‘I need a day,’ Meg said. ‘Truth and Light got rid of the foreign magic books from your library.’
‘I know. Follower helped them do that.’
‘But I’m hoping to find some other texts still in the collection that have spells I can use. I don’t know what I’ll find.’
‘Do what you can,’ Sunset urged. ‘I’ll send word to Warmaster Waters to hold Beranix’s advance. I’ll get you at least a day.’
‘I’m not promising anything.’
Sunset squeezed Meg’s hands and looked her in the eyes. ‘I need you.’
Alone in her chamber, Ruby and Wattle dismissed to wash clothes and prepare her meal, Meg stared out the window beyond the palace walls to the red and grey city roofs, thinking of what to do. Rain was drifting away to the south-east, the grey clouds hanging low on the horizon. If she could create a portal to the island she would be able to retrieve the books from there. She had no idea of the island’s direction, but that wasn’t essential. She’d merely recalled the details of her palace chamber to return to it from the strange place to which she’d accidentally travelled through her first portal, so if she could remember the specificities of her refuge on the island she would be able to link the portal to it.
She needed a frame. The door was an obvious choice, but she’d risk someone accidentally entering at the point of portal creation and they would be sent to the island—or worse. Then she looked at the posts on her bed. Perfect. She checked where Whisper was curled. If she was quick, she only needed to step through, choose the appropriate texts, and return. Whisper could sleep. She focussed on the posters, created a clear image of her island hideaway, and uttered the Ranu words. With a quick glance at the sleeping rat, she passed through the blue haze.
Even though she was confident that she had connected successfully, she sighed with relief when she saw that she was on the island, surrounded by the familiar scrubby vegetation and wind-smoothed rocks outside her shelter. And then she stared in horror. Her shelter had been torched. In the dirt before it was a broad wind-blown patch of grey and white ashes and slivers of blackened wood, remnants of the crates and boughs she used to shore up her shelter and store the books. Truth had burned everything—every single book.
After she had sifted through the ashes in the vain hope of finding something to salvage, a chapter, even a page, she climbed the hill and gazed across the contours of the island, the salty wind lashing at her hair and face and making her eyes water. Seagulls glided on the wind, buffeted by its moodiness, and the mallee bushes rustled and breathed as it flowed over and through them. Truth was a ruthless enemy—a man without a heart, she decided. Remembering her escape, she cupped her hands to her mouth and began calling: ‘Sunfire!’ She called and called, until her throat ached, and waited, her hopes wrestling with the whistling vagabond wind—but the dingo didn’t come. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and her tears came from within.
Later, weighed down by her mood but decided on her course, she went to the twin trees she used for her first portal construction, created another with the palace in mind, and left the island.
Even with the foreign texts removed, the Royal library collection was still extensive and laborious to search. Meg waded through tomes, discarding historical and biographical accounts, pushing aside fiction and poetry anthologies, searching for texts that contained instructions for casting spells. She settled on three—The Art of Arcane War, by an Ashuak priest named Tusev; Weapons of the Art, by an obscure Shessian shaman named Bend Riverfork, and a thin Andrakian volume, labelled Summoning, that Follower and his helpers must have missed because it was incorrectly shelved in a Jarudhan religious section. Meg only discovered it by luck when she considered that the Jarudhan Seers might have useful wartime spells, given the Rebel Seers’ attacks that she’d witnessed. Selections made, she retreated to the guarded safety of her chamber, dismissed the servants, climbed onto her bed beside Whisper and read.
