“I have no idea,” Shahana said frankly, settling gratefully onto the stool the healer pulled over to the side of the bed for her. “Leeana’s obviously right that he’s a mage, so I’m going to make a wild guess here and suggest that whatever happened to him has to have had something to do with his mage talent. But I’ve never heard of anything the magi do that could have produced this.” She gestured at the still raw ruins of his terribly damaged hands and the fresh, livid scars of the lesser burns she had been able to heal completely, crawling up both of his forearms. “It’s like he was holding onto some kind of burning rope!”
Balcartha nodded unhappily. It was her job, as Kalatha’s senior military officer, to recognize and deal with potential threats, and all of her instincts were insisting that “potential threat” was exactly what this man represented. Yet she had no clue as to why that might be.
“I could wish—” she began, then closed her mouth with a click as the injured man’s eyelids fluttered. They rose, and his face twisted as muscles which had been slack in unconsciousness tightened in reaction to the pain of awareness. He sucked in a deep, hissing breath, and then, with startling suddenness, his slate-gray eyes snapped into focus.
He looked up at the five hundred for an instant, then tried to push himself up, only to gasp in anguish and fall back as his hands’ injured strength failed him.
“Gently, Master Mage!” Shahana said. “You’re safe now. I give you my word.”
His head turned, his gaze moving to the arm’s face. He stared at her for an instant, and something flickered in those gray eyes. He let himself settle fully back onto the mattress, yet the tension within him only seemed to grow.
“You’re in Kalatha,” Balcartha told him. “One of my officers found you out in the grass. We brought you back to the infirmary and the Arm here”—she touched Shahana’s shoulder—“did what she could for you. But what in the names of all the gods were you doing out there?”
The mage looked at her for a long moment, then licked cracked and blistered lips...and told her.
* * *
Trisu of Lorham swept into Thalar Keep’s great hall like a windstorm to greet his unexpected guests. There were three of them: Shahana Lillinarafressa, Balcartha Evahnalfressa, and the young woman he couldn’t—simply could not, however hard he tried—think of as anyone except Leeana Bowmaster. At least this time she was in trousers, shirt, and doublet instead of that scandalous attire she normally danced around in, flaunting her body at every male eye like the worst, cheapest sort of strumpet. Not that the sight of the wedding bracelet on her left wrist was much of an improvement, especially given the rumors about just who it was she was supposedly “married” to!
Still, he reminded himself, there were certain standards of courtesy, even with war maids. Although exactly how one went about politely greeting this particular covey of guests was beyond him. “Ladies” was out of the question, and most of the terms one normally applied to war maids scarcely came under the heading of polite at the best of times.
He opened his mouth to begin, but Arm Shahana raised her hand before he could speak.
“We apologize for breaking in on you so discourteously, My Lord,” she said quickly, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized the tension in her eyes and the harshness of her voice. “Unfortunately, what brings us here leaves little time for courtesy.”
“Indeed?” He looked back and forth between her and the other two women, and his stomach tightened as he saw the matching tension in the two war maids, the coiled tautness of their muscles. He thought about several things he might have said and discarded all of them.
“May I know what does bring you here, Milady?” he asked instead.
“Treason, Milord,” she said flatly, and his narrowed eyes widened abruptly. He darted a look at the older war maid’s face and saw the flat, hard agreement in her expression.
“In that case,” he said after a moment, “please join me in my office—all three of you—where we can speak freely.”
* * *
Leeana sat in the wooden chair beside the narrow, converted archer’s slit that formed one of Trisu’s office windows. She and Balcartha had let Shahana carry the burden of recounting Master Brayahs’ story to Trisu. In fact, she’d deliberately kept her mouth closed lest she put up the lord warden’s back, although she’d responded as concisely and completely as she could when he’d fired a half-dozen questions in her direction. And to his credit, they’d been clear, concise questions...and he’d completely ignored the fact that she was a war maid—and her father’s daughter—as he concentrated on her answers. She couldn’t help thinking it was a pity it took something like this to get past his automatic prejudices, but it was obvious his brain was working, and he’d wasted far less time grasping the essentials than she would have expected out of most people.
