The sunlight was bright, almost glaring after the winter grey of home. She trailed her fingers in the water, but the disappointed fish left her. She squeezed her eyes against the tears which suddenly formed. She needed to get away, to scream and sob and grieve, but she could not here, not yet...
“Ariana’rika?”
It was not Taro, but Tamaryl, standing at the edge of the patio with a bowl and cup. She blinked and forced a smile. “Hello.”
“I heard you wanted breakfast.” He set the fruit and juice beside her and then crossed to sit on her opposite side. “What’s troubling you?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m only—I’ve a lot to think about. I’ll be all right.”
He sat very still. “Ariana, I meant it, when I said I was sorry. He was your friend. Do you see...”
“I understand,” she whispered. “I know.”
Tamaryl’s arms wrapped about her and held her near his warm torso, buffering the sound of the fountain’s splashing and the bright sunlight. Neither of them spoke or moved for a long while.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
COLD RAIN DOGGED THE military train as they left Alham, soaking roads, equipment, and soldiers. Shianan’s nerves were soon stretched to breaking, as he dealt with the thousand crises of mobilization and all plagued by the hated rain.
The rain did not cease as they went north but grew more vicious. After they crossed the river, two days out, an ice storm descended. Shianan lay in his tent and did not sleep, listening to icy pellets strike the cloth and trying to bury the cold, slow terror the sound woke in him. He wrapped his blankets about him and wished for more, trying to block out the rattle of falling ice. He angrily chastised himself for hearing it, for letting it touch him, for shivering at the mere sound, for failing to sleep. But resentment only glazed his unease. Though long accustomed to field quarters, that night he longed for stone walls, slate roofs, and burning braziers.
In the morning, already exhausted, he helped break wagons free of frozen puddles, shouting for burlap to be placed as footing for the draft slaves trying to start their loads on ice. The day stretched long and bitter, and by night Shianan was barely civil to his captains. “I don’t care if they’re tired,” he snarled at Torg. “We’re all tired, we’re all cold. But if those wagons aren’t on higher ground, they’ll sink and freeze in the mud and never move in the morning.”
Torg nodded, rubbing a streak of splashed mud from his face. “I know, sir. But the—”
“I don’t care!” snapped Shianan. “Just get it done!”
He saw that slaves were shoveling channels to direct rain away from where they’d left some of the lighter wagons and muttered a few more instructions. He was hungry and cold, like the rest of his men. Now they were settling, he wanted supper and a warm bed. And the ruthless freezing rain continued to fall, ever dogging him with chilly unease.
Someone had already erected his tent—there were advantages to being a commander—and he slogged through frozen mud to the entrance. A lantern was lit inside, lending an artificial warmth to the interior. Shianan shook his head to disperse the melt-water inside his hood and pushed his damp hair back. Luca looked up from the tunic he was mending and pointed. “I’ve brought your supper.”
For a moment Shianan stared at him, afraid he had somehow fallen asleep on his feet and dreamed. But it was bitterly real. He drew a sharp, angry breath. “Luca! What are you doing here?”
“I followed you, as a good servant should.”
“A good servant should do as he’s told, and I told you to stay in Alham.”
Luca took his time responding. He’d obviously schooled himself to present his argument reasonably. “I can help you. And I won’t—”
“’Soats, Luca, don’t you listen? You’ll be killed out here. I told you not to come.” Shianan’s fury fueled his words through his weariness.
“I know what you said. But I won’t stay in Alham and wait while—”
“Have you ever just done what I’ve said? Even once? Even when it would have protected you?” He turned, trying to put Luca out of sight, as if that would change anything, would keep him from this dangerous place.
“That’s not what—”
“Can’t you just do as you’re told?” he demanded. “Listen and obey?”
“But—”
Shianan wheeled to face him and roared, “I own you!”
Shock struck each of them in the same instant, as the words hung almost tangible within the sagging cloth walls. Rain drummed out all remaining sound as they stared at one another.