Tusev’s work focussed mainly on how to call dragons and command them, and was useless since dragons belonged to folklore. She dismissed the book as fiction. The Andrakian work was a compilation from five different contributors—disorganised, almost chaotic, as if someone other than the original authors had collected the spells and bound them together. All five entries were detailed descriptions of how to summon creatures and demons from different places and direct them against enemies. One bore a striking resemblance to Tusev’s Ashuak text—as if it had been the original template for the Ashuak priest’s guide for summoning a dragon. The second spell described how to shape the weather in a local area, turning it into a storm. The third was a spell for conjuring extreme fireballs, brutal variations of the kind that she’d witnessed the Seers using. The fourth spell was more passive in that it described how to cast an aura of strength and protection over the defending army. The final chapter stunned her. The last contributor, A Ahmud Ki, detailed a spell that opened a portal to release what he called in his language ‘The Riders of Death’, two horsemen who were invulnerable to mortal weapons, with awesome powers to wreak destruction on the enemy. The more she read of the fifth entry, the more she felt as if A Ahmud Ki was writing about summoning the Demon Horsemen of her own mythology. What made her stomach churn was that his description matched perfectly the two warriors she had seen in the underground portal chamber. She had seen the Demon Horsemen!
Meg shut the book and lay back, staring at the bed canopy. Where had her portal taken her? What had she really seen? And her skin crawled with fear. Had she closed the portal in her haste to escape? She had no memory of it—only the stinging pain of the sword cutting into her back. She’d closed the others as she passed through them—but had she closed that one? She sat up and stared at the centre of her chamber, which she had targeted. If she had left it open, they would have appeared here. But they hadn’t followed her through so she must have closed it. There was so much she didn’t understand about portal magic. She didn’t even understand why she had arrived in the strange grey desert the first time. She never even knew the place existed. And then she shivered. There was a dream she remembered. She’d seen that place before—in her dream. And there’d been that hollow, bodiless laughter.
Unsettled, she tried to change her thoughts by opening the last book. The shaman author outlined conjuration spells for creating mist, rain and illusions to confuse the enemy, and he also wrote about lesser spells—fire arrows, small fireballs—useful for a shaman when fighting a small group or an individual. Nothing in the book suggested to her that they were capable of generating spells that could lead to the defeat of an entire army, although several skilfully executed shamanistic spells would certainly throw an enemy into fear and disarray.
Dissatisfied, she returned to the library and searched for alternatives. By sunset she had found nothing of greater power than the spells in the Andrakian volume. Back in her bedroom, she rehearsed the three spells that she felt would be useful. There were no dragons to call, and the Demon Horsemen were not an option. She was interrupted midway through unravelling the fabric of the protection spell by rapid knocking. She rose from her sitting position in the centre of the room and crossed to the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me,’ a woman’s voice replied. ‘I’m alone.’ Meg opened the door and the Queen entered. She urged Meg to close the door, and said, ‘Beranix’s army has crossed the Upper Border River.’
‘I thought your army was holding him.’
‘Beranix sent a force further inland and it’s avoided my defences by coming from the east. Warmaster Waters sent two Marches to meet them. As soon as the Marches left, Beranix’s army attacked my main force and drove them back from the river and crossed over. The shaman magic is panicking my soldiers, Amber. I need you to stop that with a show of our own. Did you find anything in the books?’
‘Something,’ she replied.
‘When will you be ready to go?’
‘If I practise tonight, perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Practise,’
Sunset insisted. ‘I’ll have a Group of my Elite Guards ready to escort you tomorrow morning. I will entrust Leader Strongarm with your safety.’ Sunset embraced Meg. ‘I prayed to Jarudha that someone like you would come in my time. Now you have come.’ She kissed her and stepped back. ‘I’ll leave you to practise, and I’ll see that no one disturbs you. I’ll send word to Warmaster Waters that when you’ve dealt with the eastern attack you’ll join him. Be strong, Lady Amber. You hold our destiny in your hands.’ To Meg’s astonishment, Sunset bowed before she withdrew.
Alone again, Meg gazed out her window at the city lights beyond the palace walls. She had already been to war, for a different cause, and she’d seen what war did to people. She hadn’t forgotten her frantic scramble through the ranks of fighting men, the fear, and the horror. She hadn’t left her home the second time to go to war—she left to find out who she was meant to be. But now she was going to war again. Last time it was to save Treasure and instead she had killed him. Her hands trembled, and she felt the tears threatening to spill. This time she was being asked to save the kingdom. What is the twist? she wondered. What vision showed me this event? She racked her memory, but she couldn’t recall dreams associated with another war. There was the one of being old and standing on the battlements, and she wasn’t yet old. But so much had happened to her that she hadn’t dreamed about, why should she think she would have dreamed about this war? They were erratic. She’d had dreams that never came true—some that could never come true, like flying on a dragon.
