Nila swallowed, her throat dry. “I’m…” She stopped herself, a warning dancing across the back of her mind. “Careful with any Privileged,” Bo had said, not long after discovering that Nila didn’t require gloves for her sorcery. “They detest change. Any change could bring the upset of their unrivaled power among the Nine. If a member of a rival cabal discovers your unique ability before you’ve learned to defend yourself, you may wind up being cut apart by Privileged surgeons in a dank room somewhere.”
“I need to see him,” Nila finished.
“You his whore?”
She nearly choked on this. “Excuse me?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she seemed to look at Nila for the first time. “Bo’s been letting himself slip. Your skin’s too pale and you’re too short. By Kresimir, his tastes have gotten worse.”
“I’m here from Field Marshal Tamas,” Nila said, biting her tongue. “I need an update on Privileged Borbador.”
“Don’t lie to me, wench. One of Tamas’s men was here an hour ago. Pit, you must be new. Bo’s always liked the clingy types more than he should. He’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking. If he still wants you, he’ll find you in a couple of weeks. If he doesn’t, you won’t hear from him again. I suggest you go spread your legs for some Adran officer to occupy your time.”
Nila was near bursting. How could this woman, Privileged though she was, speak to her in such a manner? Even when she was nothing more than a laundress, the lord and the lady of the house had never been so contemptuous, and Lady Eldaminse had hated her.
The Privileged waved one gloved hand in dismissal. “If you come around here anymore, I’ll make sure he never sees you again.” There was no malice or threat in her tone of voice. It was just a statement, as casual as a cook might speak of cutting up a chicken. She turned around and strode off without another word, leaving Nila looking for something, anything, to say to her back.
Nila’s hands clenched and unclenched behind her back, and she snatched them to her sides before she caught her dress on fire. She took a step forward, only to find two muskets blocking her path again.
“You should go,” one of the guards said, a note of sympathy in his voice.
Nila whirled on the ball of her foot and stalked away, wondering if she had the power in her to set fire to the whole damned cabal pavilion before they knew what was happening. A “whore,” that Privileged had called her! Spreading her legs for an Adran noble? She could feel the blue flames dancing on her fingertips, and balled her hands into fists.
That’s what the wards are for, dummy. She could hear Bo’s voice in the back of her head. A lick of flame summoned from the Else, directed at that cabal camp, and all the pit would come crashing down on her head.
On a whim, Nila changed course and worked her way around the cordoned cabal camp. Perhaps she should have told the woman that she was Bo’s apprentice—that she was a Privileged, not some commoner to be treated like trash. Maybe she would have gotten a little more respect.
Then again, that woman shouldn’t treat anyone like that.
Nila caught sight of a break in the Privileged’s tents and saw the smokeless flames rising from a fire pit. A guard eyed her inquisitive glances but said nothing as she stood on her toes and looked for some sign of Bo. There were a few Privileged and two or three times as many cabal soldiers in their heavy armor, carrying heavy pikes and sabers. She wondered that there weren’t more muskets, then remembered Bo mentioning that most Privileged were allergic to black powder and avoided it when possible.
She felt a smile touch her lips as she caught sight of white skin among the various shades of black and brown. There was Bo, sitting next to the fire, staring disconnectedly into the flames. He looked very pale but otherwise unharmed. Nila took a breath, a shout on the tip of her tongue, but it caught in her throat as the Deliv Privileged—the same one who had dismissed her so rudely—emerged from a nearby pavilion and approached Bo.
He said something to her, but she just shook her head, then stepped over to him and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t resist or protest—his cheeks flushed and he was soon kissing her back. She traced a finger down his chest and her hand dipped lower…
Nila was halfway back to the Adran camp before she had another rational thought, and she was already at Tamas’s command tent before she knew where she was going.
Field Marshal Tamas stood outside the front of his command tent, eyes shielded from the sun, and examined a pair of maps laid out on the dirt in front of him, the edges held down by several fist-sized rocks. A couple of his officers muttered as she approached, but no one stopped her.
