“But what if they don’t want to?”
The Murosan Princess looked hard at him. “‘Don’t want to’?”
Silide-tse cleared her throat. “I believe, Lord Norrington, human society might be different than ours. We have roles for our males. There are things that need to be done. When they do these things, they are fed and clothed and housed. They are well treated, but they are also delicate of mind and spirit. For one to rebel as the bok did is clearly a sign of abnormality.”
Will twisted in the saddle and wanted to argue the point, but Bok took that moment to open his mouth wide and let out a belch that echoed from the mountains and might have triggered a small avalanche on the far side of the lake.
“Well, maybe that is the urZrethi way, but it’s not the same for men.” He glanced at Sayce. “Are you going to tell me that Muroso is different, too, or that being as how I was a thief, I’m an outlaw?”
She frowned. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”
“I’m not angry.”
“The edge in your voice . . .”
“What edge?”
Sayce shook her head. “My mistake. No, Lord Norrington, I would not accuse you of being an outlaw, at least not in the sense we were speaking. Yes, as a thief you did work outside the law, but in accepting the mantle you have, you are preserving the very society you once defied. And it may be that you or your Freemen are not suited to being peasants, but not everyone else is capable of handling the responsibilities of danger and destiny.”
“I can see that, but what is expected of normal folks, and what is permitted nobility are two different things, aren’t they? Nobles are given the most responsibility, yet they don’t acquit it.”
Sayce shifted her shoulders. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
Will sighed. “The crowns ruined Crow’s life because they didn’t want to take responsibility. King Scrainwood engineered things so that if Crow ever comes back to Oriosa, he’ll find himself back on trial. There’s so much deception, and it’s not right.”
The Murosan Princess smiled slyly. “You, a thief, complaining about deception?”
Will frowned. “Well, when I did it, it was honest deception.”
“Honest deception.”
He’d have taken offense at her comment, but mirth underscored her words, and he saw no malice in her eyes. “Thieves are supposed to deceive people. Leaders are not.”
“Very true, but the complexities of the truth sometimes make it difficult for people to see what needs to be done.” Sayce sighed. “While some people see that and can be shepherds, others can never be anything more than sheep.”
He wanted to argue that point, but he stopped himself. Even in Yslin he’d seen sheep—human sheep, Vork sheep—and he’d seen the frostclaw that preyed on them. He liked to think of himself as a frostclaw. Which means I accept what she’s saying as true, as much as I hate it.
Will sighed. “You might be right, Princess, but then I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“How do you know who was truly meant to be a sheep? By your way of reckoning, I’d have been counted as a sheep, or something worse, but here I am leading men who aren’t sheep, on a very unsheepy adventure. You might be right, but it could be that in every village of sheep there’s one or two shepherds who never get the chance to be a shepherd.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it and frowned. Finally, she glanced at him. A wisp of her red hair lashed her cheek as she did so. “I need to think about that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The trek took them a quarter of the way around the lake, then back down into the domain of the Seegg family. They were welcomed most profusely, both because the Seeggs and Yreeus had something of a rivalry going, and because several urZrethi from that duchy had served at Fortress Draconis, including one of the duchess’ cousins. No word had been heard as to her fate, but everyone seemed hopeful.
Silide-tse explained that the next day they would complete their journey through Bokagul and head northwest to Muroso. “I will not be able to accompany you, but I will wish you the best on your journey.”
Because she was going to be leaving them, the company made certain their meal in the guest coric was in her honor. Much food was eaten and much wine drunk, then various among them gave her gifts. Will presented her with a sapphire ring he’d taken from the castle of the Pirate Queen of Wruona. Resolute gave her one of his bladestars and Kerrigan took a piece of wood and magically shaped it into a bracelet that had a rune for each of them on it.
Perrine’s gift was the best, however. She plucked a brown feather from the leading edge of her left wing and offered it to her. “With you as our guide, we have flown through Bokagul. When it is time for you to fly, I shall be your guide.”
The assembled urZrethi all fell mute. Silide-tse’s eyes teared up and her mouth quivered. She said nothing for a long time, then glanced down at the table. “Save for you, I would be long dead. My life is yours, so it shall be lived in your honor, my friends. I shall make you proud.”
Will had to swallow hard, but managed to squeeze that lump out of his throat. He raised his cup. “You’ve called us friends. You’ve shared your home with us. I don’t know about proud, but I couldn’t feel more honored.”
Everyone drank to that, then the urZrethi offered toasts and another choir started singing. Resolute, whose pained expression suggested he was close to killing something, suggested that in lieu of another song, perhaps Will would tell the tale of how he got the ring he’d given Silide-tse. He did, with Silide-tse translating, and their hosts were mightily entertained.
Exhausted, Will finally rose from the table and, from the state of his clothes the next morning, assumed he had fallen asleep before his body actually hit the mattress. The next morning, however, the condition of his clothing mattered little, for he woke with a furious thundering in his head. He clapped his hands over his ears by reflex and discovered two things.
His head did not hurt as if he was hungover, and the thunder wasn’t coming from inside. He opened his eyes and rolled off his bed just in time to hear shouting. He poked his head out and heard another thunderous blast.
