by A. H. Lee
Winthrop waved his hand. “Oh, I know my nephew. He would take you back even if you spit in his face. He is a trusting creature and loyal to a fault.”
“Indeed,” said Sairis before he could stop himself. “He trusted you.”
That barb seemed to find its mark. Sairis reminded himself belatedly that he was not trying to win a battle of insults, and stirring Lord Winthrop to anger would accomplish nothing. Winthrop spoke in a voice of dangerous calm, “An affair with a necromancer... This really is criminally reckless of him. I don’t suppose he knew magicians can extract each other’s memories. How long do you suppose it will take before Marsden figures out how to get at yours? What do you suppose he’ll find there? What scenes of debauchery might be reconstructed in exquisite detail...? If Roland doesn’t take you back, of course.”
Sairis felt utterly cornered. He had to command himself to keep breathing. He jumped when Winthrop slapped the table and spoke again in a voice that was almost congenial. “Well, I’m glad we spoke. You don’t have to answer me at once, Sairis. Think about it all the way back to Daphne’s mercenary army. Think about it while my nephew fucks you. I do hope he finds you worthwhile. Just remember this: if you refuse me or speak of this conversation to anyone, your master’s life is forfeit and I don’t imagine Roland’s reputation will last much longer.”
Chapter 9. Contract Negotiations
As Roland had anticipated, his uncle had a seemingly endless list of tasks for him. They spent hours poring over maps of the pass. Roland pointed out errors, best avenues of approach and retreat, hidden forts, and likely seasonal obstacles. Winthrop listened and made notes. “If we are very careful,” Roland told him, “we can take them by surprise here.” He tapped the small mouth of the valley that they’d named “False Hope.”
“It’s a treacherous, winding little pass over Mount Cairn. It’s easy to get trapped or ambushed in there. Both Hastafel and Uncle Jessup have tried to use that valley with poor results. However, it opens beyond the Rim Forts, right on the edge of the sea. If our existing army makes a determined attack from our current position, reinforced by Lamont, Hastafel is likely to think we’re throwing all we’ve got. He will not yet know that we’ve emptied our border garrisons. If you take the risk of leaving some of your supply wagons in the valley about halfway up Mount Cairn, and bring troops down at a fast march, you could hit Hastafel in the flank while he’s fully engaged with Daphne’s army. We would have a real chance of winning.”
Winthrop nodded solemnly. “It’s a sound plan. Please go over the details with me one more time.”
Naturally, Roland also found himself greeting various border lords as they came in to report. They were delighted to see him and had their own questions about the upcoming fight in a part of the country that most of them had never seen in its post-Sundering state. At one point, Winthrop abandoned Roland to a throng of politely-friendly nobility, reappearing only to announce an officers’ dinner, and surely Roland would stay for that?
It was near sunset. The lords assured Roland that there were reports of bandits on the roads and he should not ride at night if that could be avoided. Obviously, they hoped he would stay and fight with their contingent, but if not, he certainly should not leave at dusk. It would take a full day to reach the queen’s party. Best to start in the morning.
There was no reasonable answer except yes. Roland dined with them, making all the appropriate civil faces and noises. And all the while, he could feel his uncle smiling at him with a sort of patient benevolence that Roland found unnerving. When I get out of here, I am going to tell Daphne to keep a closer eye on him.
When the interminable meal had ended and the barons were drinking and visiting in the great hall of the castle, Winthrop took Roland’s arm and murmured, “The magicians tell me your necromancer is awake. Perhaps you should have a word with him. Marsden thinks you might be able to persuade him to accept a more permanent collar. I confess, such a thing would make me easier in my mind about letting you take him back to Daphne. I’m told it would also make him more useful in the battle.”
Roland forced himself not to leap from the table. “Marsden spoke to me about the collar. I will hear Sairis’s objections and maybe we can come to some agreement.”
“Very good,” said Winthrop smoothly. “Let us go see what he has to say for himself.”
