by Lori Martin
“Any well-trained officer of the Mendale army,” Ennilyn said, speaking in cold, precise tones, “should know better than to fall into that trap.”
Paither looked at her. “You weren’t an officer in your Archery Band, were you?”
She gave him a frozen smile. “Of course not. My parents, as we will call them for these purposes, are commoners.”
Samalas said in surprise, “Really? But you sound –”
“But you think Mendale officers –”
“I think few of them are as foolish as you’re supposing.”
Paither smiled. “Oh, I don’t think they’re foolish at all. They’ve been running a very efficient Oversettle all our lives, haven’t they? But they think we’re foolish, Ennilyn. They think we’re weak, and unworthy opponents. I don’t think they’ll give us the credit to suspect our maneuvers.”
He waited while they thought about it. Finally Samalas said, “We’d have to look not just weak but... frightened.”
“Yes.”
“That’s just what they think of us, that we’re frightened, too weak to govern ourselves, too cowed by them, too –”
“Yes.”
“And you want to prove it to them!”
“Yes,” Paither said again.
Ennilyn said quietly, “If you’re willing to do that, then you’re right. That would work. That is exactly what Mendales think of – of us.”
Samalas gave a great groan, and then managed a smile. “All the better to prove them wrong afterwards, I suppose?”
“Exactly. Call the guards, let’s get the officers back in here and plan it out.”
Soon after, meetings were held throughout the Squads, and the basic tactic – without reference to Mendale card games – was explained. Some reacted with hurt pride, as Samalas had done, while others were gleeful at the thought of playing a trick on their enemies.
“When?” asked Samalas. “If we’re going to do it, today is better than tomorrow.”
“As soon as I hear,” Paither said, but he refused to explain what he meant. The very next day, the word he was waiting for came, in the form of a heavily cloaked man who had picked his way from the Valtah shore through the dark woodlands, avoiding all human contact until he was captured by scouting Defiers. They hauled him into camp, not believing his claim that he was headed to see the relas in any case. They were gruff and harsh with him because they were afraid of him: he was neither Lindahne nor Mendale that they could see, and he had red eyes.
Paither explained to his astonished council, “We agreed, the Feimennas and I, to send their first force with Mejalna into Mendale. But we also agreed on a secondary force landing off the woodlands, to work their way up to the Second and Third Hills. This man is the messenger I’ve been waiting for, to tell us that the force has landed and is moving inland.”
In disapproving tones, the officer Farnis said, “That’s quite a secret you’ve kept from us, relas.”
“And what would you have said, Fanis, if your new relas announced a moon ago that a fighting force from the land of dreamers would be coming along soon?”
The officer guffawed. “I’d have gone home, weeping that the relas was a madman.”
“Exactly. Now, what do you advise? Do we give out word of this alliance, this force that will attack the Mendales from their rear, to our Squads?”
His council was for once unanimous. “There have been enough miracles for one season,” said Hri, while Rayla added, “We don’t want any advance word to somehow get to the Mendales. Let the terror come on them without warning, when they look over their shoulders and see – ” She broke off in embarrassment, looking at Nhy.
“Demons,” he supplied helpfully, and did not understand why they laughed.
Paither said, “The Feimennas are ready and so are we. Tomorrow we attack.” They all nodded.
Not an hour later, more news arrived. A Defier had clawed his way from Mendale through the foothills and along the Seaward coast all the way to the Fourth, and had then finally circled back to find them, bringing the first word Paither had had of Mejalna.The man was scarred across the face from the swipe of a Mendale dagger and was half-starved. He handed over two letters with a triumphant gasp and fainted. Paither had him carried to the healing house.