“What happened to your dress?” Olem asked.
She looked down. It looked like she’d been smeared with soot. The bottom half of her dress had two black streaks, as if ink had dripped off her hands. She could smell singed cotton. “Nothing,” she snapped. “When are we leaving?”
Tamas snorted, bending down over his maps, but didn’t say anything.
“We’re camped here for the night,” Olem said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
“Oh. Right. When will we meet the Kez on the field?”
“Sooner than you may wish,” Tamas muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nila,” Olem said, a note of warning in his voice.
“It’s all right, Olem,” Tamas said, still not looking up from his maps. “She’s learning how to be a real Privileged, and the insolence goes with it. It means, Privileged Nila, that you are woefully underprepared for what I’m going to ask you to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Slaughter thousands of Kez soldiers. Burn them like tinder. Listen to their screams as they wither beneath your sorcery.”
Nila balked at that. “Why do you say I’m unprepared? I did it once, didn’t I?” Nila was unprepared. She had blocked that battle out of her mind so thoroughly that she’d almost forgotten it, and she felt a wave of nausea at the memory.
“Because that’s what Bo said,” Olem interrupted.
“You’ve seen him?”
“An hour ago. He’s still alive, but he’s in no state to fight. He asked me to give you a warning—stay away from the Deliv cabal. We’re to keep your presence a secret until it’s absolutely necessary.”
Nila remembered that Deliv Privileged kissing Bo, her hand reaching between Bo’s legs. “I’m sure he did,” she said.
Tamas finally looked up, but it was only to exchange a glance with Olem.
“Another messenger coming in, sir,” Olem said.
“Of course.” Tamas gave a weary sigh.
A Deliv in his Kelly-green uniform rounded the tent on horseback, barely reining in before his mount trampled Tamas’s maps. “Sir,” the messenger panted. “We’ve been attacked!”
“The Deliv camp?”
“The baggage train,” he said.
Tamas leapt into his tent and returned, buckling his sword to his belt. “Rouse the troops!” he called to Olem.
“Sir, they’re already gone,” the messenger said.
“What do you mean?”
“They hit and left before we could mount a defense.”
“The baggage train?” Nila asked. A glance from Tamas urged caution. The Deliv weren’t supposed to know about her. She took a deep breath, fighting the anger and sense of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Yes, ma’am,” the messenger said.
“How the pit did Kez dragoons get behind us?” Tamas demanded. “They shouldn’t be… Pit, is that sorcery?”
Nila looked to see what had caught Tamas’s eye. To their northwest, light flashed along the horizon like the sun reflecting off a dozen mirrors. She opened her third eye, slowly so as not to let it overwhelm her, and saw the splashes of pastel color whirling in the distance, fighting something—a strange darkness, the likes of which she had not yet seen in the Else. It seemed to swallow all light that touched it, moving like an
inky cloud upon the horizon.
Something about that darkness touched a nerve in Nila’s subconscious and she felt sick with fear.
Doubt crossed Tamas’s face. Had he seen it too?
“Our people are giving chase, sir,” the messenger said. “King Sulem has requested your presence.”
“He better have a damned good explanation. Your people were supposed to be backing up my dragoons to prevent this very thing from happening.”
Nila caught Tamas’s quick glance. “Stay here,” he said quietly. “But be ready for anything.” Then he was gone, yelling for his horse, Olem close on his heels.
Be ready for anything, he’d said.
That’s a little vague. She looked to the northwest. The flashes of light were now gone, but a chill crept up her spine as she remembered that darkness with which they had warred.
CHAPTER
31
Tamas could feel his anger begin to ebb as he arrived at King Sulem’s tent.
The Deliv messenger escorted him up to the royal guards, then excused himself and returned to the camp, while Tamas and Olem were admitted immediately. Tamas paused once to look toward the west, where he’d last seen flashes of sorcery, but all signs of the battle had faded. He could still sense that sorcery-swallowing darkness in the Else like a bad taste in his mouth.