Memories of Treasure, memories of baby Jon overwhelmed her and she sank to the tiled floor, and cried. Why was it that the people she loved were being taken from her? The Rebel war had claimed her father and Button Tailor. She’d slain Treasure with her own hand. Jon had been stolen. And Jewel. She’d forsaken her mother and brothers by coming to Port of Joy. Emma had told her that her fortune lay in coming to the city—that she would become a Seer—but so far the journey had brought pain and misery and loss. She was tired of loss.
She woke with the morning sun splashing through her window. Whisper, curled on the edge of the bed, didn’t move when Meg slid out of the covers and rang the bell for Ruby to prepare her washbowl, as if the rat already knew that she wouldn’t be going on this journey. ‘I will come back,’ Meg said, stroking the rat’s sleek fur. Whisper rolled onto her side and stretched out, but she kept her tiny eyes firmly shut.
After washing, Meg dressed in the Royal black outfit she intended to wear for the journey—a tunic with the Royal crest in gold, black trousers and a heavy black vest. Ruby and Wattle packed two bags with spare clothes and toiletry items, and Meg shoved the Summoning text in one bag as well. ‘That will be all,’ Meg said. ‘Thank you both for your help. I’ll see you when I return.’
Ruby, bewildered, said, ‘But we’re accompanying you, Lady Amber.’
When Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, Wattle added, ‘Her Majesty ordered us to go with you.’
Meg smiled. ‘I’m going to war,’ she told the two young women. ‘War’s brutal and horrible. I don’t want you there.’
‘But Her Majesty—’ Ruby began.
‘—will understand,’ Meg interrupted. ‘I need you to stay here to look after Whisper, and wait for me.’ She hugged Ruby and Wattle in turn. ‘I wouldn’t want you to come. You’d see things no one should have to see, and the men would chase you to distraction.’ Ruby stifled a giggle. Meg shook her head. ‘Having lots of men wanting your attention sounds good, but, trust me, they don’t treat you with respect.’
‘It’s not respect Ruby would be after,’ Wattle quipped, and then she tried to stifle her smile, bowing her head in apology for her outburst.
Meg pretended to frown, but then she laughed, and said, ‘Well, I’m not taking all the handsome Elite Guards with me this morning, so I’m sure Ruby can amuse herself while I’m away.’ The surprise and shock on the young women’s faces at her lewd suggestion only made Meg laugh more, and then all three were laughing, stopped finally by a heavy hand knocking on the chamber door. Ruby caught her composure and answered it.
Queen Sunset entered, accompanied by a smoothfaced man of average height in the armour of an Elite Guard. He carried a helmet with a golden plume, indicating his Leader rank, and he bowed before Meg. ‘Good morning, Lady Amber,’ the Queen said, and nodded to Ruby and Wattle, indicating that they should immediately absent themselves. To Meg, she said, ‘This is Leader Strongarm.’ Strongarm bowed again. Meg saw in his features a handsome strength and sensed honesty. His closely cropped dark hair complemented his strength. ‘He knows your mission is of utmost importance and that your protection is more important than his own life. His Group is assembled and waiting. Are you ready?’
‘Yes—Your Majesty,’ Meg replied. Remembering public protocol, she bowed her head, but when she met the Queen’s gaze she noticed a faint smile on her lips, like a friend sharing a private joke, and smiled as well.