Mejalna’s forces had forged a path to MenDas.They were poised to attack the capital, and the outraged and astonished Tribunes were scrambling to mount a counterattack. “We’ve done better than we had a right to,” she wrote. “The Feimennas are enthusiastic fighters but aren’t always willing to obey orders. They understand war as a type of hunting, man-hunting, and their hunting custom is to make group decisions. Everyone has a say. The notion that one person points a finger and everyone goes where he says is amusing to them. Moreover not all of the language savers are as skilled as our friend Nhy. Mistranslations cost me a full morning’s delay yesterday. But they’re wonderfully brave in battle. Then too, on our side we have not just surprise but fear as well. The commoner Mendales flee at the sight of us. They’re convinced the Feimennas are demons who’ve crawled up from the bottom of the Valtah! The professional soldiers have more discipline, of course, but they’re frightened, too, and that all works to our advantage. I’ve instructed the Feimennas to roar out their hunting paen, it’s ferocious...” He scanned down the page, but evidently she had heard nothing of the whereabouts of Nichos or Pillyn. They must still be in the holding-house.
“Relas, Master Samalas is here,” his page said.
“Thank you, Jessa. Send him in.”
Paither handed over the first decoded scroll and went on to the second letter. Samalas read, his brow furrowing. The page knelt to change the wrapping on Paither’s leg. “I don’t think you need the bandage any more, relas. It’s healed cleanly.”
“Yes, but the muscle’s still weak,” he answered with displeasure. “I’ll have to fight on horseback again tomorrow. But I’ll walk into Marlos-An, that I swear.”
“I know you will, relas,” the page said adoringly.
The second scroll had been sealed separately for privacy. Paither pried it open with tender fingers. She had written in haste, without code. “My love,” it began.
The page, reaching to strip off the rest of the bandage, teetered off balance on his heels and clutched accidentally at Paither’s leg. “Oh, relas, your pardon,” he moaned. But the relas seemed to have felt nothing. His lips were parted; his grey eyes had widened into soft clouds. (“... to have told you in this way, but we’re at war, separated by war’s fields, and at night in my bed I fear I will never have another chance...”)
“Relas,” Samalas said in his cold voice.
Paither shook himself. “Yes?”
“These letters could easily have fallen into Mendale hands. Maybe there were other messages that have. Even in code, she has no business putting so much information on paper.”
Paither drew in an angry breath but stifled his retort. Samalas was often infuriating, and often right. “There isn’t much here that Tribune Haol could use to advantage.” But Haol, reading this, would have found out about the child. Had Mejalna considered it? Had she been too eager to tell him? Or perhaps – perhaps she thought it fitting that the Mendales could know, should know, that the line of royals was continuing. Or perhaps, he thought, perhaps she’s meant to make herself the target of their hatred, instead of me.
He said, “Everything we do is a risk. The goddess won’t reward caution.” Samalas watched him, measuring him. “In any case, we did receive the message. Mejalna’s in a good position to strike. We’ll do the same. I want Marlos-An, and I mean to have it tomorrow.”
“Yes, relas.” Samalas held out his hand for the second scroll. Paither looked past him. After a moment his arm fell. Paither said, “She says Renasi has been superb. You chose and trained good officers.”
“Yes.”
The guard outside made a noisy challenge. “Paither?” Ennilyn called. “Will you tell him, please, to give me entrance?”
Ennilyn greeted Samalas and bent to kiss her brother, casting a sharp eye at his leg. She was the only one Paither had ever known to kiss him on the deformed side of his face. Even Mejalna had never done it. As she straightened, her fingers, resting on his arm, suddenly tightened. Her look went slack for a long moment, then she broke into the smile of a delighted child. “Congratulations, brother. May Nialia bless both of you.”
Well, he thought in astonishment, so much for keeping secrets from a Nialian. He grinned back. “You might at least have let me tell you.”
Samalas shifted uneasily, not daring to ask what they meant but unwilling to leave. Ennilyn said, “Have you made your decisions about tomorrow?”
“Yes. Unroll that map there, you’ll see. After we fall back, your Squad is to come up on the left, along the southwest slope, to cut them off. We’ll mount another challenge then, and as soon as I’m through to Marlos-An –”
Ennilyn studied the war plan. Her brows drew together. “I’m not to guard your back?”
