The Sea

by A. H. Lee

  There were no trumpets, no calls, no signals. The whole train moved in near-silence through the rocky, snow-dusted hinterland. Jessup seemed to think it unlikely that Hastafel had scouts out here, but not impossible. Surprise was paramount to their success and so the company maintained very little communication between the front and rear.

  The air grew colder and thinner. Men and horses steamed in the icy wind.

  Sometimes they stopped as the scouts cleared rocks or fallen trees. Sometimes the scouts gave up and looked for a way around. During these respites, men would sip from canteens or nibble nuts and dried fruit from their packs. Sairis had received his own rations, but what he really wanted was magic. He felt the death of another animal somewhere in the rear, probably injured and put down out of mercy. The splash of energy was like a tease. More, whispered a voice in the back of his mind.

  Soon, he told himself and felt like a monster.

  Frozen waterfalls began to crisscross the trail, making it even more dangerous. After a while, Sairis stopped looking back. He stopped looking ahead. He clutched Butterball’s reins in fingers that felt chilly even through gloves, and watched the rear of the horse ahead of him.

  The hardest part came at evening, when the light was nearly gone. After a climb that put the horses on their hocks, they had to come down the opposite ridge on loose shale in poor light. Men, horses, and wagons were all covered in the gray dust of the mountain. It stuck to sweat-slick skin, got under fingernails, crusted in the corners of eyes. Sairis thought longingly of warm water enveloping him while he floated in Roland’s arms.

  When they reached the bottom of the ridge, word came down from the front that they would rest here for the night. Sairis leaned gratefully against his sagging steed. All around him men were pulling bedrolls from saddles. There was little open ground in which to pitch a tent. Instead, it seemed that most of the soldiers would simply sleep on the path.

  Sairis wasn’t sure how to find Marsden or whether he ought to try. The scout nearest him asked whether he still had water in his canteen and a bedroll behind his saddle. His tone was kindly. Sairis didn’t have a bedroll, but he didn’t think he would have any trouble just lying down on the path in his clothes and going to sleep.

  However, moments later, a messenger edged his way through the men to inform Sairis that he was invited to dinner with the commander. The messenger took Butterball’s reins and Sairis followed through the twilight, grimacing as Butterball narrowly avoided stepping on exhausted scouts.

  Sairis wondered whether the commander had somehow found space to pitch a tent on the narrow trail. However, as they got deeper into the ravine at the front of the column, the messenger veered off the path into a thick stand of gnarled pines whose roots twisted among the unforgiving rocks. After a winding passage between narrow walls, they arrived at a sturdy wooden gate. “Is this a fort?” asked Sairis in surprise.

  “A small one,” said the guard. “We call it Fort False because of the valley.”

  The fort was set into natural caves. It had a small stable, where Sairis took Butterball for a well-deserved nosebag. “You kept up with the big horses,” Sairis told him as he removed the tack as Roland had instructed. “Good job.”

  “Ponies actually do quite well in this terrain,” commented the guard from the door.

  “I have it on good authority that he is a horse,” said Sairis with an attempt at humor.

  The guard smiled.

  It’s so much easier to make friends with the ones I haven’t set on fire, thought Sairis.

  He’d expected to be taken straight to dinner, but instead, they offered him one of the small rooms in the fort with a narrow bed, a surprisingly good mattress, and a wash basin containing clean water. Sairis was aware of the generosity this represented. Even the men in the fort’s rough barracks were being given a special dispensation, since space indoors was limited. Actual privacy was so precious and unexpected that it made Sairis’s eyes prickle.

  With the door closed, he was able to relax and take stock. As he washed in the basin, he thought ruefully that a night of debauchery was perhaps not the best way to begin a punishing march over the most treacherous terrain in the kingdom. Or, maybe it’s actually the best way. In any event, between the march and his carousing, he felt sore in muscles he hadn’t known he possessed. Will I be able to stand up tomorrow? How embarrassing will it be if I fall off Butterball and knock myself on the head before the battle?

