The pause had gone on too long. Fortunately, with the riders all shouting at each other, and the lindworms roaring, there was no silence. “I’m just as glad. Sophia Caetia said once, when she was baby-sitting us, that none of us in the room would die. That we’d all be there to see the end of all things.” Solinus shrugged. “But that was before half my brothers and sisters were born.” He gave Maccis a direct look. “No guarantees for you young ones.”
He was now thirty-six, and had been Caesarion’s chief Praetorian for years now. He did, however, feel more and more as if he should be back on the front lines. And Maccis’ glance suggested that the younger man knew it. “There are no guarantees for any of us. Who was even there?”
“Latirian. Inghean, myself, Masako,” Thank the gods who remain, Solinus added silently, and went on, “Rig, Deiana, Linditus, and Tas. This was back around the Day of Hel’s Demise.”
“Ah.” Below them, on the sands, a young lindworm was fighting, furiously, against being saddled. No reins, of course. A lindworm was an intelligent being, and could shear through metal with its powerful jaws, anyway. Maccis’ attention seemed to be absorbed in that spectacle.
Solinus cleared his throat. He was using a rare afternoon off to look in on his brother. The time he had with Masako was precious, not to mention the little he got to spend with his children. Shiori was ten now, and Astegal eight. Hanni had recently asked to be called Hannibal, since he was eleven now. Solinus should have been teaching Astegal how to control his flame-form this afternoon, with Hannibal watching warily from a rooftop. “So what do they have you doing now?”
“Training the mounts and riders.” Laconic words and tone.
“They’re losing a lot of riders,” Solinus offered, after a moment. “Last number I heard was almost two riders for every lindworm taken down.”
“Yes.” Solinus caught Maccis’ sidelong look. “You could always volunteer, Sol. You’re harder to kill than the average rider.”
He felt his face tighten. Once or twice a week, Solinus still dreamed of riding on red Scimar. But that was the lindworm usually ridden by his younger brother, Caranti. “I’m Caesarion’s chief bodyguard. I don’t think I can just leave that and go off to be a rider.”
“Dreams still?”
“Yes.” Solinus grimaced. “I’ve never told Caranti. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m trying to poach his friend.”
Maccis shrugged. “I told him and Deo about the dreams that you and I and Rig have had, years ago. You know what they told me?”
Solinus regarded his brother warily. On the one hand, this was progress. Complete sentences and everything. On the other hand, the topic bothered him. “What?”
“Heolstor, Scimar, and Rodor all have the same dreams. Yes, lindworms dream. Who knew?”
A muscle twitched in Sol’s cheek. “And?”
“Bothers them about as much as it bothers the rest of us. Don’t get me wrong, Scimar and Rodor like working with Caranti and Deo. Stable partnerships. Know each other’s moves.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t see me or Rig getting released from Praetorian work any time soon.” Solinus brushed it off, fighting down the niggling voice that told him maybe he should still be in the front lines. He and Rig needed to be where they were, to protect Caesarion. Without Caesarion, any chance at bringing the Empire back together, any chance at unity, would die. “What about the mortality rate for the rest of the riders?”
Maccis shrugged. “Vidarr thinks better training will improve that. I suggested better armor for the riders. Can’t be too heavy, though. Lindworms can’t handle the extra weight.”
“Have they considered spell-stones?”
“Half the riders leave the barn carrying anti-fire devices, and usually a few kinetic deflection charms for bullets. The spells don’t last out a full engagement with the enemy. The lindworms are still more agile than ornithopters. But all the agility in the world doesn’t help when you’re taking fire from the ground.” Maccis shrugged.
“Talk to Erida about extensions, batteries—”
“I think it’s a question of combat doctrine, actually. They’re being sent into missions that they weren’t originally tasked for. They were originally supposed to be fighters, like the harpies. Going head to head with ornithopters and helicopters, or light strafing runs on ground positions. But now, they’re constantly doing light-weight bombing runs. The JDF’s trying to conserve jets for long-range missions. I guess they want to end the war by bombing Persepolis, or something.” Maccis shrugged. “If they’re going to insist on the lindworms being used constantly as bombers instead of air-to-air strike forces, there are only so many ways to attack the problem.”
“More armor is more weight,” Solinus ticked off on his fingers, enjoying the conversation now. “More magic?”
“We’re putting more and more magic up there, and magic can cut through magic.” Maccis flicked it aside with his fingers. “Caranti and Deo have the most hours and highest kill-counts of any riders, and they’re only eighteen. I look at them for an example of what we need to send out there with the lindworms.”
Solinus shook his head. “Not a fair comparison. Caranti and Deo are both spirit-born.”
Maccis’ blue eyes met Solinus’ for a moment. “They can heal themselves when they shift form. Same as I can. They’ve learned to armor their own skins, like a lindworm’s scales, as I can do.”
“Humans can’t do that.”
“Send nieten who are like Jykke, Bodi’s wife, the ones already covered in scales. Have them wear flak jackets, and that’s double the armor, and less of a weight issue. Send technomancers aloft, who can shield themselves, without depending on devices.“
“Short supply. Masako’s already said that most of her students aren’t ready for combat-magic, and what her father has to say about the skills of the students coming out of the technomancy department . . . .” Solinus shook his head. “They’re young. They don’t have the experience.”