‘Good,’ Sunset continued. ‘I wish you Jarudha’s guidance and protection on your mission, and I’ll eagerly await news of your successes.’ She turned away and left the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Travelling on horseback reminded her of the journey to Port of Joy and the early discomfort she’d suffered. The mounted Group of fifty Elite Guards, black armour polished, pennants flapping in the breeze, with Meg riding in their front ranks, drew attention from people throughout the countryside, and as they rode east they met scores of refugees retreating from the pillaging enemy. Reports placed Beranix’s diversionary force less than two days from Port of Joy, and regular messengers brought updated information from the Marchlords who were desperately trying to stall the advance.
The Group camped on the outskirts of East River, where Meg was given her own tent, surrounded by the soldiers. Leader Strongarm attempted his best courtly manner in seeing to it that Meg was comfortable and, while she considered telling him that she was used to harder living, she accepted that the man was only doing what the Queen had ordered and decided that she should let him feel successful.
Exhausted from riding, she retired after eating the warm evening gruel, and in the privacy of her tent she conjured a light spell. She revisited the contents of Summoning, memorising the words and hand movement sequences that apparently helped to activate the spells. She had no idea whether the spells would work because there had been no opportunity to practise them, so she curled up to sleep with the uncertainty of what she was attempting spinning in her mind.
The blue light reminded her of them. And they appeared, bursting through the light on black steeds that breathed fire from their flaring nostrils and sparked lightning from their hooves as they struck the ground. They raced past her, even as she screamed at them to go back, and vanished into a wall of darkness. She turned and saw a huge battlefield, men locked in brutal war, and the Demon Horsemen rode through the ranks, cutting swathes with their swords, immune to the frantic efforts of men to bring them down. Like scythes in a grain crop at Summerbrook, the riders felled soldiers on either side, and she was powerless to stop them.
The next morning, as she rode beside Leader Strongarm, the dream images haunted her. She had no intention of releasing the Demon Horsemen. She’d deliberately ignored that spell in Summoning, fearing that even knowing the spell might put her at risk. But the images kept plaguing her, as if threatening to become reality, and she was filled with fear that what had happened with her dreams of Treasure’s death—the cruel twist hidden from her until it was too late—would recur now in her attempt to end the fighting between the opposing armies. What was the twist? Was she going to unwittingly release the Demon Horsemen? No. That, she resolved, would never be her doing.
The stream of people fleeing Beranix’s army increased throughout the morning, but after midday it dropped to a trickle. Beyond the shallow escarpment in the landscape ahead, columns of smoke rose into the overcast afternoon sky, disheartening evidence of sacked towns and farms. Messengers came and went, deliveri
ng their missives and returning to the battlefront. ‘From here on, we ride with caution,’ Leader Strongarm announced to his Group at the base of the escarpment. ‘We’ll camp with Marchlord Longreach’s men this evening on Kangaroo Ridge. The enemy are preparing another assault, according to the latest reports, so be ready to fight.’ A rustle of leather and metal flowed through the Group as the Elite Guards slipped the straps from their sword hilts and adjusted their shields and armour. Leader Strongarm gave the order and they began the escarpment ascent.
On the ridge, among the trees, the familiar sight of an army encampment greeted Meg, but this one was more chaotic than any she’d seen before, as if the entire camp was a temporary interruption to a greater force of movement. As the Elite Guards rode through the haphazard arrangement of shelters, she also noted the number of severely wounded men lying among their comrades. Her former experience was that the army moved the wounded back to a caravan where surgeons set to healing those who could be saved. Here it seemed that service was impossible. A host of men were busy hacking mallee and gum branches into sharpened stakes, while others erected the stakes in a rough palisade. Soldiers watched the procession wind through the camp, eyes mainly on the red-haired woman. Meg had forgotten her effect on men in the cloistered palace, but instead of letting the stares unsettle her, as they might have done in the past, she rode among the Elite Guards with an air of confidence.
A sudden cry of ‘Red!’ startled her. She was caught between surprise and happiness when she recognised Blade Cutter’s solid shoulders and short, dark scruffy beard and hair. She reined in, and waited for him to reach her horse. ‘Well now, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said, grinning, ‘and not dressed up as a soldier anymore.’
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