Roland was a little dismayed to realize that, in addition to Marsden, Winthrop also intended to join the discussion with Sairis. Roland had known they would not be allowed total privacy, but he’d hoped for just Marsden, who seemed at least mildly sympathetic. Sairis is going to feel outnumbered and trapped. He may feel betrayed when I ask him to wear the collar. But if I can just get him out of here alive, the rest will work itself out. Roland told himself this over and over as they approached the wagon.
It was full night now, with frogs singing from the riverbank. The guards held lanterns, but Roland saw no sign of light from the wagon’s small, barred window. If Sairis was awake, he was huddled alone in the cold dark. That reminded Roland of something—a dream of a cellar from last night. He’d forgotten it upon waking, but the memory returned now with singular force. Roland’s heart ached. He felt angry at himself for his belly full of good food, his warm clothes, and his well-lit path.
One of Marsden’s magicians unlocked the heavy door of the wagon, and Marsden carried their light into the room. Sairis was, indeed, awake. He had been sitting alone in the dark, his hands folded on the little table. The tight cuff on his left wrist had chafed the skin an angry red around the edges, while the iron collar made an ink-black line across his clavicle. He looked scruffy and bruised, but self-contained. The light, falling across the planes of his face revealed not a flicker of expression.
Roland tried to catch Sairis’s eyes with what he hoped was a reassuring look. He wanted to say so much that was forbidden to him in present company. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. Please trust me. I am going to get you out of here.
Marsden set the lantern on the table, along with a sheet of thick vellum. He unfolded two more chairs. When everyone was seated, he said, “Magus Sairis, Prince Roland has spoken on your behalf. He believes you intended no harm and that you injured him by accident. He would like to see you through this situation alive. As an act of good faith, will you tell us what you did to transfer my spell?”
Roland could have kicked Marsden. He did want an explanation, but not right now. “It doesn’t matter—” he began.
At the same time, Sairis said, “I cut a lock of his hair while he slept and created a temporary resonance. It’s a simple sort of magic. I’m surprised you haven’t puzzled it out.” His voice sounded tired and bored. He was looking at Marsden, ignoring Roland.
Marsden seemed surprised. “And you did this in spite of the prince’s trust and goodwill?”
Sairis raised two fingers to his temples, making the chain clank. “I did it because of his trust and goodwill! I knew I would need a hostage. Where was I going to get a better one? Look, I’ve considered your offer. I have decided to sign. No more of this tiresome cuff and loathsome iron collar, no more of you picking through my memories, and I would very much like a wash and something to eat.”
Roland stared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Winthrop frown.
Sairis continued blandly. “So really there is no need to torture me or importune me or whatever you were intending to do.” He held out a hand. “Where’s your godsdamned needle, Marsden? Don’t tell me you didn’t come prepared for victory.”
“I...” Marsden seemed at a loss, but he fished in the pocket of his coat and produced a long, ivory needle.
Sairis continued in a mutter, “Food’s probably better at the university anyway, and it’s got to be warmer than that drafty tower.” He spread the document on the table. Roland realized, with a jolt, that he was going to sign it. Just like that.
“Wait.”
Sairis ignored him.
“Sairis?”
W
inthrop spoke in a growl at Roland’s side. “Look at the prince when he addresses you, witch.”
Sairis finally met Roland’s eyes. It was like meeting the eyes of a stranger. His voice was filled with weary contempt. “Do we really have to do this, Roland?”
Roland’s mouth had gone dry. This is not... He’s not... No.
“Well?” snapped Sairis. “Got anything to say to me? Or shall I commence bleeding all over this fine document?”
Winthrop made an angry rumble, but Roland just stared into Sairis’s eyes. Sairis’s mouth twisted up at the corner in what might have been a grimace or a cruel smile. “Not everyone you meet in a tavern is your friend, highness. If you learn that lesson, then I’ll have done you a favor.” He caught a quick breath and added, “Did you love your father, Roland?”
This question took Roland completely off guard. He answered automatically. “Yes.”
