“Oh, there goes another, and another,” Kendaria murmured. “Has anyone on our side fallen yet?”
Tessia searched the Kyralian line. “No.” There was something familiar about a figure at the far end of it. Her heart leapt as she recognised him.
Jayan. There he is. Alive.
He stood with a hand pressed to the shoulder of Lord Everran. Lady Avaria also stood in the same group. Other magicians were giving her power, Tessia noted. She wondered which of the couple was striking and which shielding.
Turning to look at the other side again, her eyes were drawn to a slave who had begun to run away from the battle. As Tessia watched, he stumbled and fell onto his front. Then his foot rose and he began to slide back toward the Sachakan line, clawing uselessly at the soil. As he came within reach of his master, the magician grabbed an arm. A blade flashed. A moment of stillness passed. Then the Sachakan turned to face the battle, the slave remaining motionless behind him.
Tessia could not drag her eyes away from that tiny figure. I’ve just seen something talked about in lessons and acted out in mock battles so many times. A Sachakan killing a slave for power. But that means...
“Are we winning?” Kendaria asked, a little breathlessly. She looked at Tessia, “We are, aren’t we? More of them have fallen.”
“It’s hard to tell.”
A Sachakan master only killed a source slave if he was running out of power. If he was desperate. As she watched, the Sachakan who’d killed his slave stepped behind another magician, no longer fighting.
But not all the Sachakans were seeking the protection of their allies. Though over half were now dead or seeking the protection of fellow magicians, the rest were fighting confidently. She forced herself to examine the Kyralian side, and her heart lifted.
None had died. She looked closer. Only one group had sought the protection of another. From the clothing they wore, she recognised them as the Elynes.
Ah! The Elynes wouldn’t have taken magic from the Kyralian people. It would have been too presumptuous of them or the Lans or Vindo to take magic from people not of their own country. And Kyralians might not have volunteered to give magic to foreigners, either. Even foreigners who have come to help us.
She felt a surge of excitement. “It does look promising,” she said.
Kendaria chuckled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
No crops hid Hanara from the sight of the Kyralians, or gave an illusion of protection from the magic that blasted towards him. He ducked every time a strike flashed his way, but each time it was deflected by Takado’s shield.
Only a dozen paces away, a Sachakan magician exploded in flames. Those sheltering behind him scattered hastily to either side. One tripped over slaves groping towards their dead master. He turned and cursed the men, then a thoughtful and calculating look crossed his face. Stepping forward, he grabbed a slave’s arm and drew his knife in one fluid movement. The slave’s wail of protest ended abruptly as the man began to draw power.
The other slaves rose and fled. By the time the magician was finished, they had sought refuge among the slaves holding the horses. The magician scowled and retreated to shelter. Hanara saw that the eyes of the dead slave were open, staring toward his dead master, and shuddered.
He looked up at Takado. Is he strong enough? Can he match Nomako’s reinforcements or will he be forced to take shelter behind the emperor’s fighters?
After the last battle Takado and his allies had ridden down the road, stopping at each town or village then roaming about the area hunting down and killing as many people as they could find. They must have killed hundreds.
But later that day they had encountered another group of twenty Sachakans, who claimed to have come to join Takado. While Takado was welcoming to these newcomers, he told Asara and Dachido later that he had recognised some of the fighters.
“They are Nomako’s allies,” he’d said. “Did you notice how some of them are being so friendly with the last group that joined us? Who, coincidentally, also numbered twenty.”
“Their timing worries me even as it pleases me,” Dachido admitted. “Do you think Nomako sent them south?”
Takado had nodded. “To join us just when we have spent much of our strength on previous battles.”
Asara scowled. “They mean to steal our victory.”
“Not if I can help it,” Takado growled.
So the three had delayed the journey to Imardin a few more hours, so that they could hunt for more strength. They killed people and animals. Anything that might give them the slightest scrap more of magic.