  He could use magic. He had enough to heal sore muscles, although using it would deplete him again. I’ll have plenty once the battle starts, reasoned Sairis. Still he debated.

  Men were hurrying back and forth in the hallway outside his room, having rapid conversations about supplies and broken wagons and lame horses. Sairis lay down on the bed, unsure of whether they’d forgotten him for dinner and not really caring. He dozed off immediately and was awakened a short time later by a scout, sent to bring him to the commander’s table.

  Sairis sat up and groaned. This really won’t do. He was going to be too stiff to move soon. Everything hurt, including his hands from gripping the reins. I won’t even be able to write a proper rune. “A moment,” he said aloud.

  Sairis stepped from his room an instant later, feeling a bit more alert as well as totally at ease in his body. His magic was so low that he couldn’t even get his wards to light up. But a battle will set my blood alight soon enough, he told himself. In the meantime, I will not fall off my horse or down the stairs. Stairs were quite numerous in the fort, with rooms set into hollowed columns of rock inside the cliff. Sairis’s room was halfway up one of these burrowed towers and he got the idea that more important rooms were near the top. It would be easy to defend such a place in the event of attack—lots of narrow corridors where a few men might hold off many thousands. However, the tight spaces made Sairis feel trapped and claustrophobic. He wondered whether there were other exits apart from the main gate.

  The officers’ mess hall was big enough for about twenty men, and there were at least that many already around the table, eating in a murmur of subdued voices. Everyone looked exhausted. Sairis had been braced for another encounter with Winthrop this evening, whose station must surely entitle him to a bed in the fort. Sairis’s fondest hope was that Winthrop might be seated far enough away that Sairis wouldn’t have to interact with him.

  However, to his surprise, Roland’s eldest uncle was not in evidence. Sairis did notice the unpleasant Quintin, talking with a couple of other people who looked like magicians at one end of the table. Lord Jessup sat opposite, along with Marsden on his left. He beckoned Sairis to join them. To Sairis’s consternation, the commander motioned to the bench beside him and Marsden made room.

  Sairis could feel every eye on him as he sat down, and there was an uncomfortable lull in half a dozen conversations. Lord Jessup pushed a plate of what looked like mutton at Sairis. “Eat, young man. You did well keeping up today, but there will be worse tomorrow. Eat.”

  Sairis had barely felt his hunger earlier. Now his stomach snarled at the smell of the food. When he failed to do anything more exciting than eat like a starving wolf, the rest of the table slowly returned to their previous conversations.

  Marsden gave Sairis a friendly pat on the shoulder as he sat down. However, he was talking to several of the scouts and did not stop to greet Sairis. Jessup was talking to several people on his right whom Sairis gathered were border lords. They were discussing wagons that had broken and the difficulty of moving troops around them on the narrow path. “I do not like this night spent in the open,” said one of the lords. “We are exceedingly vulnerable at this moment, Commander.”

  “I do not like it either,” said Jessup, “but I believe that continuing in the dark will be even more dangerous. The men need sleep if they are to give their best tomorrow. We must choose the lesser evil. I was hoping to be closer to the pass than we’ve managed—to have the fort in the rear of the train, rather than at its front. However, I know the journ
ey has been difficult for the supply wagons. We will not wait for them tomorrow. The wagons will simply have to catch up as they are able.”

  “I dislike the idea of marching far ahead of our supplies,” put in a man with a pinched nose and a wheedling voice. “I recognize that my lords expect a swift victory, but these battles sometimes drag on for days and victuals can make the difference.”

  “Lamont’s troops came down the easier road well-supplied with victuals,” observed Jessup.

  “I prefer not to depend on Lamontian goodwill,” growled another lord, “our queen’s new paramour notwithstanding.”

  Sairis did not like his tone and clearly Commander Jessup did not like it either. “We will not treat our allies as potential enemies, gentlemen. We cannot afford to. And you will not refer to her grace’s fiancé as a ‘paramour’ again in my hearing.”