“Well, I hated him.” Sairis’s whole body tensed with every indication of pent-up fury. “Your father was an absolute bastard who persecuted my master relentlessly for the crime of protecting the poor. He sent an unending stream of knights and bounty hunters after us, so that we couldn’t even buy a vegetable without fearing for our lives. I was tackling grown men in armor by the age of ten thanks to your blackguard of a father. I’m glad he’s dead and I wish to all the gods that it had happened sooner.” His voice held such venom that Roland could not convince himself it was a facade.
Before Roland could formulate a response, Sairis leaned across the table, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a snarl, “Did you really think, Roland Malconwy, that I could befriend anyone of that name? Or that a necromancer could trust a knight?”
Roland’s breath was coming sharp and fast. He realized his eyes were wet and that he was also angry. He felt as though someone had scooped out his insides and dumped them onto the floor.
Sairis sat back with a look of disgust. “Hastafel attacked me in your strategy room. I helped you because I want him dead. We can agree on that, and we can make common cause. But don’t bleat at me about friendship or trust.”
There was a moment of heavy silence in the wagon. Roland could sense that his uncle was furious, Marsden baffled. But Roland couldn’t take his eyes off Sairis’s face. At last, he reached into his breast pocket with a hand that only shook a little. He drew out the round-framed spectacles. His voice came cold and hollow. “You may need to see if you’re going to sign something.” He held the glasses out to Sairis and forced his hand steady. “And you should stop leaving your glasses everywhere.”
There was an infinitesimal pause. Roland had stopped trying to figure out what would happen next. He would not have been surprised if Marsden had snatched the glasses out of his hand or if his uncle had done so. He would not have been surprised if Sairis had hurled them back in his face.
But Sairis merely took the spectacles. Their eyes met, and Roland thought he saw a flicker of...something. Some trace of the shy, hopeful, cautious man he’d kissed in a tavern. But when Sairis spoke, his voice was bitter, “You think I should actually read Marsden’s contract? You think it will matter?”
Sairis settled the glasses on his nose. He picked up the long ivory needle and pricked an index finger with a practiced stroke. A dark drop of blood welled against the pale skin. Sairis spread his other hand on the table, and there was a pause while he stared down at the sheet of parchment. In spite of his words, Roland thought he really was reading the contract.
Sairis’s body tensed.
The lantern winked out.
Chapter 10. Burn
Roland’s first thought was that a draft had gotten into the lantern’s frame. For an instant, the wagon was illuminated faintly by the light of the guards’ lanterns shining through the narrow window. Then those went out as well. Roland heard Marsden jump up with a curse. Something flared in the darkness and was immediately extinguished.
The air went cold. Bone-cracking cold that shocked the lungs and made both Roland and Winthrop cough and gasp. Roland was on his feet, and he could hear his uncle bumping around beside him. A chair turned over with a crash.
“Get out!” Marsden shouted. “He is doing this! My lords, you need to get out!” And then he began to murmur words that seemed to twist in Roland’s ears and made a buzzing sensation in his teeth.
Winthrop had found the door. He flung it open and pounded down the steps into the night. The moon had not yet risen, and even the open door provided no light to penetrate the shadows of the wagon. Roland hesitated in the doorframe. “Sairis?”
Marsden’s voice barked, “Roland, go!”
A memory stirred—Sairis pressed against a stone wall, a lantern extinguished. He burned his hand...
Something was glowing in the depths of the wagon—a line of light that went rapidly from dull red to orange to yellow to white: the iron collar, glowing like metal in a forge. By its light, Roland could see Sairis’s face, twisted in such a rictus of pain that it looked barely human. He was still sitting at the table, and the collar was melting, running down his chest in tracks of bubbling metal and seared flesh. Marsden flung out his hand, and Sairis fell back against the bed, but not before flinging out his own arm with a savage shout. The iron cuff was melting, too, the softening chain pulling apart. Sairis’s movement sent gobbets of liquefying metal flying across the wagon.
Roland leapt out the door to avoid being burned.
