“Where’s Inda?” Cama demanded, striding forward.
Everyone gave way before the tall, one-eyed Sier Danas. There was Inda in the center of things, his arm in a sling, but otherwise apparently unhurt.
Cama walked up to him. “What needs doing?”
Inda did not see the exhaustion in their filthy faces because they were all equally exhausted and filthy. He looked past Cama. None of his men seemed to be wounded, so Inda said, “Follow the Venn back. Make sure they leave.”
Evred stepped up and added, “If there are no defenders left, and I suspect that to be the case, hold Castle Andahi. I will send you more men in case the Venn leave anyone on the northern shore.”
Cama’s lip lifted—not a smile, but a semblance of one. He struck his fist against his chest, then strode on, seemingly tireless, to choose mounts from the former straw army. His men hefted their gear and followed his straight back and martial saunter.
Cherry-Stripe said under his breath to Inda, “Good thinking, sending Cama north. Now he doesn’t have to go to Horsebutt’s for that damn celebration. Because you know Sponge hasn’t forgotten.”
Inda heard about half of that, and comprehended less. He found a free corner of a wagon, climbed up, and dropped down to rest, just for a moment—and sleep took him so fast he did not even remember putting down his head.
Just as the last of the day vanished, one of the sudden summer storms piled clouds high above the mountain peaks. Evred set himself up in a half-empty hay wagon next to Inda’s to begin the task of clearing the wreckage of a kingdom.
Around him, Runners and volunteer Riders joked and laughed. They were done here. The last of the dead had been Disappeared, the wounded were all loaded. The king gave the expected signal to start back down the pass.
The horse teams began to move, the drivers now with one hand on the wooden brakes of carts and wagons rattling and bumping over small stones. Evred grimaced as his wagon jerked and swayed; his report to Hadand would be illegible.
He settled his lap desk on his knees as Runners rigged a horse armor tent over him. Lightning flickered pale blue and thunder rumbled over the distant peaks. He could not see those who chatted and laughed, which somehow made their voices clearer. The undertone of hilarity, of relief, was extraordinarily different than the tight, hard barks and cackles of laughter after the rough jokes they’d traded back and forth on the long hike down the mountain.
For them the battle was over. They’d won. They anticipated songs, celebrations, a return to life. Admiration.
Normal life.
What was going to be normal in a kingdom with an empty treasury, most of its men scattered up here, far too many dead? He leaned forward, peering around the edge of the makeshift shelter at Inda in the next wagon, who lay like one of those dead—
Image: midnight last night. Hawkeye and Noddy, stretched out together on a wagon, surrounded by men with torches. Light beating on faces, most with the clean tracks of tears cutting through the grime on their faces as they sang the “Hymn to the Fallen,” and Evred waved the torch over them.
Then he had to touch them and make their bodies go away. Noddy—flat-voiced, jug-faced Noddy—was no longer just around the corner with a comment, his components were in the ground, his spirit—where? It was not here, that was what mattered. It was not here, nor was Hawkeye, his dashing cousin, loyal to the last.
Evred pressed his hands against his face. When would he master the pain?
Not when. How? By keeping busy, not sitting around feeling sorry for himself. He permitted himself one more glance at Inda, and could not prevent the harrowing intensity of his relief. To no human being would he admit the vile helplessness he had experienced during that long battle, watching Inda—unable to not watch Inda out of a nightmarish mix of terror and desire.
Inda lay snoring where he’d dropped, one arm dangling over the side of the wagon. The Venn dag was, like Taumad, busy tending the wounded at the back in the slower wagons, so none of Inda’s followers were here. He could sleep as long as he needed. Snoring, filthy from his tangled mat of hair to his muddy, blood-splashed boots, there was no sight in the world more dear.
Inda. Evred drew in a deep breath, and pulled out a sheet of paper. First duty: this report to Hadand. He would begin with the fact that her brother lived.
Inda did not stir for the rest of that day or night. He woke to the glow of light under one of the horse-armor tents, his mouth dry, his head hammering. He lifted his head—mistake. He lay back and shoved his grimy hair off his face. Turning his head slightly, he could just make out Evred framed by the space gapping between a makeshift tent of piled horse armor resting over lashed lances. Evred was writing steadily, his pack open beside him.