But it hasn’t done them any good, Hanara thought. Looking past Takado, he could see that no Kyralians had fallen. They were not tiring and seeking the protection of their neighbours. Their attack was not failing.
In the next three breaths, two more Sachakans fell.
“Jochara!”
From a few steps away the young slave rose and hurried to Takado’s side. He started to prostrate himself, but Takado’s hand snaked out and grabbed his arm. Hanara saw the flash of a blade and a shock went through him. Jochara stared at Takado in surprise, and kept staring, and was still staring when he slumped, lifeless, to the ground.
“Chinka!”
Hanara looked up to see the female slave, her shoulders back and her expression grim, walk to his master. She knelt and held out her wrist. Takado paused only briefly. Then his knife touched her skin. She closed her eyes and died with a look of relief on her face.
That is how I should die, Hanara found himself thinking. Accepting. Knowing that I served my master well. So why is my heart beating so fast?
“Dokko!”
A wordless protest came from Hanara’s left. He turned to see the big man scramble to his feet and break into a run. But he did not get far. An invisible force pushed him backwards. He fell to the ground and yelled as he slid across the ground. Takado’s face was a mask of anger.
He is annoyed at having to waste power.
The slave’s yells stopped. Takado turned away to access the battlefield.
“Hanara!”
A warmth spread over Hanara’s groin. He looked down, appalled at his loss of control. At his inability to push aside terror and accept his fate. He tried to force his shaking arms to lever his body up.
“Hanara! Get the horse!”
Sweet, sweet relief flooded through him. Strength returned. He scrambled up and raced back to the slaves holding the horses. His hands hadn’t yet caught up with the news he wasn’t to die, and shook as he grabbed the horse’s reins. Fortunately it did not cause him any trouble, though it was not happy to be led towards the noise and vibration of magical battle. He realised other slaves were bringing horses forward. Those magicians who had noticed were looking at Takado, their faces taut with horrified realisation, panic and anger.
“Master,” he called as he drew near.
“Wait,” Takado ordered.
Looking beyond, Hanara saw several magicians in the Kyralian army take a step forward, then stop.
Perhaps it had been a collective reflex. Perhaps it was a quickly reversed order to charge. But the effect was like a gust of wind. Suddenly the Sachakan line broke. Magicians were running. Slaves were fleeing. All were dying.
A great roar came from the city. The ordinary Kyralians were cheering. The sound was deafening.
Takado turned and strode towards Hanara. He took the reins of the horse and swung up into the saddle. Then he paused and looked down at Hanara.
“Get on.”
Hanara scrambled up behind his master, all too conscious of the dampness of his pants pressing against Takado’s back. He felt Takado stiffen, then heard him sniff.
“If I didn’t need a source slave, Hanara . . .” Takado said. He didn’t finish the sentence. He shook his head, then kicked the horse into a gallop and then all Hanara could do was cling on and hope his master’s power lasted long enough to see them beyond the enemy’s range of attack.
As the sound roll
ed up the slope towards her, Tessia realised the people of Kyralia were cheering. Beside her Kendaria whooped with delight. Grinning, Tessia let out a yell. They looked at each other and both laughed. Then they were both leaping on the spot, throwing their arms around and shouting with abandon. “We beat them! We beat them!” Kendaria chanted. Something inside Tessia relaxed, like a knot released, and she felt the fear and tension of the last months flow out of her. They had won. They had finally overcome the Sachakans. Kyralia was saved.
Growing breathless, Tessia stopped, and as weariness overcame her elation she felt a sadness return. Yes, we beat them. But we have lost so much. So much death and ruin.
“They’re going after them,” Kendaria said.
Looking down the hill again, Tessia saw servants hurrying forward with horses for the magicians.
The healer was no longer smiling. “I hope they find them quickly. We don’t want them roaming around preying on anybody.”