“That sounds like . . .”
“Dragonels, yes.” Resolute growled as he emerged from his hole and strapped on his sword.
Just then Silide-tse came running into the coric. “Hurry, my friends; to arms!” She pointed back the way she had come. “The Aurolani have breached the Seegg gates. They have invaded Bokagul!”
CHAPTER 41
T hough Neskartu said they would travel by traditional means from his Conservatory to Muroso, the seven-hundred-and-twenty-mile journey lasted less than a week. Drearbeasts drew their sleighs and pulled them swiftly through snow and over frozen ground. The massive ursinoid creatures, with their curved, daggerlike fangs, thick white fur coats with light blue striping, and long claws in flat paws, were feared by many—including most of the students Neskartu had brought with him. But Isaura had seen drearbeasts gamboling as cubs, so felt little dread in their company. As draft beasts they served strongly, though their prickly nature made them a danger to their handlers when either was fatigued.
The journey south did disappoint her in one aspect. Their little caravan swept past Fortress Draconis at night, during a snowstorm, so she never got the chance to see it. For so many years she had heard tales of it, and from childhood it had been the forward post of all evil, harboring troops who would someday stab northward into her mother’s realm. That it had been brought low pleased her, and she would have liked to see it so humbled.
As they neared their goal, they found much evidence of the victorious Aurolani legions that had overrun Sebcia. They had been led by two sullanciri: Anarus and Tythsai, who had once been known as Aren Asvaldget and Jeturna Costasi. Myrall’mara had dealt with securing the countryside, and while there were pockets of resistance, Isaura was assured they were shrinking. The day before they reached the front lines around the Murosan town Po
rjal, one of the kryalniri was assigned to their company and gave them the news.
Isaura found the snow-furred mage pleasant company, especially when they conversed in Elvish. He called himself Trib, which was short for Retribution. Having been born on Vorquellyn, choosing such a name was his right—though, as he noted, that was quite a mouthful to shout in the midst of combat.
They reached Porjal, on the northern coast of Muroso, in the middle of the night. The city was located on the western bank of the Green River, which flowed from Bokagul to the Crescent Sea, forming the border between Muroso and Sebcia. As had the refugees before them, the Aurolani forces crossed over the frozen river with ease. They took up positions that cut the city off from the land and prepared to lay siege to it.
As the morning dawned, Isaura got her first glimpse of the city and was surprised at how small it seemed. At its heart were walls that rose up a hundred feet, with towers at hundred-yard intervals going up another thirty beyond. The walls formed a crescent that ran from shore to shore. There were many buildings outside the walls, but they mostly appeared to be slums. The lack of smoke rising from the chimneys suggested they had been abandoned.
Despite that, the pennants flying from towers provided a colorful contrast to the snow. Isaura, strolling along the lines with Trib, pointed to a cross-hatched banner in yellow and red. “That one is very pretty.”
“It marks the presence of the Duke of Porjal. The red shows his blood ties to the royal family. His grandfather and the king at the time were brothers.”
She regarded him in surprise. “You know Murosan history, then?”
The kryalniri shook his head. “You will see that Murosans take great delight in announcing their lineage before entering battle. At least, the mages do, and the duke’s retainers are rather accomplished in that regard as well.”
“I do not follow you.”
Trib let his left hand shade his sapphire eyes, then pointed to pair of black basalt dolmen set on either side of the main road. “Throughout Muroso, you will see structures such as those. They are the stations where wizards stand before engaging in a duel. Our troops have engaged many wizards—some young, some old—who are defending their towns. They advance, announce themselves, then fight. I have lost several of my siblings that way.”
Isaura rubbed a gloved hand over his shoulder. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Trib shook his head. “I had many littermates, Princess, and the best have survived. Ah, look, here comes someone now.”
A little door in the city gate opened and a single figure stepped through. He wore a scarlet robe belted with a white cord and carried a stick that was longer than a baton but shorter than a full staff. White breath trailed back from his mouth as he marched along the road. His blond hair appeared almost as light as the snow, and the mask he wore matched his robe in hue. Above and behind him a number of people peeked out through the wall’s crenellations.
The man moved to the westernmost of the black stones and stood with his back against it. His voice came loud and strong through the crisp air. The gibberers in the camp quieted as he spoke, shifting around to watch him.
“I am Gramn Lyward, son of Con Lyward, Magister of Porjal. I am an Adept, learned in the ways of the Muroso Academy. I will slay all those who come to oppose me.”
One of the kryalniri plucked her staff from the snowbank into which it had been plunged and started off toward the Murosan, but Neskartu emerged from a tent. The kryalniri’s head snapped around as if she’d been roped. She bowed in the sullanciri’s direction and drew back.
From within another tent two of Neskartu’s apprentices emerged. Isaura recognized Corde and a slightly older man—his age was hard to tell, but white had begun to tinge his beard—named Parham. The man did not carry a staff, but instead had a set of five silver rings that were linked together as if a chain. He stretched them from left hand to right, locking them into a rigid column, then let them slide together in a ringing circle. One came free, though she could see no gap in it, and Parham plopped it over his head to hang around his neck.