King Sulem’s tent was not all that different from Tamas’s own, if perhaps a bit more spacious. The king was not an ostentatious man. His luxuries were limited to fine furs, hardwood chairs, and an intricately carved desk in one corner. His sleeping and dressing chambers were closed off from the main room, and a bodyguard stood in each corner, both inside and outside the tent, their bayonets fixed.
Sulem sat cross-legged on a fine cushion in the middle of the floor, reading glasses perched on his nose and what looked to be some kind of report in his hands. Tamas noted the two Privileged in the room—Magus Doranth, head of Sulem’s royal cabal, was a colossus of a man, a head taller than Tamas, with skin as black as night, jade rings on his fingers, and black hair tied in a thick knot behind his neck. He stood beside his king, arms folded, and glared at Tamas.
Privileged Vivia seemed Doranth’s opposite in every manner. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream and she had blue eyes, hinting at ancestry that was not fully Deliv. She had a long, slender face that gave her a queenly visage, and she managed to lounge on one of the hardwood chairs in the corner. From what Tamas knew of the Deliv cabal, these were the two major players—and they disliked each other immensely.
“Vivia,” Olem whispered in Tamas’s ear, “is the one who’s seeing to Bo. They go quite a ways back.”
Tamas bowed. “King Sulem. Privileged,” he said, addressing the group.
“Magus,” Doranth corrected in a low, rumbling voice.
“Is a magus not a Privileged?” Tamas asked.
“You hold the rank of field marshal. Would you rather I call you ‘king-killer’?”
“Oh, let it go.” Sulem waved a hand at his cabal head. “We can prattle on all day about honorifics. We have a problem.”
“I understand that to be the case,” Tamas said. He had not been offered a seat, so he clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the Deliv monarch, who seemed unbothered by Tamas’s looming over him. It was not the king who spoke.
“For the past two days, our baggage train has been ravaged by Kez dragoons,” Vivia said. Her tone was clipped, and she examined Tamas not with the hostility of Doranth but with a certain amount of wariness.
Tamas swore inwardly. The Deliv baggage train was not just supplying the Deliv but was also providing food, surgeons, and ammunition for the Adran army—items his men were running dangerously low on. “I’ve sent my cavalry onto the plains, and last I heard, you had sent three thousand of your own as reinforcements. Are they not getting the job done?” Tamas hadn’t had a report in twelve hours; not something that would normally have concerned him, but now he was nervous. He had thought his men would have little trouble mopping up the Kez cavalry who had slipped up north of them.
“Our people have had a few losses,” Doranth said.
“A few?” Vivia said, her tone rising in disbelief. “You have a strange definition of ‘few,’ Magus.”
Doranth bared his teeth at Vivia. “You’ll be quiet until you’re addressed.”
“No, I will not be quiet.” Vivia rose from her seat, smoothing the front of her Deliv uniform with one hand. “Not while you run this cabal into the ground.” She turned to Tamas. “We fielded six thousand dragoons and cuirassiers forty-eight hours ago. We have less than twenty-seven hundred left.”
Tamas reeled at this information. The Deliv weren’t known for stellar cavalry, but instead for their finely trained infantry. But that didn’t mean their cavalry were worthless. Far from it. How could this be possible?
“Not only that,” she continued, talking over Doranth’s rumbled warning, “but we’ve lost eight Privileged in those two days.”
“Eight Privileged!” Tamas couldn’t contain his outburst. “How?”
“This is none of the powder mage’s business,” Doranth said to Vivia, advancing on her quickly. Vivia made a warding motion with her hand, though neither of them wore their gloves.
“Sit down!” Sulem’s voice cut through the commotion. Both Vivia and Doranth returned to their places. The king sighed, like a schoolteacher taxed to his limit by unruly students. “The Kez dragoons have a magebreaker. A very, very powerful one. He can null the sorcery of my Privileged even at a distance, and his dragoons are better than any of the cavalry my generals have faced in Gurla. They’ve managed a raid against the main camp each of the last two nights, each time assassinating at least one Privileged.”