Tau appeared, seemingly by magic, and pushed a lukewarm cup into Inda’s left hand, lifting his head with the other. Inda coughed at the bitter taste, but swallowed the rest, and then with more eagerness drank the cup of water Tau silently held out next. Inda sat up, wincing against the hammer inside his skull; it lost strength with rapid speed, leaving lessened aches and a yawning belly.
Inda looked around, this time with more awareness. They were moving briskly, the wagon brakes smelling slightly of singed metal. Somewhere ahead the cooks had jury-rigged a makeshift stove aboard one of the carts, for the delicious smell of toasted grain drifted back on a thin white stream of smoke.
“Oatmeal,” Tau said, his mouth smiling, though no humor reached his eyes. “Got somewhat burned, but it doesn’t taste bad.”
“I’ll eat it even if it’s burned solid.” Inda frowned. “Tau, you look terrible. You fought as hard as I did on that cliff. Why aren’t you asleep?”
“No one fought as hard as you did.” Tau looked away. How do you bear the guilt? he thought. But he would not speak. Maybe the Marlovan way of bearing guilt was to not think about it. Tau kept hearing his own voice over and over, so careless, so superior when he said he thought Noddy Toraca would be suitable to command with Hawkeye. I recommended a man to his death.
He would not say it. It was his burden, and he would not add to Inda’s. “I don’t think you realize just how dismaying a sight that was. I just stood there and caught the occasional wild strike. And I did sleep, though probably not enough. But if we’re comparing our deficits in slumber, yours would far exceed mine.” He waved his hand. “We’ll have plenty of catch-up time to rest when we reach Ala Larkadhe.”
“No, we will not.”
They turned. Evred had emerged from his horse-armor tent. He appeared to be even more tired than Tau, his eyes circled with dark flesh, his skin taut as he held up his gold case. “I just discovered that Ala Larkadhe seems to have been destroyed by a mysterious flood.”
“That had to have been Erkric,” Inda exclaimed.
A faint trumpet call from the advance riders interrupted them. Soon came the sound of a horse cantering uphill.
A Runner rounded the craggy cliff just ahead. “Outriders report it’s Barend-Dal,” the Runner said to Evred.
“Send him directly here.”
They did not have long to wait. Through the middle of the lines rode Barend, rolling in his saddle as usual, reins in his fist. He’d made excellent time, finding plenty of horses to commandeer from the roaming patrols stretched between the coast and the southern end of the pass. His new mount, swapped with the outriders’ remounts at dawn, was unaccustomed to so clumsy a rider, and jobbed scoldingly against his hand but he didn’t notice. “There you are!” Barend called, relieved. “I didn’t trust those gold things—”
“Never mind that,” Evred cut in, too tired for amenities. “Report. First what you saw, then what you’ve heard.”
Barend gave Evred a succinct report that was mostly good news: the Venn had departed in a fast, orderly manner from the south shore. Lindeth prudently kept their fires burning, though by then the smoke was a suspiciously thin combination of olive and leddas oils with a seasoning of grass and old blankets and broken wooden gear. The long beac
h (which would take the name Venn’s End in Olaran for several generations, eroding to Visegn by the turn of the millennium) was stained with brown and crimson patches, though the bands of storms had done much to wash them away. He ended with what everyone was already calling Ola-Vayir’s Charge (with the Jarl’s and his men’s enthusiastic encouragement), “. . . though it was actually Buck’s idea, it being his scouts who spotted ’em and brought ’em to the right place. And Buck said we should form up in lines over the hills above the river road and charge together. Anyway. As soon as Ola-Vayir said he was going to wait for you, I figured I’d better come up here. Better than trying to find something to eat back in Ala Larkadhe,” he added with faint humor. Then he squinted at his cousin. “He’s going to be expecting some kind o’ reward.”
Evred turned his palms up. “I won’t give him the north, and what else is there? We have an empty treasury, all the harbors to rebuild, and it sounds like Ala Larkadhe as well.”