  The other lords looked suitably reprimanded, if not convinced.

  At that moment, a messenger came smartly into the room and Jessup raised his hand for silence. “Has my brother come at last?” he asked without preamble.

  The messenger shook his head. “Sir, I regret to inform you that Lord Winthrop injured his leg when his horse stepped over the edge of the defile. He is riding in a wagon in the rear and cannot come to dinner.”

  The table went silent with surprise. “What do the physicians say?” asked Jessup after a moment. “Have the magicians looked at him?”

  “His lordship’s constitution has never agreed with magic, sir, so no magicians. The physicians think he may be able to ride tomorrow with a splint, but they feel it would be best if he were to rest tonight and not move.”

  Jessup nodded slowly. “When did this happen, and why was I not informed earlier?”

  The messenger maintained a neutral expression. “The accident occurred a few hours ago. Communication has been necessarily limited today, sir. The column has become widely separated. Perhaps my lord has not been made aware that it is something around two miles from here to the rearmost wagons?”

  Another silence.

  “No, I did not realize that,” said Jessup wearily. “We are indeed widely separated. Please give my brother my regards and hope for a swift recovery.”

  A sense of unease washed through Sairis. Two miles. In country full of rockslides.

  Without thinking, he said, “Sir, how many of these men do you think we will truly be able to bring into the battle in time to make a difference?”

  Jessup looked at him in surprise, but he answered without hostility. “I will be happy if we manage to get three quarters of them into the battle at the point her grace would prefer, Sairis. I think half might be a more realistic number. However, I have hope that our trailing faction will continue to reinforce the fight long after we’ve made our surprise appearance on the field.”

  This was a more thoughtful answer than Sairis had expected and he felt a little better. Jessup smiled at him, his scarred face pulling at the corner of his mouth in a way that made him look more wistful than pleased. His deep-set eyes studied Sairis long enough for Sairis to become uncomfortable. At last, he said, “I am told my nephew has struck up a friendship with you.”

  Sairis’s stomach dropped in a way that was becoming familiar. But Jessup’s gaze didn’t seem accusatory or disgusted, only searching. “That is true, my lord,” said Sairis carefully.

  When he did not elaborate, Jessup continued in a quiet voice, intended for Sairis’s ears only, “I also understand that you had some trouble with my older brother.”

  Sairis licked his lips. He wished Marsden would help him instead of talking to other people. He wished he knew Commander Jessup better. Why didn’t I ask Roland anything about him?

  “I am a necromancer, sir, apprentice to a magician who caused Mistala a great deal of trouble in generations past.” The words stuck in his throat, but Sairis was determined not to make a mistake that would damage Roland’s future. “I suppose Lord Winthrop could be forgiven for misunderstanding my intentions in Chireese.”

  Jessup’s eyes did not waver. “A generous position. You do not resent being forcibly collared?”

  Something in Jessup’s face made Sairis afraid to lie to him.

  “I wish I could say I was so high-minded, sir. Roland might be able to overlook such a thing. I, on the other hand, melted my mage collar, created a few undead elk to attack people, and set your brother’s camp on fire.”

  Jessup’s mouth twitched up, and Sairis knew he’d hit the right note of honesty.

  “As,” Sairis added, “you have surely been told, sir.”

  Jessup nodded. “You ran. And then you came back. With a collar that I’m told you chose. Did Roland have anything to do with that?”

  I could swear you’re asking whether I love him. “I would never have come back if Roland had not procured my...” Sairis had been about to say “goodwill.” But Jessup’s eyes pinned him to the chair, and instead, he said, “Trust.”

  “You trust my nephew, Sairis?”

  “I do.” He felt nervous saying it, as though he were making himself vulnerable somehow.

  But Jessup nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You will not go wrong in that. He is a trustworthy person.”

