understand you now. Whatever may come, life can never hold unfettered joy again.
The first step into the Mykver Pass felt like a death sentence. Sequestered in the middle of the Terlaani soldiers who had escorted Mariano and Ahkdul to Kaijoor, she was denied a clear view of the path ahead. The hills, though they were but mounds compared to the Crystalite Range, closed in on either side, dwarfing those who traversed the narrow pass. Ahkdul and Mariano rode in front, Minoria Arun to her side. The mahktashaan made no attempt to converse; Mariano had seen to that. In her dishonour, she was denied a voice.
Towards the end of a lingering, indigo dusk, they set up camp on a widening of the rough track. Kordahla retreated to the tent she shared with Mariano and waited for her meal. If the rice and vegetables had a taste, it eluded her. She chewed and swallowed while her brother stood over her, arms crossed, silent and glaring, as he had every night since they had left Kaijoor.
That first night, on the lapping shores of Lake Tejolin, she had refused to accept the bowl he brought. He had left to exchange heated words with Ahkdul, too low for her to catch. Soon after, he pulled the flap aside and watched her lying upon the thin mattress on the hard ground, face turned to the canvas. She did not move. Not until he strode in, pulled her into a sit and shoved the bowl into her hands.
“You will eat or I will hold you still while Lord Ahkdul shoves it down your throat,” he had said, his voice low with rage. Ahkdul had been standing at the entrance, holding the flap, leaning in as though he welcomed another chance to lay a hand on her.
She had taken the bowl and forced the stew past the constriction in her throat. Had complied with silent, dutiful but apathetic obedience, every subsequent request her brother made.
This night was no different. Denied company and conversation, she lay upon the bear fur, watching without seeing the shadow of the cooking fire flickering on the musty canvas of her tent, hearing without listening the subdued conversation drifting past. When the moons were risen, Mariano would arrange his bedroll across the entrance, barring her exit. Already, he would have positioned a soldier behind the tent, lest she dare attempt to escape that way. She would never have tried. She had nowhere to run, no reason to go.
There was no reason, then, the tent should have flapped open so early in the night. She remained curled up. Someone would tell her what to do, or leave her to the rot that was eating her alive.
“Get up.”
Her mind was slow to comprehend, her muscles slower to obey. But she stood, staring past her brother and the cloaked and hooded minoria behind him.
“The minoria is going to heal your face.”
Arun came to her, his cerulean eyes bright even in the shadow of his hood. “Your Highness, I fear there is damage to her bones. The healing of this injury will take days.”
“So be it.” Mariano’s feet scraped earth as he shifted his weight. “Dull her pain. As often as need be.” That last was soft, tender almost. Although he dropped the flap, and his heavy boots churned earth as he strode away, it was so much the Mariano of old that she sobbed. She would have collapsed had Arun not supported her to her knees. Kneeling beside her, the minoria placed two fingers at her temples. She had shared with this man her most intimate shame. In offering no condemnation in the slant of his large eye
s, the perfect arch of his brow, the curve of his lips in his honey-brown goatee, he betrayed her. She closed her eyes tight against the intrusion in her mind. Felt nothing save his strong, gentle pressure, and the easing of soreness around her eye.
Without warning, he was there, inside her head.
Princess.
She refused to respond.
Let me show you something. An image burst into her mind, a small body floating above fresh snow, cloaked and hooded in blue. She flinched. A djinn was the last creature she wished to see. She tried to turn her head, but the image lay inside her mind, and Arun held her fast. Look at him. The body rolled and the hood slid just enough for her to see the human face it revealed.
Vinsant. There was such yearning in his name. She opened her eyes, beseeching the too-eager mahktashaan in front of her for news of her younger brother, cursing him for forcing her to thoughts of the one person who could drag her from this apathy.
There is something you should know. He already has the eyes of a mahktashaan.
Hungry for news, she could yet think of no response. She closed her eyes, but the image had gone.
His eyes are crimson. It is Mahktos’s own colour. He will be powerful, Kordahla.
You promised to keep him safe.
She sensed a touch of surprise, as she had when they had spoken in her bright room in the palace in Kaijoor. And I will, he said as she wondered if he had thought her too far gone to answer.
Since leaving Myklaan’s capital city, they had spoken but once, a terse exchange, late on the first day of the journey when their Myklaani escort had called a halt at the rippling lake, refusing to travel in a direction that would bring them closer to the shadowy, leaf-littered edge of brooding Faradil Forest at night. Overhearing Mariano argue with Ahkdul, she had turned her head towards the forest, and breathed deep the earthy smell of moist leaves and dried grass, remembering how close the trees had come to claiming Timak and Sian. Her flight had brought such pain to so many. At least the boy was safe. Shah Ordosteen had promised, and so Jordayne would see to it. She must.