Parham approached the battleground with confidence, but without swagger. He wore a bright yellow tunic and boots and trousers of black. Sunlight glinted from the rings while derisive shouts poured down on him from the walls.
Even at a distance, by the set of his shoulders, Isaura could see that Gramn Lyward thought little of his opposition. He twirled his staff with ease, bringing his left shoulder forward and letting the stick whirl behind him in his right hand.
Parham bowed, then brandished the quartet of rings that still remained linked. The third from the left glowed red for a second, then a sizzling scarlet disk arced toward the Murosan. The Southlands’ mage flicked his left hand, launching a green spark that intersected it. Brilliant light flashed, as if lightning had struck when they met, and Gramn smiled as the Aurolani attack flew past.
From the wall, however, came gasps. The red disk had missed the mage, but had slashed at the dolmen, leaving a dully glowing scar. Gramn half turned to regard it, and when he turned back he seemed a bit less confident. His staff still twirled in his right hand, but more spasmodically, and his mouth tightened.
Parham twisted the rings, then let the chain of them swing around his right wrist once, before catching hold of them with his left hand and snapping another spell off. This time the second ring glowed gold. A fiery golden eagle fletched with lightning swooped in at the Murosan. Its talons reached for him, the claws growing longer as it approached.
The staff came out and around in a lemniscate of pale blue, catching the magickal bird and splashing feathers into the air. Then both sides of the loop began to twist tighter, drawing the figure eight into a thick cord that torsion made yet more tiny until it evaporated. It took every trace of the bird with it.
Trib nodded. “Neatly done.”
Parham spun his chain, then grasped the four links two and two. He oriented them full on Gramn, as if their ends described a tube. The rings glowed and a furious gout of fire poured forth. The fiery column shot like dragon’s-breath straight at the man.
Gramn took a step backward, but that was all Isaura could see before the flames hit him. She expected him to burn, but the torrent of fire exploded as if it were a stream of water hitting a wall. The flames roared as they blasted away from the Murosan, and even so far away the heat kissed her face like a summer breeze.
The fire failed when Parham staggered back a step, shivering with fatigue. The flames collapsed into a greasy black cloud, which ascended quickly into the air. Steam from the melted snow curled up lazily to cover the battlefield in a low fog and, for a moment, nothing could be seen of Gramn.
Then the Murosan rose from the mist. One end of his staff burned, but he quenched it in a puddle. His once-scarlet robe had been singed brown and black in places, and white smoke rose from the ragged cuffs and hem. His mask and blond hair remained intact, however, and a cold smile split his soot-stained face.
The stick began to spin again. Slowly at first, one rotation then another. Gramn eyed his foe and the staff picked up speed. A bit faster, then a shift in direction before it spun very fast indeed. The Murosan gestured casually with his left hand, striking a green spark, then snapped the staff hard along his right forearm.
Silver fire wreathed the stick, then shot out at Parham in a jagged bolt of searing lightning. The Aurolani mage let four rings hang from his right hand while he swept the remaining one up and off his neck. He stabbed it edge on toward the lightning, then dropped into a crouch and touched the ring to the ground.
The lightning bolt bent in mid-flight and struck the ring. Its argent fire played in little flames over the ground, consuming the vapor rising from puddles, then drying the puddles themselves. Though Isaura felt no heat from it, a tingle did run over her flesh. That spell had likely taken Gramn years to perfect, and yet its fury had been dissipated so easily.
As he knew it would be. She shook her head. Parham had never been a diligent student a
nd had always sought methods that were quick to power instead of ones that could be built upon. It was not that the man was stupid, he had just been lazy and believed that because his intelligence let him do some things easily, that those which were difficult were not worth learning. Toward that end he had shaped his rings and had imbued them with enchantments that made casting a limited number of spells very easy and made those spells themselves staggeringly powerful. That Gramn had stood against any of them was a wonder.
Parham’s death, however, was not a wonder. Parham had dealt with the incredible threat offered by the lightning, but had ignored the green spark. It had floated up for a moment, then resolved itself into the form of a hummingbird. The magickal creature shot forward, stopped, turned to the right, then flew into Parham’s right ear and out the left side of his skull. The bird lost all shape, but so did the mage’s head.
Great cheering arose from the walls as Parham flopped over in a clatter of rings. Gramn dropped to one knee and pressed his forehead to his left arm. Isaura was unsure if he were simply tired or was giving thanks to some god, but quickly enough he heaved himself to his feet and spoke his challenge aloud again.
Corde twisted her brown hair into a short ponytail and tied it with a piece of leather. “My Lord Neskartu, please permit me to answer his challenge.”
The sullanciri waved her toward the battlefield. She headed out in Porjal’s direction, then stopped and turned. “Yes, my lord, I know.”
Isaura frowned. Corde wore a long tunic of white over black trousers and boots. Around her waist, a scarlet cloth had been wrapped twice and knotted at her right hip, so that the ends flopped down at her knee. She discarded her gloves as she went.