“So we don’t know for certain what’s happening,” he said now. “Except, of course,” his face tightened, “that we know for damned sure—pardon my language, Milady,” he glanced apologetically at Shahana, “—that sorcery’s involved in it somewhere!”
“Actually, Milord, we do know one other thing,” Shahana said. He raised an eyebrow invitingly, and she shrugged. “Whatever’s happening, and whoever’s behind it, they took steps to prevent Master Brayahs from reaching the King at Chergor when he learned of it.”
Trisu’s jaw tightened and he gave a jerky nod.
“Fair enough, Milady. And it follows from that that if they wanted to prevent him from reaching the King, presumably they don’t want anyone else doing it, either.”
“They don’t want anyone else doing it in time, Milord,” Leeana heard someone else say with her voice, and Trisu’s gray eyes flicked to her. She met them levelly, then shrugged. “There wouldn’t have been any point in stopping a single mage—or anyone else—if they don’t have a plan already in place and operating,” she said flatly. “I don’t know what that plan might be, but I do know we’re the only people in the entire Kingdom who know they’re planning anything.”
“An excellent point...Milady,” he replied after a moment. “And since we are, then clearly it’s our responsibility to do something about it. The question is what we can do.”
“How many armsmen could you ride with within the hour, Milord?” Shahana asked.
“Perhaps twenty-five—thirty, at the most,” Trisu said. “It would take several hours to summon more than that.”
“And I have twenty of the Temple Guard at Kalatha.” Shahana shook her head, her face tight with worry. “Fifty isn’t a huge force—especially when there may be wizardry involved.”
“But fifty is fifty better than none, Milady,” Trisu countered. “And Lorham’s the closest wardenship.”
“I have a suggestion,” Leeana said after a moment. All of them looked at her, and she shrugged again. “War maids weigh less than most armsmen, Milord, and as you say, it’s not a long trip from here to Chergor. Your armsmen’s horses could carry double that far, and Kalatha could probably provide another twenty or thirty mounts. They won’t be as good as the ones under your or the Arm’s armsmen, but they’ll be a lot better than none. Split the difference in numbers and call it twenty-five, and that gets you from fifty to a hundred and fifty.”
Trisu’s eyes hardened in instant, automatic rejection, and his mouth opened. But then he paused, mouth still open, looking at her. Silence hovered for at least ten seconds before he drew a deep breath and nodded.
“You’re right,” he said, and Leeana saw her own surprise at his response mirrored in Balcartha’s eyes. He obviously saw it, too, and he flashed his teeth in something which bore at least a passing resemblance to a genuine smile.
“At this moment, what I care about are swords and hands to wield them,” he said. “I’ll worry about whether or not they’re ‘proper’ hands later.”
“Good, Milord,” Shahana said. “But we’re going to need at least two other horses.” Trisu cocked his head at her. “We’ve got to send word to Ba
lthar and to Sothōfalas,” she said.
“Agreed.” He looked at her for another long moment, then inhaled sharply. “To Balthar and Sothōfalas...but not to Toramos.” The silence crackled with sudden tension, and he smiled even more mirthlessly than before. “If I’m being unjust to Baron Cassan, I can always apologize later. For now, we all have more important things to worry about. And my loyalty and my oaths are to the Crown and”—he met Leeana’s eyes very levelly—“to the Baron of Balthar.”
“Well said,” Shahana said quietly. “But even if yours is the closest wardenship, it’s going to take time for us to get there.”
“True,” Trisu acknowledged. “And that’s why at least one of us won’t be riding with the rest of us.” Shahana frowned, and he raised his hand, pointing at Leeana. “If you have a wind rider, Milady, you don’t hold him—or her—back when speed is of the essence.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Master Varnaythus took another sip of truly excellent wine and leaned back, glass in hand, to contemplate the images in the heart of his gramerhain. Malahk Sahrdohr had joined him in his working chamber once more, finished at last with his assumed identity as Mahrahk Firearrow. Today was the day their plans came to fruition...or didn’t. Either way, “Firearrow’s” utility would be limited in the aftermath.