“‘Fucking incompetent navelgazers,’ was what I overheard Uncle Kanmi saying last night at Erida’s house.” Maccis’ voice was flat.
Solinus exhaled. “Not for Saki’s lack of trying,” he replied, tightly.
“Not putting it on her. She’s a damned effective sorcerer. It’s just a fact of life. A mage hits his or her stride in their mid-thirties, after twenty-some years of apprenticeship.” Maccis’ expression had turned remote. “If it’s any consolation, the Persian battle-mages are similarly inexperienced. Once you break through the lines of people protecting them, quite a few of them seem to be apprentices, or at least, were in this last skirmish. There were a couple who gave us trouble, though.” He touched one of the thin lines on his face in explanation.
Solinus nodded. “How’s Zee taking the new additions?” he asked.
“She worries. When she’s not nose-deep in some godslayer reference or another. I think she spends half her time at the archives with the tablet of Prometheus right on her desk.” Maccis lifted his head and stared at one rider and lindworm pair who’d just lifted off, ahead of the rest of their squadron. The lindworm hissed in irritation as the rider kicked it in the side, and promptly sprang upwards, plowing the rider directly into one of the support beams above. “Strike one rider. I don’t think that one listened at his pre-flight briefing to the description of ‘not a horse or any other animal.’” He paused, still looking away. “She’s graduated now. I was thinking of asking her if she’d like to try for a child this year.”
Solinus relaxed. It was the most human thing he’d heard his brother say in what seemed like years. “Outstanding,” he said, out loud, smiling a bit. “Remember to get an apple from Aunt Sig’s tree. It’s pretty much a sure thing, then.”
The expression on Maccis’ face wasn’t quite a smile. “If she agrees. It might help her. Later on.”
He expects to die. Solinus wanted to protest the realization. With Rome no longer an adversary, but with the Senate in talks to acknowledge Caesarion as E
mperor of the re-united Empire, there was only one mortal enemy left—Persia, and Persia was almost as battered as Judea and the remains of Carthage were.
But then again . . . they had more than mere mortal enemies.
After a long, silent moment, Solinus nodded. And then Maccis jumped down off the wall and waded out into the scrum of riders and lindworms. His landsknechten insignia marked him as part of Vidarr’s ground forces, and the newer, cockier riders all shoved at him as he cut his way through the crowd, jockeying for position. Solinus watched as Maccis reached the main stage, and looked up . . . only to have a black lindworm, riderless, descend to him. Heolstor. One of the first three to find their voices. The one who wanted Maccis to ride with him, back in the day.
The oldest of the lindworms roared, and silence fell, as all the younger creatures stopped moving. Their riders took a moment or two longer to realize that something was happening up on the stage, and Solinus grinned as Maccis shrugged off his tunic, and dropped his kilt on the floor. The wave of laughter that began halted a moment later, in choked gasps, as Maccis took lindworm shape. “What in the gods’ names is he?” Solinus heard someone mutter off to his left.
Solinus shook his head, and stood to leave, as Caranti and Deo hopped off of Scimar and Rodor, replicated Maccis’ feat, and began to demonstrate wingtip-to-wingtip flying in the barn’s close quarters. They’d be all right.
And at the moment, chilled by the look in Maccis’ eyes, Solinus knew he should go home and hug his wife and children. Why is it, that every time I talk to Maccis, I feel like I’m betraying him? Solinus thought.
As he headed for the main doors, Scimar leaped into the air, avoiding the aerial display of the three brothers above, and landed, blocking Solinus’ path. His red scales gleamed in the dim light of the barn, and his head came down to bring his eyes level with Solinus’ own. A question, Moltensoul.
It was the first time the lindworm had ever directly addressed him, outside of his dreams. Solinus blinked. The voice was precisely as he’d imagined it. There was a flame-like quality to it, the hiss and crackle of logs in a hearth. I might have an answer for you, he replied, consciously shaping the words in mind-speech.
Do you ever wonder, if you’re in the right place? Doing what you should be doing, with the people with whom you were meant to do them?
All the time, Solinus admitted, meeting the lindworm’s brilliant golden eyes. All the damned time.
Would you and Visionweaver consider coming here and learning to fly with us? I realize that you can already shape yourself into a phoenix. You have no true need of me as a method of transportation.
Solinus reached out, hesitantly, and put a hand on the beast’s muzzle. But perhaps you could use a friend? he offered. And I believe my children would enjoy meeting you. And Caranti and Deo will not mind? They have had to share many things in their lives. Being your rider, and Rodor’s, has been what they are. It was something they did not need to share with the others.
Your brother and his twin understand that Rodor, Heolstor, and I, are troubled. Perhaps interaction with you and Visionweaver will put the dreams to rest. And the sensation of being out of place, with it.
You’re wise, Solinus admitted. It’s a good idea. I’ll talk to Rig about it.
Thank you.
