The Oracle's Queen

  The next day the way grew steeper, and there was still no sign of a village. Just before midday, however, Mahti raised a hand to halt the others.

  “There.” He pointed up at a jumble of fallen stones on the right.

  Tamír signaled a halt. It took a moment to make out the man squatting on the highest rock. He was staring straight back at her and had an oo’lu pressed to his lips.

  Mahti raised his own horn over his head and waited. After a moment the other man lowered his and shouted something to him.

  “You stay,” Mahti told her, then climbed nimbly up the rocks to join the stranger.

  “We’re not alone,” Ki whispered.

  “I see them.” At least a dozen more Retha’noi were visible, watching them from either side of the divide. Some had bows, others long horns like Mahti’s.

  No one moved. Tamír clutched her reins, listening to the low murmur of the two witches talking. Now and then the stranger’s voice rose angrily, but presently he and Mahti climbed down from the rocks and stood on the trail.

  “He talk to you and oreskiri,” Mahti called out to her. “Others stay.”

  “I don’t like this,” Ki muttered.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be with her,” Arkoniel told him.

  Tamír dismounted and gave her reins to Ki, then unbuckled her sword belt and handed that to him, too.

  She and Arkoniel walked together toward the witches, hands outstretched to show they were unarmed.

  This man was older than Mahti and missing most of his teeth. His witch marks showed clearly on his skin, warning that he had some sort of spell in place.

  “This Sheksu,” Mahti informed her. “I tell him you come to bring peace. He ask how.”

  “Arkoniel, tell him who I am, and that I will tell my people to stop their persecution, as long as the Retha’noi are peaceful toward us. Tell him we only wish to pass safely through his valley. We do not come to conquer or spy.”

  Arkoniel relayed this, and Sheksu asked a sharp question.

  “He asks why he should believe a southlander girl who hasn’t even known a man yet.”

  “How did he know that?” Tamír hissed, trying to cover her surprise. “Tell him I will swear by all my gods.”

  “I don’t think that will convince him. Prick your finger and offer him a drop of blood. That will be proof that you aren’t trying to hide anything from him. Use this.” He took Lhel’s needle from his purse.

  Tamír pricked her forefinger and held it out to Sheksu. The witch caught the droplet and rubbed it between his thumb and finger. He shot a surprised look at Mahti and asked him something.

  “He said you have two shadows,” Arkoniel murmured.

  “Brother?”

  “Yes.”

  Sheksu and Mahti spoke again.

  “He’s explaining about Lhel,” Arkoniel whispered.

  “He say to see mark,” Mahti said at last.

  “The scar? I’ll have to take off my armor. Tell him I need his word that this is not a trick.”

  “He say no trick, by Mother.”

  “Very well, then. Arkoniel, can you help me?”

  The wizard managed to get one side of her cuirass undone and held it while she pulled off her tabard.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ki called, starting forward.

  Sheksu raised a hand at Ki.

  “Ki, stop! Stay where you are,” Arkoniel ordered.

  “Do as he says,” Tamír told him calmly.

  Ki stayed put, scowling. Behind him, the other Companions remained tense and alert.

  Tamír took off her hauberk and pulled down the neck of the padded shirt and the linen undershirt underneath to show Sheksu the scar between her breasts. He ran a finger over the faded white stitch marks, then looked deeply into her eyes. He smelled of grease and rotten teeth, but his black eyes were sharp as a hawk’s and just as wary.

  “Tell him that Lhel helped me so that our people could make peace,” Tamír said.

  Sheksu stepped back, still eyeing her closely.

  “It might help if Brother made an appearance,” Arkoniel whispered.

  “You know I can’t make him come and go as I please—”

  But suddenly Brother was there. It was only for an instant, long enough for him to let out a low, mocking hiss that stood the hair up on her neck and arms; but for that instant she thought she felt another presence with him, and the scent of freshly crushed leaves lingered on the air. She looked around quickly, hoping for a glimpse of Lhel, but there was only the feeling of her, and the scent.

