“It has been a few days; are you certain they are not already upon the road?”
“I am certain of nothing except for their disposition on the night the ATerafin ventured into her dream.”
The Radann nodded. Rose. “We are not so small a party that we will not be noticed by scouting—or raiding—parties, if any are searching for us.”
It was Kallandras who spoke next. “Consider the possibility that the army gathered where it did along the border with that eventuality in mind.”
“Pardon?”
“Of the duties the Serra Diora in her wisdom assumed, one is anathema to the General di’Marente. He cannot know for certain in which direction she decided to travel. But if he believes that she has traveled to one Terrean over the other, he may move in that direction first.
“She has, besides herself, something that holds an incalculable value in the coming war. If he can claim it before she conveys it to its rightful owner, he has struck a blow, in the South, that the armies of the North will be unable to overcome.
“The kai Leonne has, as his only claim to the Tor and the waters of the Lake, the bloodline of the Leonnes. And his only proof of that is in the Serra’s hands.”
“In the Dominion, stranger,” the Radann said quietly, “that claim is paramount.”
“It would be,” Kallandras countered, his hands upon the still strings of his careworn lute. “Save for the disaster of the last war, it would be. But the Lord of Day favors no bloodline blindly. What the General Alesso di’Marente has chosen to build for himself, he has built with the approbation of at least two of the Terreans. Were it not for the General’s brilliance, the General’s ability to engender both loyalty and confidence in the men who served him, the losses to the North in the ill-advised war the previous Tyr’agar chose to prosecute would have been severe.”
“Severe or not, it was still a loss.”
“Indeed. And it was a loss incurred because of the incompetence of the Tyr’agar.” He lifted the neck of his lute in the curve of his palm, settling it in his lap. A warning, perhaps. “I mean no disrespect,” he added quietly. “But we face what we face. It is best to accept that if we are to triumph here.”
“And what is triumph, here?”
“We seek shadow, subterfuge, the ability to hide in the open. It is the Voyani way,” Kallandras replied swiftly. “Like it or no, man of the Lord, it is that road that we must travel if we are to arrive in safety in the Terrean of our choice.”
“And that is the crux of the matter,” Avandar continued smoothly. “Which Terrean, Radann par el’Sol? Which Terrean will be friendliest to our cause?”
“Averda, certainly,” Marakas replied. “But it is for that reason that I believe the armies will move upon Averda.”
Celleriant rose suddenly; his blade, completely silent, now shone in the clearing in which they had gathered.
Kallandras was on his feet in an instant, and if lute could be wielded as weapon, it, too, was readied.
The Arianni lord’s pale brow rose, and a smile lifted the corner of his lips. “Even you, bard, might best be advised to select a different weapon.”
“We choose the weapon at hand,” Kallandras replied, but his smile was rueful. “What draws your attention?”
“I am not certain. But . . . there is something unpleasant in the air. It will be night soon. I feel that there is a risk here.”
The stag had risen as well.
Jewel called him wordlessly, and he came.
Lady, he said. Lord Celleriant speaks truly. I believe that we—he and I—have heard the sounds of a hunt being called.
Whose hunt?
Not the White Lady’s, he replied.
“Mancorvo,” the Radann par el’Sol said quietly.
They looked toward him. He was not in command of the expedition; no one was. But he had been given the choice.
Yollana, silent until now, also rose; the Serra Teresa was her cane and her crutch. She lifted her aged hands and made the symbol of the circle across the sandy stretch of Voyani desert robes. “Mancorvo,” she said, nodding. She turned her unblinking gaze upon the Radann. “If the sun is not in my eyes, Radann par el’Sol, it is in Mancorvo, in the end, that you will discharge the greatest of your debts.”
“I am the keeper of those debts,” he replied coolly. “I will decide when—and if—they are discharged.”
“Indeed.” Yollana slumped against the strength of the deceptively graceful arm that held hers. “But before then, I fear we will all be tested. The Lord of Night is at work here. If the armies of the General Marente are not aware of our work in the desert, He will be, and he will seek to prevent its completion.
“Come. If we are to start in the morning, we must take what rest the desert offers.”
Marakas turned to look at the river that rushed past them, its steady whisper the only noise the silent desert now offered them. “The desert has offered many surprises to even a man such as myself,” he said at last. “Let us do as the Havallan Matriarch commands.
“And in the morning, let us take the winding road into Mancorvo.”
Stavos brought the child to Jewel’s tent the moment the awkward circle opened. The fire that had sustained its heart was a meager thing, for there was little in the way of wood in these parts. But Yollana had insisted upon setting two sticks into the hard sand, and she had lit them with care, allowing no other hands to touch them. They smoldered, trailing dark smoke.
The Voyani heartfire burned down in the odd clearing.
“Two more,” she said quietly to the Serra Teresa. “Two more, and we will be vulnerable. It is not to my liking.”
The Serra Teresa di’Marano lifted her head, tilting it a moment to one side. “We are vulnerable,” she said softly. “It is only our words that are hidden, and words have little value to the dead.