  “I know,” whispered Sairis and realized more emotion had leaked into his voice than was quite proper. He couldn’t bring himself to continue meeting Jessup’s gaze and his eyes flicked absently around the table. He caught Quintin staring at him with an expression of pure malice. The man didn’t look away as their eyes met and Sairis was forced to break first in order to return polite attention to the commander.

  “Sir, how long will we be in this fort?” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but the words tumbled out. How long until I’m not trapped in a stone warren with people who hate me? How long until this battle replenishes my magic? How long until I can see Roland again?

  “About five more hours,” said Jessup. “If you’re finished eating, you should try to sleep.” He turned to say something to one of the border lords, and Marsden leaned over to murmur in Sairis’s ear, “You’re better at making friends than you thought, eh?”

  Sairis turned to him with a furious scowl. “I wish you would help me!” he hissed.

  “Nonsense. You’re doing fine.”

  “Lord Marsden,” called someone from the door, “we’ve set up wards around the fort, but we were hoping you’d check our work.”

  Marsden rose, along with several of the other magicians. “Of course.”

  Sairis returned his attention to his food. Carafes of water and weak wine were coming around, along with plates of chicken. His hunger was still clamoring, and so he ate and listened to Jessup try to soothe the fractious border lords, and when he’d had enough of both, he went to bed.

  Chapter 8. Potions

  Sairis woke from a dead sleep to someone shaking him. “Magus Sairis, the commander requires your presence. Get up at once and come with us.”

  Sairis felt foggy. He couldn’t remember where he was for a moment. “Wha—?”

  “Now, sir!”

  Recollections of the fort and the previous evening stirred as the soldiers—there were three of them—dragged him upright. Sairis had expected to be tired this morning, but he hadn’t expected quite such malaise. Did I not have enough magic to heal myself properly? His muscles didn’t feel sore, though, only his brain.

  As he slipped his glasses onto his nose, he was chagrined to see that all three men had crowded into his small room and were standing around him in his shirt and underclothes. Sairis struggled into his trousers while they waited impatiently. “What time is it?” He was growing increasingly certain that he had not slept four or five hours. One or two at most.

  The guards didn’t answer. “No need for a waistcoat,” growled one. “Let’s go.”

  He barely managed to snatch his overcoat as they hustled him out the door. These hallways are cold, damnit! “Am I in some kind of trouble?” ventured Sairis. He didn’t recognize the soldiers. The
y weren’t dressed like scouts, but like the troops from the border lords.

  “The lord commander needs a word with you,” was all their leader said.

  Sairis wished he could wake up. Am I being abducted again? They marched him up the stairs, higher into one of the tunneled towers until it dead-ended in a heavy door. The soldiers opened it and pushed Sairis through without announcement. Alarm bells were clanging in his head now, and he was genuinely surprised to find himself in an ordinary study and not some kind of torture chamber.

  He saw a desk, rows of books, an intimate dining area with only three chairs and the remains of a tea service. There was no light in the room, but soft lamplight streamed from the far door. “Hello?” ventured Sairis. “Commander Jessup?”

  He thought he heard a muffled response. Sairis took a deep breath, tried to force clarity into his foggy head, and went through. The bedchamber looked aggressively martial—weapons on the walls, a map over the fireplace. The lit lamp stood near the bed. Commander Jessup sat on the edge, shoulders slumped, head bowed.

  “Sir!” Sairis ran to him, all thoughts of a trap forgotten. “Sir, are you alright?”

  The man looked like he’d aged ten years since dinner. He raised vacant eyes to Sairis. His lips moved, but only a garbled hiss emerged. Fuck! This looked like the sort of fit elderly men sometimes suffered under stress.

  Sairis heartily regretted using the last of his magic to heal sore muscles. The commander might not respond to magical aid. Many mundanes didn’t. However, Sairis could have used magic to figure out what was wrong with him. Did he call for my help, thinking I’m the most powerful magician here? “Sir, I am so sorry, but I am no good for this. We need Lord Marsden. Or maybe one of his acolytes. I am not a healer. Gods, sir, please lie down. I will get help. I—”