  Sheksu appeared satisfied as he spoke to Mahti and Arkoniel.

  “He believes you, because no Orëska wizard could make that kind of magic,” said Arkoniel. “Brother just did you a great service.”

  “Not Brother. Lhel,” she replied softly. “I wonder if he saw her.”

  “He see,” Mahti told her. “She speak for you.”

  Sheksu spoke to Mahti again, gesturing at his people still standing overhead, then down the trail in the direction they meant to go.

  “He say you can pass with your people, but you must go quick,” Mahti explained. “He will send song about you to next village and they send to next. He say he not—” He frowned and looked to Arkoniel to clarify.

  “You’ve been granted safe passage, and Sheksu will relay your story on, but he can’t promise you will be welcome, only that he has spoken for you.”

  Sheksu said something else and Arkoniel bowed to him. “He was impressed that you offered your blood, and by what he read from it. He says you have favor with his goddess. If you keep your word, you should be safe.”

  “I am honored by his trust.” She took a gold sester from her purse and presented it to him. The coin was stamped with Illior’s crescent moon and the flame of Sakor. “Tell him that these are the symbols of my people. Tell him that I call him friend.”

  Sheksu accepted the coin and rubbed it between his fingers, then said something that sounded friendly.

  “He is impressed,” Arkoniel murmured. “Gold is very scarce here, and highly prized.”

  In return Sheksu gave her one of his bracelets, made with the teeth and claws of a bear.

  “It will give you strength against your enemies and mark you as a friend of the hill folk,” Arkoniel interpreted.

  “Tell him I am honored to wear it.”

  Sheksu bade her farewell and quickly disappeared among the rocks.

  “Go quick now,” Mahti told her.

  Tamír put her armor back on and strode back to the Companions.

  “That seemed to go well,” Ki murmured, handing her sword back to her.

  “We’re not over the mountains yet.”

  Chapter 46

  Niryn’s death and the manner of it cast a pall over Korin’s heart. As he led his army east, he could not shake off a sense of foreboding.

  Nalia had killed Niryn; of that he had no doubt, despite her stammering assertion that he had only fallen. “Are all the women of the royal line cursed with madness?” he’d ranted to Alben as Niryn’s broken body was carried away. Moriel had followed the litter, wailing like a woman over his former master.

  “Mad or not, she bears your child. What are you going to do with her?” Alben asked.

  “Not just a child. A girl. A new queen. I’ve sworn before the altar of the Lightbearer that she will be my heir. Why am I still cursed?”

  He’d questioned the priests about it before they marched, but there were no Illiorans left in Cirna, and the others were too frightened of him to offer anything more than hollow assurances. The Dalnan priest assured him that some women went mad while they were pregnant, but grew calm again after the birth, and gave him charms to heal her mind. Korin sent them up to the tower with Tomara.

  Thoughts of Aliya and the monstrous thing she’d died giving birth to came to haunt his dreams again, as well. Sometimes he was back in that birthing chamber with her; other nights it was Nalia in the bed, her marred face twisted in agony as sh
e pushed out another abomination.

  Tanil and Caliel used to calm him after such nightmares. Alben and Urmanis did their best, bringing him wine when they heard him wake.

  And then there was Moriel. The farther Korin got from Cirna, the more he found himself wondering again why he’d finally agreed to give the Toad a commission, knowing he’d been Orun’s creature and Niryn’s lackey.

  Despite all these concerns, he felt increasingly lighter as the days passed. He’d been lax with himself since Ero, he realized with some chagrin. He’d let sorrow and doubt unman him, and depended too much on Niryn. His body was still hard, his sword arm strong, but his spirit had grown weak with lack of use. These past months seemed very dark, as if the sun had never shone on the fortress.

  He turned in the saddle and looked back over the thousands of men at his back.

  “It’s a brave sight, isn’t it?” he said to Master Porion and the others, looking proudly at the ranks of cavalry and foot.

  Thanks to Duke Wethring and Lord Nevus, almost every noble between there and Ilear was either with him, dead, or under edict of execution. He would deal with the latter as soon as he’d taken care of Tobin and seized Atyion.