“But . . . I heard the roar of the desert storm, Matriarch, and against it, we emerged.”
“You speak of the Northern bard.” No question there; a lift of gray brow, a sharp look, but no question.
“Yes. Kallandras.” Her smile was brief, but genuine. “He has been a shadow in our lives, as have the Voyani—and it is all the proof I need that the Lord of Night does not rule the whole of the darkness.” The smile dimmed, the gaze sharpened; the whole of Teresa’s face shifted subtly in the silver light.
Yollana’s frown added wrinkles and creases to the lines of a face scoured by wind and exposure to sunlight. “Your hearing is better than mine, Na’tere.”
“But not, I think, better than those that serve Jewel ATerafin. If you have charms or wards, if you must let blood, do it now.”
Yollana grimaced. “They will pay,” she said almost absently. “For the use of my legs. They will pay.”
She looked toward Jewel’s tent.
The younger woman had stiffened, rising. Her right hand sought the belt beneath the folds of her robes; her left, the child’s shoulder. The child.
The great, tined beast moved in silence, coming to stand by the ATerafin’s side. She bent on one knee. Spoke to the child, her voice soft enough that no words carried the distance between them. Then she lifted the child as the stag bent its antlered head. The girl was utterly silent.
Jewel turned to the man who now stood, back toward her, facing the expanse of the desert’s coming night.
“Avandar,” she said.
“ATerafin?”
“There are no wolves in the desert, are there?”
“None at all.”
She swore.
“So,” Yollana said. “It begins.”
“It continues,” Teresa said, correcting her. “Come. I intend to survive to see its end, no matter how long that may be in arriving.” She held out a hand, and Yollana gripped it firmly.
Their scent filled the air. Their warmth left its trail across the still night: If they were capable of hiding, they had chosen to do otherwise. Costly mistake.
The kinlord smiled. The leader of the hunters rose on two legs and walked toward him, breaking the sand with the force of curved claws. He could, when he so chose, make his tread invisible—but it took effort, and it cut his speed.
The kinlord had seen no need for such a precaution; what life there was in the desert was not sentient enough to carry a warning to the men whose knowledge the Lord of the Shining Court deemed dangerous.
He had scoffed when the possibility of danger from mortals had first arisen, but he had not yet seen the shadow of the Tor Arkosa in the dimming brilliance of night sky when he had been given his orders.
Yet he had seen it now, and it had stirred its bitter memories; he could still feel the spells which contained and protected it. Not for such a kinlord as he was the breaking of that spell, not for one such as he, the entry into that City. He could admit this now, in silence; it cost him nothing.
The hunter waited his word, aware of the difference in power between them; the kinlord was cautious. “Yes,” he said softly, aware that he was not the only kinlord abroad. Others were hunting, and in terrain in which caution was forced upon them by the mortals who crowded this realm.
The Voyani had proved themselves a danger.
One City had risen. One line had returned to the desert. The Lord of the Shining Court desired there to be no others.
“Now.”
Avandar did not speak.
Even in the privacy of thought, he was notably absent. But Jewel could feel what was not put into words, and she listened.
During the reign of man, such hunts as these were not infrequent; they were not unknown. Men did not travel in the desert unless they were prepared for battle, and such battles had proved a testing ground, a way of culling the weak and the unwary.
No such test was necessary now.
She felt his annoyance war with a sense of dark amusement; he had walked the length and breadth of the hidden byways that served as roads to those who had the power to navigate them. He had walked in company, and he had walked in isolation, and in either case, the kin had chosen to avoid any encounter that involved him.
Clearly, then, they did not understand what they faced.
The stag lifted antlered head, casting a shadow in the moonlight that was too long, and too strange, to suit his form.
The moonlight, he said, hearing what she did not say, is the Lady’s. This is my form, he added, but it is not my truth.
Are you fearless?
I would be.
If?
If not for your command, Lady.
Obviously not the one in which I told you to call me something else.
He snorted. Ariel sat on his back, her hands bunched around folds of his thick fur. She looked at Jewel, and only at Jewel; the stag remained standing in such a way that the child could clearly see her.
The child, he said quietly, is mortal.
So is Kallandras.
He speaks with power’s voice; the child does not speak. She is not even graced with a hint of gift.
No?
You know this.
And she did. She had not known it until this moment.
Then why?
I do not know. But she is under no spell; the only protection offered her here is offered willingly, by you.
Jewel nodded.
In another time I would ask you why.
I know. And in another place I would hate you for asking. We are what we are. She needs me.
Only because you need to be needed.
You sound like Avandar.
He laughed. His eyes, round and luminous, opened fully upon her. Do you disdain him so much because he does not need you?
Pardon?
An idle question Lady. It passes time.
I don’t . . . disdain him.
No?
The first of the kin crested the distant horizon. In the chill of night, the wavering lines of heat were distant memory; everything was clear for miles.