“No need. The civilians from the First will be there, and your forces need to break the Mendale Bands that come in after us. If the Feimennas come down from behind the Second in time, we –”
“If indeed,” Samalas broke in. Paither was finding his interruptions more and more grating. Before he could continue, Paither said loudly, “Remember, my object here is to reclaim Marlos-An firstly, and secondly, to get our hands on Governor Nesmin. By tomorrow sundown I will stand on the steps of the palace and take it in the name of the royals.”
Ennilyn demanded, “But not I?” Paither frowned at her. “I’m only to run a flanking maneuver?”
Samalas drew breath, reconsidered, and was silent. In tones of strained patience the relas said, “Ennilyn, you will be facing at least half the force Nesmin is likely to throw at us – professionals, among the best the Mendales have. I need you where I am placing you.”
“While you take Marlos-An without me? Am I your royal kin, brother, or am I not?”
“Name of the gods! Of a sudden you want to claim your rights? You listen to me. And you, too, Samalas. This is a war. And whether you both like it or not, I’m in charge.” He struggled to his feet, his hurt leg clumsy, and then stood straight and rigid. “Ennilyn, I’m putting you in position to take Nialia’s temple.” Her face changed. “Samalas, I intend to deliver a deathblow tomorrow, with the help of the Feimennas or not. And I’m telling you now, this is the last time I will explain myself to either of you. I am tired of having my every order questioned. Is that clear?”
“Yes, relas. Perfectly clear.”
“Yes, relas,” Ennilyn said. In repentance she added, “I would not question you.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
They moved to the door. Ennilyn waved Samalas through first. With her hand on the bolt she looked back. He was still standing. Before the door swung shut they exchanged fleeting, weary smiles: the smiles of those who love but do not understand each other, and who know that they do not.
Later she slipped into her own quarters, and found Hajia there with four other Nialians. The rooms were cold. The servant who was supposed to tend the fires – and take care of her – often neglected his duties. She bent wordlessly to light the logs. The priestesses murmured, “Good even’, mother.”
“Permit me, mother.” Hajia took the bellows from her. The girls were all in the Nialian yellow, with hair combed and braided. At her invitation they sat down shyly, hands folded before them, like little birds at rest.
“You should all be sleeping. It’s a hard day tomorrow.”
“We came to ask your blessing, mother,” one said.
“Tomorrow morning,” Hajia added quickly.
“I don’t understand. Mull that wine, please, Hajia, and we’ll all share a cup. Listen to the wind.”
“Mother, I meant a blessing at dawn. Before we march.” “We thought you might ask Nialia’s blessing for us –”
“– Hajia used to do it before Defier raids. We hoped you would ask it tomorrow for the whole army.”
“And what blessing,” she asked, “do you want me to say?”
They looked sideways, birds eyeing each other. Hajia shook her head. “The proper words are lost, you know that. All the Nialian rituals are gone, no one is left to teach us. No one passed on the temple’s observances and duties.”
“Well, if you, raised here, don’t know them, how should I?” She accepted a goblet and twirled it between her fingers. “I was told that they used to sing at sunset.”
“Oh, yes, the older people remember that. The mother priestess led the Nialians in Sunset Rites every evening. They would join in a circle, with the villagers behind them. It was to give every day its own farewell song.”
“It must have been lovely,” one of the priestesses said wistfully.
“Sunset,” Ennilyn repeated. “I wonder, would their songs have been happy or sad? One day dies, one night is born...”
“Please, mother. You were called to the goddess. She’ll give you words of some kind tomorrow. It will help us before the battle.”
“All right, Hajia. Wake me early, would you? The guard never remembers.”
They said their good evens and left her. Ennilyn gazed with hope and impatience into the fire. The goddess was so near, but so aloof. If she could only be given a clear seeing! How would one come? Was there a way to open oneself, to ready oneself for divine possession?