  Tobin. Korin’s hands tightened on the reins. It was past time to be finished with him, once and for all.

  Korin was too honorable in his own mind to recognize the jealousy that lay behind his anger—a bitter, corrosive undercurrent fed by the memory of his own failures, thrown into stark contrast by his little cousin’s natural valor. No, he wouldn’t allow himself to think of that. He’d put those days behind him, as errors of his youth. He would not falter this time.

  They left the isthmus and struck north and east toward Colath. The rains came, but spirits remained high among the ranks, and the Companions, as well. In a few days they would be in sight of Atyion, within striking distance of all the fine resources there—horses and granaries, and the wealth of the treasuries. He’d had little more than promises to hold his lords; now they had great spoils nearly at hand. He would raze Atyion and use her great wealth to rebuild Ero in greater glory.

  That afternoon, however, one of his advance scouts came riding back at a gallop on a lathered horse, with another rider close behind.

  “Boraeus, isn’t it?” Korin said, recognizing him as one of Niryn’s chief spies.

  “Majesty, I bring you word of Prince Tobin. He’s on the march!”

  “How many with him?”

  “Five thousand, perhaps? I’m not sure. But he isn’t coming along the coast. He’s sending another force to meet you, under the command of Lord Tharin—”

  “Tharin?” Porion murmured, frowning.

  Alben chuckled. “So Tobin sends his nursemaid after us. He must have learned to wipe his own nose at last.”

  “Tharin served in your father’s Companions, Majesty,” Porion reminded him, shooting Alben a warning glance. “He was Duke Rhius’ bravest captain. It won’t do to underestimate him.”

  “It’s only a feint, Majesty,” the spy explained. “The prince is taking a secret route through the mountains, to outflank you from the west.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Korin growled.

  He called a halt and summoned his other generals, then made the messenger repeat his news before them.

  “That’s excellent news! We’ll overwhelm that paltry advance force like a storm tide and take the city in your name, Majesty!” Nevus exclaimed, eager to avenge his father’s death.

  Looking around, Korin read the same hungry, vengeful gleam in every eye. They were already counting the spoils.

  Korin went very still inside as he listened to all their arguments, and his mind grew ever clearer. “Lord Nevus, you will take five companies of cavalry and meet the eastern force. Catch them between Duke Morus’ forces and crush them. Bring me Lord Tharin or his head.”

  “Majesty?”

  “Atyion is nothing.” Korin drew the Sword of Ghërilain and held it up. “There can only be one ruler of Skala, and that is the one who holds this sword! Pass the order; we march west to crush Prince Tobin and his army.”

  “You’re dividing your force?” Porion asked quietly. “You may be dooming Morus’ ships. There’s no way to get word to them now.”

  Korin shrugged. “He’ll have to fend for himself. When Tobin falls, Atyion will fall. That is my will and those are your orders. Send out scouting parties at once, north and south. I don’t want them taking Cirna under our very nose. The consort must be protected at all costs. We’ll be the ones to surprise the prince, my lords, and when we do, we will crush him and put an end to his pretense once and for all!”

  The generals bowed deeply to him and rode off to pass on his orders.

  “That was well done, Majesty,” Moriel said, offering him his wineskin. “Lord Niryn would be proud to see you now.”

  Korin turned and brought the tip of his blade under Moriel’s chin. The Toad went a shade paler and froze, staring at him with frightened eyes. The wineskin fell and splashed its contents on the trampled grass.

  “If you wish to remain a Companion, you will not mention that creature to me again.”

  “As you say, Majesty,” Moriel whispered.

  Korin sheathed his sword and strode away, heedless of the resentful glare that followed him.

  Porion noticed, though, and cuffed Moriel sharply on the ear. “Be thankful for the king’s patience,” he warned. “Your master is dead, and I’d have drowned you years ago if it had been up to me.”