Jewel glanced at the child; the child met her gaze, steady and silent.
“Ariel.”
She nodded.
“You’ve seen these before.”
She nodded again.
“He will not let you fall, no matter what happens. If you lose sight of me, he will protect you, and when it is safe, he will bring you back.”
She nodded again, her silence unnerving.
“Lady?” Celleriant’s voice, clear as bard’s song, cold as night.
“Lord Celleriant?”
“Will you allow us the privilege?”
As if it were a game.
She nodded before she thought to ask who “us” referred to.
Had her answer as Kallandras of Senniel College joined him in the moonlight, his weapons gleaming with a strange light that she knew was not dependent on the height of moon, the lack of cloud.
Another creature joined the first, and another; Jewel counted five in all. They were of a height and not even the night sky could grant them the illusion of mortality. They were as large as the stag, and they moved with a deadly, supple grace that belied, in every possible way, their size, the awkward build of their fore and hind legs. Sand seemed to shroud their feet in a cloud that was always a few yards behind them.
They moved.
The Serra Diora and the Radann par el’Sol came to stand at her side.
“Where are the others?”
“Coming,” Yollana said brusquely.
Stavos joined them; Serra Teresa, lending weight and strength to the older woman, joined them as well.
The Radann par el’Sol drew his sword and Jewel flinched; it burned the vision with its pale, blue fire.
Across the plain, the demons saw its light; they stopped a moment, then rose on two legs. Their song was a cry of recognition.
“Serra,” the Radann said coldly.
But the Serra Diora did not cower. Instead, to Jewel’s surprise, she smiled. “I believe,” she said softly, “that you move too slowly.”
He raised a brow. Turned his back upon her and gazed out at the two who now stood ten yards ahead.
“I ask, as a favor, that you put up your sword,” she continued, her voice as demure and soft as a Serra of her rank’s could be—and as steely, as cool, beneath that facade.
“There is a danger here,” he said softly.
“The danger that is perceived is the danger that we might face—we, the Matriarch, the Northerner, and her ward.” Silent as shadow, Ramdan stood behind her, his hands by his sides, sleep and weariness shorn from his face by the demands of his duties: her presence. “It is for us that concern was shown.
“Watch,” she said, speaking not as Serra, but as a denizen of the Lady’s Night.
“But—”
“Watch and listen. The wind is speaking.”
He raised a brow. Frowned. “Do you trust the voice of the wind, Serra?”
“The wind,” she said serenely, “has only one voice, this eve.”
Lord Celleriant drew his sword. Summoned his shield.
He gazed at Kallandras, and at the weapons he held. “You have courage,” he said softly. “In the heat of our last battle, I did not notice what you wielded.”
“They are mine.”
“For the moment.” His gaze was a mixture of appraisal and approval. But it held more than that; his eyes were alight with an excitement that he seldom showed. “I will take the leader,” he said, “if that is agreeable.”
Kallandras smiled. “Among my brethren,” he replied softly, “the honor of the kill was merely the honor of being sum
moned to serve. I fear I will be an unsatisfactory competitor if you hope to count kills.”
Celleriant laughed, and his voice was a cascade of music, a wild echo of the song that Kallandras had heard for the whole of his adult life. “You are so very different,” he said at last.
Kallandras smiled as well, the expression graceful and easy. “I am. I am no longer a youth. I fear I am not your match in speed.”
“Haste makes a poor warrior.”
“Indeed.” He leaped, then, his legs straight, toes pointed groundward. The light of the ring upon his hand flared white in the darkness, captured essence of starlight, cold and perfect. He did not touch the ground again.
But he heard his companion’s delighted laugh as the wind swept him across the stretch of their chosen battlefield toward their chosen foes. Here, at this moment, there were only three things that mattered: a brother, life, and death.
In the light of the wind’s vision, he could see clearly what he faced: five demons. They strode now upon two legs, but their forearms were curved groundward as if by gravity. Closer inspection revealed the reason for that drift: their hands were stubs from which long blades protruded, chittering against each other. Their faces were long, their jaws slender; they smiled with the gleaming, sharp fangs of predators.
He offered them no quarter, no greeting.
Celleriant did. “Turn back,” he said, “and we will forgive you your presumption.”
His voice was low and deep, a sonorous call to battle. He knew, before he spoke, what the answer would be; delighted in it, extending it by the simple grace of conversation.
They roared. There was, in the cadence of their outrage, the trappings of language, but it was a foreign language, a thing unlearned in his years of study in the labyrinth of Melesnea, or the halls of Senniel. Kallandras understood it by the grace of his gift, for he was born to understand.
They were fast.
But he was deliberate; quick enough to slide sideways, to avoid the whistle of hands that bristled with edges and weight. He had taken injuries in his aerial battle with the Serpent of the storm; they hampered him.
But he had learned to fight in almost any condition; he adjusted the rhythm of his movements, minimizing them; he allowed the wind to alleviate the weaknesses injury determined.
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