“There’s hardly anybody out there to prey on,” Tessia said. But she knew that couldn’t be true. People had been evading the Sachakans, staying behind to protect their property from looters, or to tend sick loved ones who couldn’t travel.
“Let’s go down and join in the celebrations.”
Tessia grinned and fell into step beside her friend. “Yes. I suspect most Kyralians are going to have one very bad hangover tomorrow morning.”
“You can count on it,” Kendaria said. “I hope you still have some pain cures in your father’s bag.”
Tessia flinched as a familiar ache returned. “It was left behind after the last battle.”
Her friend looked at her and grimaced in sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It doesn’t matter, really.” Tessia forced herself to shrug. “I can always get another bag, new tools and more cures. It’s what my father taught me that matters most.” She tapped her forehead. “This is worth something to others; the bag only meant something to me.”
Kendaria gave her a sidelong look. “And I expect you won’t need tool or cures soon, when you find out how to heal with magic.”
Tessia managed a smile. “But that will take a while. If I ever manage it at all. Until then I think I had better stick to doing things the old-fashioned way.”
PART FIVE
CHAPTER 41
As the wagon rolled through the gates, Stara looked up in surprise. Though they had entered the familiar courtyard entrance of most Sachakan homes, a two-storey house dominated one side and it was not rendered in white. Smooth white stone, veined in grey, stretched across the longer side of the courtyard.
“It’s one of the oldest houses in Arvice,” Kachiro told her. “Dashina claims it is nearly six hundred years old.”
“There’s no sign of deterioration,” Stara said.
“His family have always repaired and maintained it well. A great deal of the front had to be replaced after an earthquake a hundred years ago.”
Inside, the house had high ceilings and opened quickly onto a large, sunken master’s room. Openings on either side revealed corridors running parallel to the room, and above them were more openings onto second-storey corridors directly above the lower ones.
The usual ritual of greeting followed. She and Kachiro were welcomed by Dashina, and her husband’s friends drew close to take their parts. While the others ignored her, Chavori caught her eye and smiled at her. She nodded politely in reply. He had visited her husband’s house (she hadn’t quite got used to calling it “home” yet) three more times, always bringing more maps. Though he always took the time to show and explain them to her, at each visit he spent less time with her and more time with Kachiro. Her husband had not made any more comments to suggest he might not disapprove if she took the young man as her lover.
Looking around the room, she found her eyes drawn to the slaves. All were women, she realised, and all were young and beautiful. They wore very short wraps and were draped in an excess of jewellery. She thought of Tashana’s story and how her husband had a taste for pleasure slaves. Is that what these women are? But of course they are. They’re all too beautiful to be anything else. For a moment she worried about Kachiro. If Dashina was bedding these women, they could all carry the disease he’d given to his wife, and if Dashina invited Kachiro to . . . but that couldn’t happen. Not if Kachiro truly was incapable, as he claimed.
What a strange place I’ve ended up in, she mused. With a husband I like enough to feel jealousy over, but with no reason to be jealous!
Tashana appeared in one of the corridor openings, then stepped into the room. She crossed quietly to Stara and took her hand.
“Can I steal your wife now, Kachiro? Please say yes.”
He turned and laughed. “Of course. I know she has been looking forward to seeing you again.” He smiled at Stara. “Go,” he urged quietly. “Enjoy yourself.”
Drawing Stara out of the room, Tashana led her down the corridor, which stretched long past the main room. Out of habit, Stara listened for Vora’s steps behind her. The slave walked so quietly, Stara sometimes worried she’d left the woman behind and glanced back to check, which always earned her a disapproving frown. She wasn’t supposed to show so much concern for a slave.
“Are you well?” Tashana asked. “Finding the summer too hot?”
“Healthy and happy,” Stara replied. “And I’m used to hot summers. Elyne is the same, though it rains more and the damp makes the heat more uncomfortable. How are you? Your skin is looking good.”
