“Before noon tomorrow, we’ll reach a village that will trade us more rations,” explained the elderly man who supervised the cooking. “Eat this tonight, and think on fresh food for tomorrow. And of course we’ll feast when we reach the city. We should make it in time for the full moon festival.”
Ameyron ate two bowls gladly and washed it down with the beer, then leaned back against a rock to watch the fire. Some of the traders pulled out their instruments and began to play.
He didn’t know the song, but it must have been a popular one, because many people joined in on the verses. The words spoke of the long road and a life dedicated to traveling from place to place, never settling down. To the mage it sounded melancholy, but people smiled and bobbed their heads in time with the beat.
At the chorus, the musicians sang out one line, “Here I come, home at last.”
The audience answered, “Back on the open road.”
The next line said, “All journeys come to an end.”
But the reply was, “The road goes on forever.”
They seemed to be contradicting one another. The musicians sang, “I’ll rest my feet by the hearth.”
And in echo, the others sang, “I’ll take the first step.”
“I know where I belong.” The musicians sounded confident, happy.
“Where can I find the true path?” The last line was more wistful than sad.
Ameyron couldn’t figure out what the song meant, and finally shook himself. Better to go to his sleeping roll than doze off in front of the fire debating traders’ philosophy. His journey was almost at an end.
The cave city of Petropouli had several entrances. The trading caravan passed by the elaborate main gate, a massive stone edifice that would have taken the strength of thousands to open, and went east and south around a small foothill. There was a smaller, more practical stone gate with a line of other traders and merchants waiting to enter the city.
Ameyron stuck with his traveling companions as they waited for the customs officers, but when it came their turn to enter, he had to present his own papers for permission. A short, balding man about his own age took the papers and frowned. “Where are you coming from?” he asked in a nasally voice.
“Kyratia City,” he said shortly. It was on the paperwork, after all.
The customs officer frowned. “Hmph. And you’re a mage?”
Ameyron held up his right hand, palm down, to display his mage’s mark. “Yes.”
The officer’s frown deepened. “What is your reason for this visit?”
He reached into his sleeve, where he kept many things inside hidden pockets, and pulled out the letter he’d received from the Academy. “I have been in correspondence with one of your researchers here about a magical issue in Kyratia, and her most recent reply to me was not very helpful. I came here to remedy the communication error in person.”
The officer looked over the seals and stamps on the envelope. “Let me just check on this for a moment.” He took the envelope with him into the customs office.
Ameyron stood there waiting by himself and growing more impatient. Nearby in other lines, officers only seemed to give a cursory glance to other visitors’ papers, a quick peek at their goods, and then gave their stamp of approval. The whole process was efficient and brief, allowing the traders and merchants to deliver their goods to the daily market in a timely manner. So why was one lone mage causing such a delay?
The customs officer emerged again with another older man. They both came up to Ameyron, and one handed the envelope back to him. The senior officer pointed to a stamp in the shape of a mountain with a crystal crown. “This stamp here says that Lord Seivon approved this letter personally. He’s monitoring the communication, see, because Kyratia is now a hostile territory. If you want to talk to any mages here, you’ll have to get his approval first.”
Ameyron put the letter away and folded his arms. “Very well. How do I get your lord’s approval?”
The senior customs officer pulled out a form. “You have to fill out this request for an official audience and submit it to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I can issue you a conditional pass to enter the city until your application is processed. You’ll be able to enter public areas of Petropouli such as the Business Quarter, where you can find accommodations for your stay. However, you may not visit or contact the Verolia Myelin Academy of Magic or any mages within the city until you have received permission.”
Ameyron pursed his lips as he eyed the new stack of paperwork. He hated bureaucratic delays. “Thank you. Just one question, if I may. Why is Kyratia a hostile territory?”
The two customs officers exchanged a glance. “I don’t follow politics,” muttered the bald one.
The senior officer shrugged. “The only official statement that I’m allowed to give is that the Republic of Kyratia has taken threatening actions.”
Ameyron sighed. “I had not realized that everyone was taking the religious posturing so seriously. Well, let me fill this out and get it back to you.”
The senior customs officer gestured to a small building just inside the gate. “You’ll find tables and ink in there. I apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll give you the conditional visitors’ pass once the paperwork is finished.”
He nodded. “Thank you.” He went inside to get started on the new application. His visit was going to be even more difficult than he had anticipated.
Ameyron waited almost a week before he was granted an audience with Lord Seivon. A representative from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs met with him first, asking more questions about the nature of Ameyron’s request and digging for information about the current state of Kyratia’s Republic. He admitted that yes, he had been employed by the late duke and now had his research funded by Warlord Galenos, but he denied any connection to or interest in politics.
“I am here because of a medical problem that threatened lives in the city,” the mage snapped at last. “I came for help to protect the health of the common populace. I am not a spy or part of a covert attempt to attack Petropouli. Either you believe me and you will let me talk to the mage who wrote me before, or you do not believe me and you let me go to find help somewhere else. This is just a waste of time.”