Two days later, Trennus Matrugena was deep in the Woods, where phone lines had yet to be patched together between the Caledonian and Judean grids. The Woods had spread over the years, as if trying to echo the vast expanses that they seemed to occupy in the Veil. Now, they came far, far closer to the Wall than they ever had before.
Incongruously, perhaps, he still carried a satellite phone. And it buzzed at him now, from his poke.
He ignored the ringing as he finished tying into a ley-line, and eyed the Wall in the distance. A thirty-foot wall was a nice symbol, but it really wasn’t much of a deterrent. He was strongly considering lifting an escarpment above a hundred and fifty feet tall, and the length of the Wall itself, but he wanted to review the overall geography a little more closely before doing so. It would almost certainly change the flow of the Tigris and the Euphrates, and there would be earthquakes. And he wasn’t sure he could do it all at once. A hundred foot section at a time, however? That could be manageable. And it was pleasant to use a ley-line for once, instead of repairing one. Trying to influence something that he shouldn’t have been able to affect the way he could. Fixing thin places between this universe, and others. And no Hecate anymore to help, Trennus thought, feeling pressure on the ground miles to the east. Troops moving, he suspected.
The phone rang again, and Trennus moved away from the surveying gear he’d been using to study the land. He opened the phone, setting it to his ear. The discontinuity struck him for an instant. Here he was, stripped to his waist, in the heart of the Woods, as snow floated down from a summer sky, preparing to unleash divine levels of power to reshape the landscape . . . and he was answering a telephone. Surely, someone, somewhere, is laughing at me, he thought. “Ave,” he said, defaulting to Latin, after decades of habit.
“This is Legatus Adir ben Eliyahu,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. A hard, old, dry voice, one used to serious command, and he recognized the name as the current head of the JDF. “Do I have the honor to address Trennus Matrugena, king of the Picts?”
“I’m the Matrugena. Summoner, ley-mage, and more recently, leader of my people.” Trennus found a rock to sit down on, feeling Saraid’s soul-bond tug at him gently, from the south-west. She was in Jerusalem today, helping train harpies and centaurs. “If you want to discuss the position of the Caledonian garrisons, it’s going to have to wait till I can meet with my commanders—” It felt odd to have generals of his own. He was never going to get used to it.
“Forgive me, but that’s not the reason I called.” The tough old voice paused, and then the words became rote. “I regret to inform you . . . .”
Panic rose in Trennus’ chest. He knew those words. He’d written them a few times, himself, in his long career. Please, no. Not Solinus. Not Latirian. Not Maccis. None of them. The branches of the Wood began to rustle in sympathy with his fear.
“. . . that your son, Fyriacus Matrugena, was killed in the line of duty today—”
Trennus’ mouth dropped open. Numb disbelief. “That’s not possible. His mother would have felt it the instant he was wounded.” And Lassair would have been at his side instantly . . . except . . . where is she right now . . . ? Gods. She’s in Tawantinsuyu with Mamaquilla. Helping the people there stave off starvation. The thoughts paraded through his mind in a kind of glacial slow motion. “You have a case of mistaken identity.” Lassair! Saraid!
Even for kings, the wheels of bureaucracy tended to turn slowly. In Trennus’ case, he bypassed bureaucracy entirely. Lassair’s shock reverberated in the air around him, and then her faint sense vanished. Seconds after the line on the satellite phone had gone dead, Saraid’s wolf-form shimmered into existence at his right. I’m sorry, Trennus thought, automatically, and numbly, his mind whirling. We have to get to Fyriacus and straighten this out.
Wait, Lassair’s voice came to him from across the miles, but more loudly now than before. I am with him. He is wounded. Unconscious. But alive.
Relief kicked Trennus somewhere around the level of his liver, and he put his face into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees where he sat, and Saraid shifted forms, putting her arms around him. Trennus leaned his head against her shoulder, trying to breathe properly. Thank you, Lassair, he told the fire-spirit, silently. I apologize for panicking and summoning you.
You don’t need to worry so at offending me. We are still a part of each other. You did not cut me out of your heart, nor did I cut you from mine. And he is our son. The thought felt like a warm hand against his cheek. He is not in pain, and I am healing his wounds. I will stay here and perch on his bed, and once he awakens, he will have someone at whom to be irritated, yes? Her voice had lifted into amusement, though worry sti
ll underscored it.
Woundhealer is in the field, Saraid suggested, meaning Latirian. She’s in command of a Legion mobile surgical unit. Her voice was taut. She can watch him for both of you, once Lassair has finished healing him. And without drawing undue attention to him.
I wasn’t thinking clearly, Trennus admitted. Lassair, you’re sure he’s—
Fine? Yes. Lassair paused. Do not worry. We will not lose someone we love today.
Her sense vanished, and Trennus lifted his head, exhaling. Saraid’s cool arms remained around his shoulders. “Thank you, wild-heart,” he told her, tiredly. “I’ve been waiting for a call like that for eighteen years. Since Solinus first entered the Legion. I’m glad it wasn’t the real thing.”
I am grateful, too. Fyriacus is a quiet soul. He would have been happy to work metal and build machines, in a different world. Saraid’s ears flicked, gently.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 135