Marsden yelped, throwing up a hand to shield his face and catching fragments of white-hot iron in his clothes and hair. He was on fire. The wagon was on fire. Roland stumbled down the steps as Marsden pushed him. The magician was beating frantically at his burning clothes, choking on a spell that he couldn’t quite manage to say between cries of pain. Roland tried to help him, but the fire only leapt up brighter. After an instant, Marsden turned and ran towards the river.
In the seconds it had taken Sairis to melt his collar and set Marsden on fire, something else had begun happening outside. Roland would have expected the magicians to come to Marsden’s aid. Instead, men were running and shouting. Roland stumbled and looked down to find that the grass was slick with blood. What is happening?
“Sairis!” Roland bellowed. “Sairis, stop! Please, stop!” Is he going to attack the entire camp?
Something loomed out of the darkness—illuminated by the flames of the burning wagon. A dead elk. Roland stared up into its milky eyes. The animal had already been partially dressed for the tables, and its belly cavity hung open, trailing bits of gore. Its throat gaped, and the scent of blood and offal that rolled off it made Roland’s stomach churn. The elk lowered its great rack of wicked antlers, and Roland understood why people were running and why there was blood underfoot. He heard hoofbeats and screaming. There were at least three elk. Probably more.
“Sairis, stop this!”
“There’s no need to shout. I heard you the first time.”
Roland’s head whipped around. Sairis had come down the steps of the burning wagon. Roland thought he could see the gleam of a collarbone amid the blackened skin of his neck and chest. Sairis’s shirt hung in tatters. He was gripping his left wrist where the iron cuff had been, as though holding his own arm together. He was still wearing his glasses.
“Sairis,” whispered Roland.
Sairis spoke words that smoked in the chilly air, and another dead elk came cantering out of the night. Sairis gave a toss of his head, and the animal burst into green fire. “Run through the camp,” Sairis told it calmly, and the creature set off at a sprint.
“No!” Roland shouted. “You’re going to set all kinds of things on fire. People are going to die! Sairis, this is enough! You got away! We can go—”
“We?”
Roland felt as though a vise had closed around his chest.
Sairis glared at him. “We can only destroy each other, Roland.” He made a lunge as though he thought Roland might try to stop him and clambered awkwardly onto the remaining elk’s back. It kept its antlers lowered, but it
took a step away from Roland.
“Sairis, I know you—”
“No, you don’t.” Sairis caught his breath, and Roland glimpsed the terrible pain he must be feeling. “Don’t trust your uncle,” he spat. “And stay away from me.” Then he leaned forward, whispering to the elk. It set off at a trot through the screaming, fire-lit night.
Roland swallowed a sob, swore creatively, and then ran for his horse.
Chapter 11. Into the Hills
I never should have left the tower. Karkaroth was right. He was right about everything.
Sairis’s body was alight with pain and magic. Every thud of the elk’s hooves sent a shock of agony through his bones, and yet he felt as though he were thinking clearly for the first time in days. I owe these people nothing. I owe Roland Malconwy nothing. I came to Chireese to make a bargain, and nobody has given me what I asked for. I saved their lives and what thanks do I get? They threaten my master, propose to take my magic by force, threaten to use me as fuel, try to make me a slave or a spy.
No more. I am going home, and to hell with anyone who gets in my way.
Unfortunately, he was, at the moment, going in the wrong direction. Sairis didn’t know much about this area, but he knew that the hills of the southern border would offer the best place to hide while he healed his wounds. Some distant part of his brain informed him that he somehow needed to find clothes, shoes, food, and clean water, but he ignored all that. First, get away from these people.
The camp was in turmoil, scrambling to put out the fire and, presumably, to behead a blazing, undead elk. Never had a hunted animal been allowed such sweet revenge upon its killers. Sairis hoped it put its antlers right through Winthrop’s smug face. At the very least, he hoped it kept them all busy for a while.
Unfortunately, the open farmland around the river valley offered only the occasional stand of trees. The elk’s dark bulk would be visible for miles as it loped over freshly mown hay fields towards the mountains. Worse yet, the animal soon slowed to a walk. Sairis couldn’t afford the magic required to make it move faster. The dead were implacable, but not swift.