Luca took a slow breath and arranged his features into a wry smile. “You owe me,” he answered gently.
Shianan gulped, tried to move, couldn’t. “Luca, I—I didn’t...”
“You’ve said yourself that I’ve helped cover your back. I can do so again.”
“Luca, I’m sorry. King’s sweet oats, I’m sorry. I can’t—I didn’t—”
“Let me stay, then.”
Shianan shook his head. “No.” He dropped heavily to the low cot, heedless of the wet cloak soaking his bed. “If I die, Luca, and there is a chance of it, I die fighting, serving my country and my king. And you will grieve, and you will profit by my death, gaining your own self and a substantial sum of money.”
“And that is worth your life?”
“Hear me out! If you die, Luca—and it is no chance but certainty, you cannot but die facing Ryuven—then I will grieve the loss of my closest friend, and I will carry forever the burden of knowing I did not prevent it.”
Luca stared at him. “I came to help you.”
“Your presence won’t keep me safe. In truth, I’ll be safer without the distraction of worrying over you.” He smiled grimly.
“If you are—”
“There is one thing I have always done well,” Shianan interrupted, “and that is to frustrate anyone trying to kill me. If death comes, I won’t fear it; I have been a soldier all my life and I’ve known from boyhood what we faced. But know this, Luca—I do not go to search for death. I do not intend to throw away my life, nor to part with it lightly. I swear to you, I go to kill Ryuven.” His jaw tightened. “More, I go to kill a Ryuven.”
Luca’s eyes gleamed wide in the lantern’s light. “You can’t—Pairvyn ni’Ai is nigh immortal. He’s unstoppable. He’s already nearly killed you!”
“Then he won’t expect me again, will he?” Shianan’s voice held no humor. “Leave that aside. Luca, I am truly sorry for what I said, I am. But I won’t let you stay. If I cannot order you back, I’ll order men to take you back. I won’t have you die uselessly.”
Luca looked away, his throat working visibly. “I understand. I’ll go back in the morning.”
Shianan eyed him closely. “You’ll go?”
Luca’s jaw spasmed. “I would not lie to you. I’ll go back to Alham, and I will stay. And I will wait for you to return.” He looked again toward Shianan.
Shianan nodded. “I’ll come back.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “And if I somehow fail, it will be the first time I have lied to you. But at least you will know it will also be the last.”
Luca scowled. “That’s poor comfort and poorer humor.”
Shianan shrugged. “It’s all I have.” He glanced up at the roof, where water beaded ominously to show where the proofing was weak. “’Soats, I don’t want to go out in that again.”
Luca wordlessly passed him a cooled plate. Shianan unclasped his cloak with his free hand, tossing it to the slave, who hung it to drain as best it could overnight.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
TAMARYL’S EXPRESSION held only the barest shred of hope. “What have you learned?”
“There was nothing nearby. Nori’bel is flying to some more growers,” Ariana explained. “She’s sure we’ll find some dall sweetbud—samur.” She squeezed her fingers into balls of frustration. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
Tamaryl shook his head.
“I’ve waited as long as I could.”
“But what if she brings some?”
“The warriors leapt the moment the shield fell,” Tamaryl said shortly. “Nothing can overtake so many in the between-worlds. And with so many in transition, I can’t delay any longer.” He took a breath. “Wish me well?”
“I will pray for you. For you, and for everyone else, and for an end.”
Tamaryl embraced her and held her close, tightly, as if he feared to release her. His wings curved about them, nearly sealing them in a cocoon. Ariana gripped him tightly. “Come back to me.”
“I will.”
“I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“I will come.” He clenched fingers in her hair. “I will come for you.”
There was a soft cough from the side. Tamaryl’s wing shifted enough for Ariana to see Maru standing awkwardly a few paces away.
Tamaryl took a breath. “I have to go, my lady.”