The representative left in a huff, clutching her papers, but what he said must have struck home, because he was invited to a private audience that same day.
Lord Seivon met with Ameyron in a small chamber decorated with carved stone furniture. Most things that Ameyron had seen in Petropouli were made of stone, but these chairs and tables were made from fine marble with inlaid gold. The room was lit with multicolored crystals set into the walls that glowed in slow, hypnotic pulses. Thick woven carpets on the floor kept the chill of the stone off of their feet.
The lord was seated when Ameyron arrived, and with him sat two young women. Ameyron recognized the pretty one as Kalysta, Seivon’s niece, who had left Kyratia when she took ill with the dancing sickness. The other woman was plainer, but she drew Ameyron’s eye: he noted the robes and mark of a mage. He briefly let himself hope that this audience would already be a success, but he kept his feelings in check.
Ameyron bowed his head before the lord. “Lord Seivon, guardian of the city of Petropouli and a ruler of renowned benevolence, thank you for hearing my petition.”
Seivon nodded and gestured to the remaining empty seat. “You are welcome, Ameyron Niketos. I apologize for the delays that you have experienced thus far, but you can understand that I must take precautions for the safety of my people. One never knows if the stranger at one’s door is a friend or a snake in disguise.”
Ameyron sat on the cushioned stone chair, which rested at a gap from the table. They must not move the furniture very often, he thought. “Yes, but I also hope you can see where my sense of urgency comes from. I was very grateful for the advice you sent me before, which did allow me to cure all of my current patients, but the rest of your communication was, ah, incomplete. I have not been able to d
etermine if the cause of the illness still remains, and I cannot rest easy knowing that a potential health threat still lurks in Kyratia.”
Seivon frowned. “We will speak of this in more detail in a moment. First, I want to thank you for the return of my niece so that her health could be restored.”
Ameyron had forgotten to finish the formalities. He turned and bowed his head to Kalysta. “I am glad to see you have made a full recovery, your ladyship.”
She smiled back at him. “Thank you.”
Seivon gestured to the other young woman, who pulled out a stack of papers. “Now, I have asked the mage Omalia to bring along her copies of all your communication. Let’s start at the beginning.” He pulled out one letter. “You sent Kalysta back with a letter saying that she was suffering from an unknown disease or curse, hoping that we would be able to cure her where you could not, and if we had any advice for your other patients.”
Ameyron produced his own letters and notes about the disease, which had grown large enough to fill a book. “Yes. I first became acquainted with the disease last year, when I was hired to investigate its nature. After the first patients died and I still had no idea what I was dealing with, I thought it would be better to avoid an unpleasant incident between our cities.”
Omalia leaned forward with interest. “How many cases did you see? Do you have all the records with you?”
Ameyron started to push his notes forward for her to read, but Seivon shook his head and held up his hand.
“We have not agreed to a full exchange of information yet,” he warned. “Let’s make sure that we have all of our facts straight first. Now, Omalia sent you a letter with a description of the disease, its cause, how to cure it, and how to find the source.” He held up a copy of a second letter. “What part of this did you find unsatisfactory?”
Ameyron frowned. “The letter I received from you gave almost no information. All it contained was the mineral salts for the cure and a recommendation to look for ‘traces’ of the cause with foxfire, but I could not figure out what you meant. I inspected the house where the disease began with foxfire, but I did not see anything that looked unusual.”
Omalia narrowed her eyes. “Let me see that letter.”
Ameyron glanced at Seivon for permission, who nodded. He slid his copy of the letter across the table.
Omalia took a crystal lens from her pocket and examined the letter’s contents. She barely glanced over it before she looked up and shook her head. “This letter has been tampered with. Most of the real information was removed by another mage. You could not tell?”
Ameyron struggled to hide his shock. He had never suspected that the letter could have been altered by a spell, but now that he knew, it made sense why the letter was so confusing. But who could have done such a thing? He took the letter back and looked at it. “I do not see any of the spell markers that I am familiar with. To my training, this letter is the original.”
Omalia handed him the crystal lens. When he looked through it, she muttered a word he did not recognize. In his view, ghostly letters appeared on the page, detailing the lost information. Now the answers were plain to him in her handwriting: “The disease is called choreomania and is usually only found in the mountainous regions near Petropouli. I suspect that it was introduced to Kyratia by design—”
Ameyron looked up at her again with his mouth hanging open. “You think that someone caused this illness deliberately? But how? And why?”
Omalia smiled at him, more than a little smug. “It was the best explanation that I had. The specimens are not known to breed outside of our crystal caves. I think that the motivation was political.”
Seivon cleared his throat. “And whoever orchestrated the infestation does not want anyone else to find out, so they are probably also the ones who intercepted our letter to you.” He glanced at Omalia. “I am not sure if we should get involved in Kyratia’s internal politics right now. It would be better if we do not tell you too much.”