Inda rubbed his jaw with his good hand. “Treasury? Empty?”
Evred turned his way, but Barend rode over him. “Ala Larkadhe isn’t destroyed. Just washed out. Except for the central square. You know, over the baths? That’s gone. But the rest, the houses and the castle, those stand. There just isn’t much in the ground floors as yet. When I rode past people were still picking stuff out of the mess.”
“But there cannot be food for thousands of men.”
“No. That’s why I’m here. You better come fast, because everyone’s a hero right now. A whole lot are flat on their backs recovering from Venn sword and bow work. They went after arms and legs—”
“Did here, too,” Tuft put in.
“—but there’s going to be trouble if we don’t get ’em under orders. We ran out of barracks space, and we can’t billet ’em on civs when the ground floors of every house lack furniture. Not a lot of extra food, and though the fun houses have all thrown open their doors, they’ll run out of supplies about the time they run out of patience. Long before they run out of liberty men, is what Tdiran-Randviar said.”
“We’ll give them something to do.” Evred’s smile was rare, the tips of his teeth showing. It was a singularly unpleasant smile. “Packing to march. Because I promised there would be a triumph.”
Barend gasped, “Who’s paying for that?”
“Horsebutt,” Evred said, the nasty smile even wider.
Inda had completely forgotten that strange moment during the long ride north, but he remembered it now, and gasped as the implications hit him. “You mean, he has to entertain us all?”
“That’s what a triumph is. It’s also an honor,” Evred said. “It’s an honor kings rarely confer, and that’s only when they want to ruin someone without lifting a hand in anger. We have the moral force of our victory, and he the honor of being chosen as host.”
Inda laughed, then shook his head. “That’s . . . that’s piratical. Especially since we didn’t have a victory.”
“Yes, we did.”
Inda looked startled, and Barend lifted his brows. Evred had never flatly contradicted Inda before.
Inda rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Sponge, that wasn’t any victory, they just retreated. You heard Durasnir, and even if he lied about everything else—”
“Inda.” Evred looked into Inda’s startled face. A stream of insights flickered through his mind, most images, scraps of past conversations. Inda’s understanding of victory was purely military—you won when you either left your enemies in smoking ruin or ran them off the map. Inda was profoundly ignorant of the political side of war.
How to explain swiftly? Education could come later. It would, as Inda was now Harskialdna, and he would be the instrument of Evred’s will. Be immediate. “Would you deny these men their triumph? Deny Noddy’s family?”
Inda grimaced. “But—”
“Inda. The men saw you on the cliff, they shouted your name. That heartened them. You were unbeatable, and the Venn retreated. They are gone. You gave the men the victory. Do not take it away from them.”
Inda smacked his hands over his face. “It’s Boruin all over again,” he mumbled.
Evred pointed at Tuft, who was gingerly fingering the stitches on his blood-crusted ear. “Vedrid?” The Runner appeared from the other side of the makeshift tent, wet clothes over his arm. “Horses for us all. Tuft, you are in command. The wounded must go to Ala Larkadhe, but all the rest of these men will ride for Tya-Vayir. We’ll spend one night in Ala Larkadhe, then we will join you on the road.”
Chapter Twenty-six
NIGHTINGALE Toraca cautiously leaned against the window of the tiny stable hand’s room the Runners had taken as their watch station. The room smelled faintly of wet wood; through the open window came the heavy summer air, scented with the adjacent stables.
The Runners who had galloped ahead of the king all greeted Nightingale, scrupulously careful not to say anything, and went out about their duties. But the very care with which they greeted him—the lack of mention of Andahi Pass—prepared him for Evred-Harvaldar to come seeking him almost as soon as he rode through the gates.
Nightingale was shocked by the lines of tension and exhaustion in the king’s face. He saluted, though the movement hurt, and whispered, “You’re wounded?”
Nightingale was almost unrecognizable. His lips were bluish, and he had trouble breathing.