Ariana’s heart beat faster, but she did not move. This was Tam—Tam, the laughing boyish servant, Tam, the hidden Ryuven, Tam, who had killed Shianan as she watched... As he released her, she held her breath.
“My lady mage,” he said softly. “I do not know if we will have a chance to speak again. But—please don’t think ill of me.”
“Tam...”
He smiled sadly. “I always liked it when you called me that, somehow.” He looked at her hands, hesitating.
“Tamaryl, I...”
For a few heartbeats, neither of them moved. And then Tamaryl grasped Ariana about the waist and pulled her close, meeting her surprised lips with his own. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, and she was taken by surprise. But she did not pull away. He tasted of power, of fire and lightning. His hand slipped along the slit in her back, tantalizing with the warmth of it.
He killed Shianan, a part of her mind whispered furiously. You’re kissing Shianan’s murderer.
He must have felt the shock ripple through her. He drew back slowly, reluctantly. She watched him, her eyes pulling wide, his hands sliding away from her to leave cool hollows on her skin. Surely he could hear her heart pounding.
“That’s it, then?” he asked quietly. “Even if he is...” He straightened. “I’m sorry. I had no place... I’m sorry.”
She reached for his hand, caught him. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—it’s too soon, and there’s so much else.”
“It was my error.”
She squeezed his hand. “But—come back.”
“I intend to.” He gave her a little smile and then turned away.
Ariana swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. He would be safe. He was the Pairvyn ni’Ai. He would return.
MARU SHOOK OFF HIS embarrassment and hurried to match Tamaryl’s stride. “Well, that was encouraging,” he ventured.
Tamaryl looked straight ahead. “She is uncertain.”
“You can hardly blame her for that,” Maru protested. He fingered the mace on his belt. “You told her you would return.”
“Yes.”
Tamaryl’s voice was not quite right. Maru looked more closely at his friend. What he saw was not disappointment, but something darker and deeper. It frightened him. “Ryl, what are you thinking of doing?”
“She thinks of him,” Tamaryl answered curtly. His tone was cool and detached. “Even though he is dead, she thinks of him.”
“Ryl, she can’t have forgotten her friend—”
“I told her I would return. And I will, after I have ended this war so there will be no more fighting hereafter.”
“But we haven’t even found her herbs—No, Ryl!” Realization poured over him like icy water. “No, you can’t!”
“This war can’t be ended by other means,” Tamaryl snapped. “Haven’t I tried? And now she pins her hopes on a plant Nori’bel cannot even find, with no evidence any human merchant is willing to trade for it. Enough blind hope. I have seen my error, and it is time to save lives by crushing those who would kill us. If they cannot resist us, neither Ryuven nor humans will die after this battle.”
Maru shook his head, horrified. “You can’t—not all that you’ve worked for, not all that you’ve done—”
But Tamaryl took another step and leapt the void.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
THE RAIN HAD SLOWED them, and they had only hours to prepare to meet the Ryuven. Soldiers scrambled before barked orders, the weary draft slaves were threatened and prodded into final efforts as weapons and stockpiles of critical equipment were distributed. Shianan swerved from his path past an assembling group to pluck an arrow from a soldier’s bundle. “What is this?”
“Arrow, sir,” came the reply.
Shianan gave him a suitably deprecating look. “Thank you, soldier. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why it’s not one of our Ryuven bolts?”
“I like these better, sir. I brought my own bow, too, to match the flexion. I use them for hunting at home, and I’m more accurate with these.”
“Accuracy is not your chief concern here,” Shianan replied curtly. It was shameful, how many unseasoned soldiers and locally raised troops had come for this. He held out his hand, and another soldier promptly gave him one of the standard heavy bolts. He held the two side by side, heads tipped toward his listeners. “What happens when your dainty hunting shaft goes through a Ryuven?”
The soldier blinked at him. “Er, if I’ve placed it well, it pierces a heart or lung or liver.”