Ameyron stared at them in disbelief. “You cannot be serious. People died because of this choreomania, innocent people with no political intentions whatsoever. I have to find out who started it.”
Seivon shook his head. “If we meddle with the government of another city, they could attack us. Or we could be seen as a threat by other cities.”
Ameyron took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was going to have to take a risk here. “What if I could promise you that by helping us, you would not take any blame? What if Kyratia even rewarded you for your help with future cooperation?”
Seivon’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you swore that you had no involvement in Kyratia’s government.”
“But I am hired by someone who does.” Ameyron hoped that the Warlord would not kill him for what he said next. “Warlord Galenos, the leader of the Storm Petrels who defends Kyratia, wants me to find out the source of this disease. He can certainly swear not to attack Petropouli. Exposing the people who unleashed this disease might even give him enough political power to take over the city for himself. He could promise an alliance with you.”
Seivon glanced at his niece. “We certainly had a mutually beneficial relationship with Kyratia under the last duke. Perhaps, for his memory, we could offer aid now.” He looked back at Ameyron. “But I will need Galenos’s assurances before we tell you anything else. It has been some years since I last spoke with him, and I fear that our friendship is not as close as it once was. I want to know what kind of ruler he intends to be.”
Ameyron nodded. “Of course. I will write him at once.” He gathered up his papers to leave.
Seivon rose from the table and came around to shake his hand. “I hope, for the sake of both our peoples, that we can reach an agreement. But be careful what you write to him. Remember that our communications were interfered with once before, and I promise you that it was not on our side.”
“Do not worry. I will ensure that this time the letter goes to him alone, delivered by people who are loyal to him.” Ameyron bowed a final time and left.
20
Korinna VI
Weeks turned into months and the training flew by through the summer. Sergeant Yoren’s recruits learned how to drill with weapons, first with blunted short-swords and shields, then with spears, bows, and daggers. They marched around the fort in lockstep and learned the three main fighting formations: the wall, the crescent, and the deep solid formation, the last of which they practiced with all of the other units in training and several of the company’s main units.
The last one, the deep solid formation, was so large that it took up all the practice fields at the fort. Korinna looked around at the sea of faces that stretched around in every direction and wondered how such a massive force could ever be stopped. The formation was rare, since it required long stretches of open land, and most fights took place outside city walls, which were built in defensible positions with mountains and rivers and other features that made it difficult to assemble a large force together. Coordinating a large force also proved to be a difficult task: each unit’s formation leader had to relay orders quickly enough to keep the whole moving together in synchronicity.
Over the past few months, the unit leader had rotated through some of the recruits in their group, usually changing on a weekly basis. After four months, when twelve of the forty recruits had each taken a turn—Korinna noted that besides her and Herokha, none of the other women had been given the opportunity—Sergeant Yoren announced that he had chosen their permanent leader.
They were standing outside the barracks in formation, just after the morning inspection, and no one dared moved in reaction to the news. But Korinna could feel the anticipation of her fellow recruits around her. She caught herself holding her own breath as the sergeant paused for dramatic effect, and let it out in a ragged sigh.
Yoren caught her eyes and nodded. “Don’t look so disappointed, Votsis. I thought you would be glad of the opportunity.”
She blinked at him, unsure w
hat he had just said. “Sir?”
Yoren grinned. “This is your unit now. I would like to know who you would recommend as your second.”
Korinna glanced around the group and saw her surprise mirrored on other faces. Who could she choose? “Mkumba,” she blurted out.
Yoren nodded. “He was my first choice, too. Very well then.” He glanced at a list on the piece of slate he carried to take notes on and began barking out the rest of the unit’s positions.
After weeks of changing positions in the formation, it only took a few moments for the recruits to shift into their new places. Korinna looked around at the unit—her unit—with sudden pride. They had come so far in their training.
Yoren gave her another large smile and a salute. “Alright, Votsis, take your unit on their perimeter jog. I’ll see you back at the mess hall in half an hour for breakfast.”
Korinna stood tall, her heart pounding with excitement at the new responsibility. “Yes, sir!” She gave the orders for them to start jogging, and again she felt proud as they responded instantly to follow her on their morning warm-up.
The run was part of their routine every morning. They ran around the entire perimeter of the military compound, following the outer fence, and circled back inside before their first meal. By now the run posed no challenge for them.
But today they had only run out of the main gate and around the corner of the fort when Mkumba signaled a halt and the other recruits obeyed.
Korinna stopped and turned around. “What are you doing? We have to finish the run or we’ll be late for breakfast.”
Mkumba stepped up so that he stared down at her. “This isn’t right. You have to go back to the sergeant and tell him you refuse the post.”
“Why? He chose me, probably because I have prior leadership experience.” She folded her arms. “You didn’t even know what you were doing until I gave you tips.”
A Flight of Marewings Page 16