“Arthnar’s men are only five miles from Chergor,” Sahrdohr reported, looking up from his own gramerhain, and Varnaythus smiled.
There was anticipation in that smile, and more than a trace of relief. Keeping all the necessary balls in the air simultaneously had been more taxing than he’d anticipated, even for a juggler as skilled he was, but he’d managed to pull it off after all. In fact, everything was coming together—down on the Ghoul Moor, as well as here on the Wind Plain—literally simultaneously. That was a piece of work his Lady was going to appreciate, given all the scores of things that could have gone wrong along the way.
His own stone showed Trianal Bowmaster’s army, moving steadily down the course of the Hangnysti River...towards a rendezvous with a rather nastier handful than they anticipated, he thought smugly. It wouldn’t be so very many hours before they were finding out about that, and in the meantime, things were shaping up very nicely farther to the north
Shaping up despite the fact that something damned nearly did go wrong, he reminded himself. I don’t know what it was, but that miserable busybody Brayahs must’ve twigged to something. Bastard. He grimaced. I wonder if it was something Myacha noticed?
He didn’t know, and it was possible he never would, given the fact that Brayahs was dead and wouldn’t be around to do any explaining. It seemed likely, though, for the more Varnaythus had studied the baroness, the more he’d come to the conclusion that she was very strongly Gifted indeed. With the proper training—and attitude—she probably could have found her own place on the Council of Carnadosa. So it was quite probable she had noticed something and pointed Brayahs at it.
Not that it mattered. Oh, if Brayahs had somehow figured out what had happened—and convinced Borandas of it—his plan for enlisting the North Riding as Cassan’s ally had probably been knocked on the head. That would be inconvenient, although it might not matter all that much in the long run. In fact, he’d realized once he’d had time to think it over, it could even work out better than the vicious political fight to name Cassan or Yeraghor regent he’d anticipated. It might even lead to open civil war between the factions...assuming either Tellian or Trianal survived to lead their faction, at any rate. And his smile was thin as he contemplated how unlikely that was.
Well, I know Tellian, at least, isn’t going to be around much longer, one way or the other, he reminded himself. And the odds aren’t looking very good for poor Trianal at the moment, either. In fact, it could be that if Brayahs and Myacha have convinced Borandas of the truth, he might end up taking over for Tellian, and he’s nowhere near the soldier Tellian was. The wind riders would still side with him, though, and with his...limited talent leading one side and Cassan and Yeraghor leading the other, any Sothōii civil war could go on forever. It might even turn into something like that neverending mess in Ferenmoss! He smiled almost blissfully at the thought, then shook regretfully free of it. But the really important thing is that whatever Brayahs might have figured out or suspected, he didn’t get to the King or Tellian to warn them.
That was the one thing which might still have defeated that prong of their strategy. No matter what happened with Arthnar’s assassins or Cassan’s men, Markhos and Tellian and everyone with them would still die...as long as they remained at Chergor. Nothing this side of direct divine intervention could prevent that, and the theory behind his trap spell had obviously been correct. He’d felt the moment when it discharged, blotting Brayahs—or some wind-walker, at any rate—out of existence when he tried to reach Chergor.
And that’s worth knowing, too, he reflected. It’s about time we started getting a handle on how to deal with the Phrobus-damned magi! And now that I know it worked, I suppose I’m going to have to go ahead and share my research with the rest of the Council after all. Pity. I hate to give up the edge over the others, but the Lady wouldn’t approve of my holding it back if we’re as close to a major cusp point as I think we are. Then again, with my notes as a starting point, maybe we can come up with a way to just kill all the bastards and be done with it!
He smiled at the thought, sipped more wine, and returned his attention to the gramerhain before him. His viewpoint shifted and swooped about dizzyingly, but he was accustomed to that, and his smile went cold and cruel as he found Anshakar, Zûrâk, and Kimazh haranguing their army while shamans pounded their massive drums and no less than fifty thousand yammering, leaping, bounding ghouls salavated for their promised prey.