How could she be a priestess, when she knew so little of her faith?
The wine flowed warmly through her veins. Time passed. She thought she heard, with her mortal sense, a stealthy sound along the frost. She rose, hand on dagger, and opened the door on the night.
Her guard turned in surprise, suppressing a yawn. He had heard nothing. Ennilyn looked beyond him, not seeing him. Two red shining eyes, caught in moonlight, stared back. The Feimenna bowed his head in reverence and made to go.
She hesitated, then beckoned him in. The guard frowned. There was nothing of the air of lovers between these two, both so strange, but what could she be after with him?
A short time later strange cries and yowls came from her room. The guard nearly leaped out of his skin. He rushed in, prepared for anything, but she merely glared at him and said, “Thank you, but there is nothing wrong. He is teaching me his language.”
He found himself apologizing. She dismissed him, imperiously. He went out and took up his post once more, shaking his head.
The Defiers had found him blue robes and tunics to wear – Paither had no idea how – but the Mendales might not recognize the significance of the color. To make certain, he had had a goldsmith engrave a blazing crown on the front of his helmet as well as on his shield. No point in being subtle.
He sat now on his horse, at the head of the Squad, letting the pale early sun find the gold and, he hoped, strike off it. Across just a little patch of dead and muddy bengrass the dark lines of the Mendales looked like jagged rock, but behind them, glinting on the horizon of the valley, he saw a gleaming whiteness that he knew must be Marlos-An: his home and palace. And he had yet to see it. To possess it.
The coughing, the stamping, the shuffling and readjusting of straps behind him had all stopped. There was a moment of complete stillness. Then Paither raised his sword and gave a sharp nod. The Squad burst into a great roar. As his horse plunged forward, he heard the answering roar of the Mendales.
Long ago, in another life and country, he had asked for war stories from old veterans around the estate, because he had never been able to bring himself to ask Nichos. You pick one fighter at a time, one old man had said, because you can’t be fighting everyone at once. He had asked, How do you pick which one? The old man had chuckled. Best pick the one that’s coming at you with his sword
up. He’ll do just fine.
Man after man on horse charged at him now; the blue and the gleaming crown did indeed shout out who he was, and had made him a target, as he had intended. He killed one Mendale almost immediately, then later three more, taking no harm himself except for the strain in his wounded leg. He paused for a moment to let the horse breathe, looking at the body of one of his guards, who had fallen beside him. Then he looked up at the sky, judging how much time had passed. Soon, soon, it would be time to fall back. He slid off his horse.
“There he is! The lin royal!” yet another man yelled, waving his sword and pointing at Paither like a hunting dog. Men on foot or on horse were fighting in clumps all around, but two or three ran forward, stepping over the dead and wounded and rushing towards him.
Well, this will be a good time, he thought. He fixed his eye on the first man to reach him, a stolid middle-aged man who was faster on his feet than would be expected. The screams and curses of battle were just a throbbing confusion in Paither’s mind, and his vision narrowed to one meaty, grimy hand lifting a blood-smeared sword. Paither knew he could lunge now, and catch the man in the small hollow gap between the top of his shield and his throat, but he did not. Instead, he took a step back as if in fear, and turned the man’s thrust aside with his shield. A moment later the other two men were also upon him. He backed up again, fighting off more blows but making none of his own, while another of the guards came to stand beside him. Let’s play our losses, he thought. “Fall back,” he murmured, and the man nodded.
“Fall back,” Paither shouted out, more loudly. “Fall back! Lindahnes, hear me! Retreat!”
The cry was taken up, perhaps a little too readily, a little too loudly. Men around them slid and stumbled in the mud, then staggered up and ran. Way off to the west somewhere he heard the higher voices of women, as his Squad’s accompanying archers also cried for retreat. One of the attackers lunged at him again and Paither shouted, “We can’t get through! Fall back!”