“No magebreaker is that good,” Tamas said.
“He has those blasted Black Wardens.”
Tamas thought he detected a hint of desperation in Doranth’s voice. It had not occurred to him that the Black Wardens would be that terrifying to a Privileged, but it made sense. Wardens had been created by the Kez cabal to hunt powder mages. Black Wardens had been made from powder mages. It couldn’t get much worse than that.
“Then go after him,” Tamas said. “I’ll bring up my cuirassiers and we’ll perform a sweep of the western plains and crush him together.” He fought down frustration even as he spoke. Ipille was outmaneuvering him. He had betrayed a flag of truce, moved his cavalry into position during the ensuing confusion, and now all he had to do was kill time until they could awake Kresimir. They were doing a damned good job of it.
Sulem climbed slowly to his feet and set his report on his desk. He removed his reading glasses, then gave Doranth a long look. The Deliv cabal head lifted his chin, and some silent communication passed between them. “Out,” Sulem finally said.
“My Liege…”
“Out,” Sulem said again.
Doranth left, his wide shoulder hitting Tamas on his way past.
“You, too,” Sulem said to Vivia. The Privileged woman bowed to her king and retreated after the cabal head.
Tamas searched Sulem’s face. Something was going on here, something under the surface. It wouldn’t bode well for either him or his men.
“My generals are terrified,” Sulem finally said. “This phantom of a dragoon has them jumping at shadows. They’ve never lost so many cavalry in so little time. He’s quick, he has perfect timing, and his ability to nullify the sorcery of my Privileged has everyone in the army on edge. ‘The Kez Wolf.’ ”
Tamas wasn’t sure whether to be more impressed by this Kez magebreaker or by the fact that the Deliv had managed to keep all of this a secret from him the past two days. After all, they were supposed to be working with Tamas. His own limitations had forced him to trust the Deliv entirely.
“In just two days, this magebreaker has shattered the confidence of my cavalry.”
“Losing over half their number will do that,” Olem commented quietly.
The king examined Olem for a mome
nt, as if wondering why a commoner would address him in such a manner, then snorted laughter. “My Privileged will not send out any more riders. They absolutely refuse. You may have seen that battle on the horizon?”
“Yes,” Tamas said.
“That was five of my Privileged letting loose on a raid by the Kez Wolf, just to drive him away from our baggage.”
“Pit.”
“Exactly what I thought.” The king drummed his fingers on his desk. “Those five Privileged barely killed three-score Kez dragoons. The rest of the company escaped. My generals won’t pursue. They fear a trap.”
Tamas watched Sulem for several moments. Normally so serene, the Deliv king seemed uncharacteristically agitated. “We can’t stop to track him down,” he said. “We have to march for Budwiel. We can’t delay.”
“And let this brigand dog our heels?”
Tamas almost told him about Ka-poel and Kresimir. Sulem needed to know why Tamas was so desperate to march on Budwiel. But it wasn’t a tale he cared to explain, nor one that lent itself to believability. “I’ll deal with the Kez dragoons.”
“I…” Sulem spread his hands.
“I will deal with it.” Tamas understood that Sulem was not about to call his own men cowards. Sulem’s generals had rarely, if ever, experienced a battle in which they couldn’t rely on the power of their Privileged. Tamas had been training his men, and himself, to do so for decades—even when there was an Adran Cabal.
Tamas left the king’s tent. It was well past noon, his army was poised to march for the rest of the day, and he knew he had to do something about this immediately. “Olem, I…” He paused. Doranth stood nearby, his big arms crossed, face livid.
Tamas found himself less and less inclined to exercise restraint. He crossed to the Deliv magus. “All the power at your fingertips and you’ll let a single magebreaker shut you down?”
Doranth opened his mouth.
“No,” Tamas said. “No excuses. This is war, not some stupid bloody political game. If you can’t win it with the tools you have, you make new tools. Something you damned Privileged will never understand.”