Tashana shrugged. “Well enough. The spots go away from time to time, but they always come back. I do enjoy it when they’re gone.” She smiled at Stara, then turned through a doorway into a spacious room.
The other wives were sitting on benches covered in cushions. They rose as Stara and Tashana entered. The usual greetings were exchanged, but when they were over the women didn’t return to the seats.
“We thought it would be nice if Tashana showed you around the house,” Chiara told Stara. She looked at Tashana. “Lead the way.”
As the hostess beckoned and moved through a doorway, Stara noted that the wives’ slaves had emerged and joined Vora in following. Women and slaves together made for quite a crowd roaming the corridors and rooms of Dashina and Tashana’s house. This became even more obvious when they left the large, luxurious rooms and entered a plain, narrow corridor, which echoed with their voices and footsteps.
This doesn’t look like part of the house its master and mistress would venture into, Stara thought. It looks more like a part slaves would use. Not that I’ve seen many slave quarters since coming back to Sachaka.
At the end of the corridor Tashana entered a large room containing robust wooden tables and occupied by several slave women, all of whom turned to stare at her and the other wives. Stara nodded to herself. She’d guessed right. But why were they here? She turned to look at Tashana. The woman smiled, then nodded at something over Stara’s shoulder. Turning back to face the slave women, Stara realised that one, a woman with grey in her hair but a sturdy frame, had risen to her feet and was walking towards her.
“Welcome, Stara,” the woman said. Though a slave, she looked Stara directly in the eyes. Neither she nor the other slaves had prostrated themselves before the mistress of the house, either. “I am Tavara. As you can see, I am a woman and a slave. But that is not all that I am.” She gestured at the women beside Stara and those sitting at the tables. “I am a leader of sorts. I speak for these women, and others, who are all bound together by a secret agreement to help other women, in exchange for the help we all need.”
Stara glanced at the wives, who nodded at her, serious but encouraging. She looked at the slaves and saw how they regarded her with suspicion... and something else. Hope?
A secret group, she thought. Of women. Are these the people who saved Nachira? She turned to look at Vora. The old woman chuckled.
“Yes. These are the people I asked you not to ask me about.”
Stara turned back to
Tavara. “You have Nachira?”
The woman smiled. “Yes. We took her away from your father’s house and nursed her back to health when it was clear nothing else could save her. Save, perhaps, the death of your father.” The woman grimaced. “But we prefer to avoid such extreme measures.”
“And we didn’t think you’d think fondly of us,” Chiara added.
Stara shrugged. “Quite the opposite, actually. Though...to be honest I’d rather not commit patricide, even if he is a heartless monster.” She met Tavara’s eyes again. “So clearly you have the means to, if you need it.”
“Yes. There is much we can do, yet much we can’t. We were all slaves, to begin with. Slaves are invisible, and so can move about, delivering messages, easily. But we came to recognise that free women are often as helpless as we, sometimes even more so since they are not invisible and cannot roam beyond their homes. Yet they do have some advantages that we do not. Money. Access to some places forbidden to slaves. Political influence, through family or access to powerful ears. We came to trust them and they us.”
“And you trust me?” Stara looked around. “You must do, or else you would never have brought me here.”
“We had Vora’s mind read,” Tavara told her. “She trusts you. That will have to be enough.”
“You read . . .” Stara looked at Vora, who shrugged. “Then you must have a magician in your group.”
“Yes.” Tavara nodded. “And hopefully we still do. She was obliged to join the army and left to fight in the war in Kyralia. You will no doubt see that this means we can’t have your mind read.”
“Yet you’re still willing to trust me.”
“We are.” Tavara crossed her arms. “You should also have realised by now that we know something about you that your husband does not yet know – that you are a magician.”
Stara nodded. “I hadn’t quite got to working that part out, but it makes sense, since you read Vora’s mind.” She paused as a possibility occurred to her. “You want me to read minds for you? I haven’t tried it yet. Not deliberately, anyway.”