  Caliel had hoped to meet Korin on the road, but there was no sign of an army or its passing. They rode all the way to the isthmus road with no sign of him, and Caliel learned in the villages they passed that Korin had turned back and gone south to meet Tamír on the western coast.

  They rode on for a few miles, and Caliel could see the marks of an army’s passage in the trampled fields, churned roadways, and deep ruts from heavy wagons.

  “Why did they go west?” Tanil asked. “There’s nothing there.”

  “I don’t know.” He paused, and looked Tanil over. The boy was still a bit vague, but the closer they came to Korin, the happier he seemed.

  He’s in no condition to fight. I should take him to Cirna and leave him there somehow, to keep him safe. But the longing in Tanil’s eyes as he looked west was like a mirror of Caliel’s own heart. They were Korin’s men. Their place was at his side, no matter what.

  He forced a smile and nudged his horse into a walk. “Come on, then. Let’s catch up with him.”

  “He’ll be surprised to see us!” Tanil laughed.

  Caliel nodded, wondering again what his reception would be.

  Chapter 47

  The last of the passage through the mountains took four long, tense days. The trail ran along the banks of rushing rivers and up through stony divides that opened into small green valleys where herds of goats and sheep grazed. There were signs of catamounts and bears, and at night lynxes screamed like dying women.

  Only in the valleys could Tamír assemble all her force at once, rather than strung out like a broken necklace. Nikides rode back one day and reported that it took two hours for them to pass a given point.

  Word of Tamír’s approach preceded her, just as Sheksu had promised. Several times each day Mahti would disappear ahead of them, taking a side trail up to some hidden settlement. Those that were visible from the trail were made up of a few stone huts with roofs of stretched skins. The inhabitants either hid or fled, but there was smoke from abandoned cooking fires and flocks of goats or chickens wandering among the silent huts.

  On Mahti’s advice, Tamír left gifts by the trail at each village: coins, food, rope, small knives, and the like. Sometimes they also found baskets of food left for them—greasy smoked goat meat, foul-smelling cheeses, berries and mushrooms, and bits of crude jewelry.

  “They hear good of you,” Mahti informed her. “You take gift or give insult.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Nikides said, wrinkling his nose
in distaste as he and Lorin inspected the contents of a basket.

  “Don’t be so squeamish,” Ki laughed, gnawing at a bit of leathery meat. Tamír took some, too. It reminded her of the food Lhel had given them.

  Now and then the local witch man or woman came out to see them, but they were wary even of Mahti and watched the intruders from a distance.

  The weather closed in as they crossed a high pass and started down for the western coast. Heavy clouds and fog hung low over the narrow divide. Freshets trickled down through the rocks and made the trail into a stream at times, dangerous underfoot with shifting stones. The trees were different here, the quakeleaf still green and the underbrush thicker.

  Rain came in gentle, persistent showers and soon everyone was soaked to the skin. Tamír slept badly in the scant shelter of a tree, huddled for warmth with Ki and Una, and woke to find a pair of newts playing tag across the toe of one sodden boot.

  The next day they passed close to a large village and saw three witches on a rise just above the trail: a woman and two men with oo’lus at the ready.

  Tamír reined her horse aside, accompanied by Mahti, Arkoniel, and Ki.

  “I know these,” Mahti said. “I go.”

  “I’d like to speak with them.”

  Mahti called out to them, but they kept their distance and made signs at him.

  “No, they say they talk to me.” He went forward alone.

  “It’s downright eerie,” Ki muttered. “I get the feeling there are a lot of eyes watching us without our knowing.”

  “They haven’t attacked us, though.”

  Mahti returned a few moments later. “They not hear of you. Afraid of so many and be angry that I be with you. I tell them you—” He paused, and asked Arkoniel something.

  “They don’t know what to make of an army passing through without attacking them,” Arkoniel explained.

  Mahti nodded as they set off again. “I tell them. Lhel tell, too. You go, and they send on song.”

  One of the witches began playing a low drone as they rode past.

  “I wouldn’t think people this far into the mountains had ever seen a Skalan,” said Lynx, keeping an uneasy eye on the Retha’noi.