To few would Evred have answered that question, but Nightingale was already as far inside his personal boundaries as he let anyone, and now Evred felt he was owed more than evasion. “I never lifted a sword. No weapon was near me,” he said, and ill as he was, Nightingale could not comprehend Evred’s low, flat tone. Then Evred said in a very different voice, “Noddy and Hawkeye died defending the top of the pass. They held it in the teeth of half the entire Venn army.”
Nightingale had thought he was prepared, but the words made it real. At least the king had come right out with it, not shuffling about, or speechifying about honor and glory.
He wasn’t aware of reacting, but suddenly there was a chair underneath him, and Evred’s hand on his good shoulder, keeping him from falling.
Nightingale held his breath, glaring at the table with its neat papers, a hastily scrawled duty roster on top. The big slate with messages from one Runner to another. Pens. Chalk. Papers, a couple of extra weapons, a sewing kit. He concentrated fiercely on each thing. His chest hurt too much to breathe.
Evred’s voice went on, husky with grief: unexpectedly he sounded like Hawkeye. “Noddy died knowing we won. He asked Inda to promise him something. I could not hear what it was, but no doubt Inda will be speaking to you about it. Now. I have decided—and will tell your Cousin Nadran so—that you will choose whether you will take Noddy’s place as Randael to Khani-Vayir. Noddy’s son will inherit, all as before. But if you wish to become Randael, then you must marry. Unfortunately, there will be far too many unmarried women whose treaties cannot be kept, so you will probably be able to choose. Or you may stay my Second Runner, and name your preference in a Randael for your cousin, and then little Inda.”
Nightingale could not speak.
“Do not decide now. There is time. Nothing will happen before Convocation, and that is half a year away. Recover first. Think about it.”
The hand lifted, and Evred turned to leave.
Nightingale forced words out. “You’ll sing them?”
“Yes. There will be a triumph at Tya-Vayir.”
“Then. I’m going.”
“We will arrange it.”
“Here they are,” came Inda’s voice from the Runner barracks outside. And then, to Vedrid on duty outside the door to the Runner watch station, “Is he being private?”
Evred lifted his voice. “Enter, Inda.”
He was at first annoyed to see that Inda was not alone. He’d hoped the Venn mage would vanish altogether, though he knew it an unreasonable wish. She’d stayed with the wounded, transferring by magic back to rejoin them just before they reached Ala Larkadhe. He
did not hate her—that had vanished long ago—but he hated the magical power and freedom she used so easily.
Inda said, “We went straight to the lazaretto, but Signi says it’s too late for Buck’s arm. There isn’t any magic for when it’s gotten that bad. His leg above the amputation will probably heal. They won’t have to cut all the way at the hip. And they sewed up his parts.” Inda grimaced, brushing his hand over his crotch. “They said Nightingale was up here.”
Signi’s gaze scarcely touched Evred, going straight to Nightingale. “Ah,” she exclaimed. “It is the lung. You are breathing blood. We must take him down to Hatha-Runner.”
Nightingale had his face turned away; he made a vague motion to leave him be, and Signi faltered, uncertain. Then Inda snapped his fingers. “Message, Sponge. Tdiran-Randviar stopped me on the way in. Said to tell you that no one died in the mystery flood, it was the battle before that gave us a stiff list, mostly of women and a handful of civs. Also, they got the horses out. And this fellow here reopened his wound doing it.” Inda pointed at Nightingale.
Evred had been watching the Venn dag, who, tired, stressed, was far less masked than he’d ever seen her: on the first mention of the flood her hands stiffened. And then, on Inda’s report No one died, her eyes closed in unmistakable relief.
“You did that,” Evred said, advancing on her. Not that he had far to go in the tiny room. “The flood. Not the Venn Erkric. You.”
“What?” Inda exclaimed.
Signi’s eyes fluttered open, wide and frightened, then she straightened, her face smoothing with that inward control. “Yes.”
“You did that against your countrymen? In aid of us? Why?”
“I did not mean for people to be killed, for then I would count myself among those who murdered others. Venn, Marlovan, Idayagan, Olaran—the inhabitants, they were all killing. Children, the old. Everyone. Not just your warriors, men and women. And so my people were going to burn the city.”