“Yes, perhaps. Or it might be you’re releasing in the heat of battle, with your fellows jostling and screaming and falling all about you, and you’re lucky to put it through a shoulder or thigh or anything at all. But let’s be generous and say you put this arrow right through a Ryuven lung. What happens then?”
The soldier hesitated.
Shianan looked at another. “Your comrade appears to be confused or ignorant. Answer for him.”
“The Ryuven will withdraw the arrow and heal himself, sir.”
“Exactly right. The eerie winged monsters do just that. And that is why we have these.” He angled the heavier bolt’s wickedly barbed head toward the offending soldier’s face. “Answer this one yourself—can a Ryuven pluck this out as easily as your pretty sewing needle?”
“No, sir.”
“Will this shaft break as easily, letting him draw it out in two parts?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want your target to simply snap out your little sticking pin and then come to kill you for the inconvenience you’ve given?”
The soldier was squirming now. “No, sir.”
“Do you think any of your fellow soldiers want you doing anything but your best for them?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I suggest you stow away these toys and arm yourself appropriately. And if any of you should encounter anyone else who would put the rest of you at risk by not following orders, you might see that they re-arm as well.”
“Yes, sir!”
Shianan went on, seeing that each of the squadrons was in their assigned place and ready. Grey mages hurried back and forth across the field. Shianan shaded his eyes and looked across the plain to where three of the Circle would make their stand. Hazelrig’s white robes showed plainly.
At least Ariana won’t be in the fighting. The thought did not cheer him; he was not glad to think of where she was now.
The thrice-cursed Ryuven had chosen their entry point well. The ravine limited the movement of the land-bound human soldiers, and the sloping plain led to some of Chrenada’s richest farmland. When they fought down the defending human army, they would have easy plunder.
Well, not so easy, they hoped. Luenda had ravaged the Ryuven as well as the humans. And Shianan intended that even if the Ryuven moved on, they would not have their Pairvyn to lead them.
He went to the deep blue tent erected low on the hill—height was not a defense from the Ryuven—glancing about at the preparing army for final assurances that they were as ready as he could make them.
He saw a contingent of archers set above the tent, busily grouping arrows for quick reloading. From that position, they would have the duty of protecting the tent below them from any Ryuven trying to reach it. Three horses shifted uneasily outside the tent, ignoring the soothing of their grooms. They were there in case of sudden need, to speed a general or prince to where their leadership was needed—or to safety.
Four more of the Circle passed Shianan, speaking quietly among themselves. He wondered briefly if any of them had been instrumental in the saving of his life, and then he brushed aside the tent door and bowed slightly as he entered.
Prince Soren, General Septime, and General Kannan looked up from their map. “Come in, commander,” Kannan said. “You didn’t see Vanguilder, did you?”
“No, sir,” answered Shianan. He remained straight-backed near the door, the lowest-ranked of the assembly. He meant to maintain etiquette with the prince-heir before others.
Kannan swore under his breath. Soren started to speak, but the tent flap moved again, this time admitting Hazelrig and Parma. They nodded respectfully. “Your Highness, my lords.”
“My lord and lady mage,” Soren greeted. “Come in.”
“We don’t have long,” Parma advised without ceremony. “They’re very near to leaving the between-worlds.”
Hazelrig nodded. “A couple of hours at most.”
Kannan drummed his fingers on the table. “If your mages know their—”
“Sirs!” Marshal Vanguilder burst into the tent, his eyes bright with excitement. He checked himself, nodding to the prince, the generals, the mages. “Excuse me.”
“What is it, marshal?”
“I’ve been to the crest of the hill and confirmed it—there’s an orkanstorm coming.”
Shianan’s heart quickened. It was Septime, though, who asked first, “What? Are you certain?”
“The clouds are unmistakable,” Vanguilder answered. “It’s coming, and coming fast.”
“Bless the Holy One who blesses,” breathed Soren. “They’ll drop right into it.”
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