Not long, he thought. No, not long at all now.
* * *
Sir Tellian Bowmaster leaned back in the comfortable chair, contemplating the chessboard while he considered how best to respond to his opponent’s move.
Markhos Silveraxe, King of the Sothōii, had all the fierce drive to win one might have expected in the scion of a warrior dynasty, and quite a few of his courtiers, Tellian knew, would have made sure that winning was exactly what the King accomplished. The more adroit would have contrived to lose in a fashion which disguised their intentions, but all too many of them would simply and cheerfully have thrown the game and then gushed fulsome compliments on Markhos’ skill which both they and the King would have known were as insincere as their desire to win had been.
And the King would have accepted the victory, smiling as if he were completely unaware of what they’d done. But behind his smile he would have marked them down for what they were...and he would never have fully trusted them again. Markhos was not a perfect monarch—few monarchs were—but susceptibility to sycophancy had never been one of his failings.
Tellian’s problem at the moment, however, was that although he was generally a better player than the King, this time the only options available to him were as unpalatable as they were limited. It was really unfair of Markhos to have departed from his normally aggressive, straightforward tactics and set the trap which had just cost Tellian both his king’s castle and his queen’s bishop and left his own king in check. Of course, it was his own fault he hadn’t seen it coming, and he rather suspected that his reaction when he realized what he’d stumbled into would have handily quelled any suspicion the King might have cherished about his own determination to win.
“You are going to move sometime this afternoon, I trust, Milord?” the King said now, and smiled as Tellian looked up at him sharply. Markhos’ sleek mustache was less bushy than Tellian’s, and the King stroked it with a thoughtful fingertip. “It’s not that I’m trying to rush you, you understand,” he continued, “but I believe supper will be served in only another two or three hours.”
“Your forbearance is deeply appreciated, Sire.” Tellian’s tone was...dry, to say the least. “Somehow, though, I suspect you’re not in all that g
reat a hurry, though.”
“No?” The king arched an eyebrow. “And why would that be?”
“Because you have me well and truly in a hole, and you’re enjoying every moment of it.”
“Nonsense,” Markhos replied in a remarkably insincere tone, and Tellian smiled. “Well, perhaps just a bit,” the King conceded, holding up his thumb and index finger four inches or so apart. “I have lost the occasional game to you in the past. Of course,” his smile faded and his gaze sharpened, “I’m not precisely alone in that, am I? I really do hope this whole canal business isn’t going to turn out as ugly as it has the potential to become.”
“Your Majesty—” Tellian began, but the King’s raised hand stopped him in midsentence.
“I’m not suggesting I’m going to change my mind, Milord,” he said. “And you don’t have to bring in Yurokhas to see to it that I don’t. Not that his support would do you all that much good at the moment. I’m just a bit irked with him, given his...disinclination to obey my instructions to join me here instead of running around with that heir of yours on the Ghoul Moor.” Markhos smiled thinly. “But I’m not irked enough to change my mind about your charter. You don’t even have to get Jerhas in here for that, because the simple truth is that your entire proposal makes far too much sense for me not to support it. Yet that doesn’t blind me to how Cassan and Yeraghor are going to react—or to the fact that they’re hardly going to be alone when they do.”
“Your Majesty, I’m truly sorry my long-standing...disagreement with Cassan should have such implications for the Kingdom as a whole,” Tellian said. “I’m sure my ‘unnatural’ suggestion that we might actually try coexisting with the hradani would have infuriated someone else if he hadn’t been available, but there’s no denying the bad blood between us is like a forge bellows where his reaction to it is concerned. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there’s enough ‘bad blood’ from my side for the thought of just how infuriated he truly is—and how badly this is going to hurt him—to give me a certain sense of satisfaction.” The baron met his monarch’s gaze levelly as he made that admission. “But even so, if he’d been willing to meet me even a fraction of the way, I would have been more than prepared to set aside a portion of my own increased revenues to compensate him for what I expect him to lose in trade through Nachfalas. It would have stuck in my throat like a fish bone, but I would have done it.”