Phoria’s expression gave nothing away, but the jealousy that gripped her left the bitter taste of bile at the back of Magyana’s throat.
Korathan was less subtle. “Klia?” he growled. “You’d send the youngest of us to a people who live four centuries? They’ll laugh in her face! I, at least—”
“I do not doubt your abilities, my son,” Idrilain assured him, cutting short his protest. “But I need you here to assume Phoria’s command.” She paused again, turning to her eldest daughter. “As you, Phoria, must step into mine for a time. My healers are too slow with their cures. You are War Commander until I recover.”
She grasped the Sword of Ghërilain in both hands. On cue, Thero levitated the heavy blade, allowing Idrilain to pass it to her daughter.
Though Magyana had orchestrated this moment, she felt a chill of premonition. The sword had passed from mother to daughter since the days of Ghërilain, the first of the long line of warrior queens, but only upon the mother’s death.
“And Regent?” asked Korathan, rather too quickly for Magyana’s taste.
Or for his mother’s, it seemed. Idrilain glared at him. “I need no Regent.”
Magyana saw a muscle jump in Korathan’s jaw as he gave her a silent bow.
Are you so anxious for your sister’s honor, or to see her on the throne? wondered Magyana, brushing the surface of his mind a second time. The Afran Oracle might prevent male heirs from ascending the throne, but it had never prevented one from ruling from behind it.
“I must speak privately with Klia,” said Idrilain, dismissing the others.
Night had fallen and Magyana retreated into the shadows between two nearby tents, waiting for the rest of the assembly to disperse. Somewhere above the blanketing clouds, a full moon rode the sky; she could feel its uneasy pull as an ache behind her eyes.
When the way was clear, she slipped into Idrilain’s tent again to find Klia bent anxiously over her mother, who lay slumped back in her chair, fighting for breath.
“Help her!” Klia begged.
“Thero, fetch the drysian,” Magyana called softly.
The younger wizard emerged from behind an arras at the back of the tent, accompanied by the healer Akaris. The drysian held a steaming cup ready in one hand, his worn staff in the other.
“Get some of this into her,” Akaris instructed, giving the cup to Thero, then touched the silver lemniscate symbol of Dalna hanging at his throat. He placed his hand on the queen’s drooping head and a pale glow engulfed both of them for a few seconds. She went limp, but her breathing had eased.
Thero and Klia carried her to the cot at the back of the tent and tucked heated stones in among the blankets.
Idrilain opened her eyes and looked wearily up at the others. Thero offered the cup again, but after a few sips she turned her head away. “This must be settled quickly,” she whispered.
“You have my word, Mother, but maybe Kor’s right,” Klia said, kneeling beside her. “I’ll look like a child to the Aurënfaie.”
“You’ll soon teach them otherwise. Korathan was the only other choice, but he’d frighten them to death.”
“I understand. I just don’t know what I can do that Lord Torsin hasn’t tried already. He knows the ’faie better than anyone in Skala.”
“Not quite everyone,” Idrilain murmured. “But Seregil would never go—not with Korathan—”
“Seregil?” Klia looked up at Magyana, alarmed. “Her mind’s wandering! He’s still under ban of exile. He can’t go back.”
“Yes, he can—at least for the duration of your visit,” Magyana told her. “The Iia’sidra has agreed to his temporary return as your adviser. If he will go.”
“You haven’t asked him?”
“It’s been nearly a year since he and Alec were last heard from,” said Thero.
Magyana laid a hand on Klia’s shoulder. “Fortunately, we know someone who can find them. Don’t you think that red-haired captain of yours would welcome a journey back to Skala?”
“Beka Cavish?” Klia smiled slightly, understanding. “I believe she would.”
Korathan and Aralain had accompanied Phoria back to her tent, where she sat silently over her wine, waiting for word from her spy.
Korathan paced restlessly, chewing on some thought he was not yet ready to share. Aralain huddled in a fur robe beside the brazier, nervously clasping and unclasping her soft, ineffectual hands.
Since childhood Phoria had despised Aralain’s timidity and reliance on others. She’d have ignored her completely if Aralain had not been the only one who’d managed to produce an heir to the throne. Her eldest, Elani, was now a tractable girl of thirteen.
“I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to this plan of Mother’s,” Aralain said at last, arching her brows in that annoying way she had when she wanted to be taken seriously.
“Because it will fail,” Phoria snapped. “The Aurënfaie insulted our honor with their Edict of Separation. Now we’re giving them another opportunity, and at the worst possible time. When we most need to appear strong, we’re seen running for help from those least likely to give it. Their refusal will almost certainly cost us Mycena.”
“But the necromancers—?”
Phoria gave a derisive snort. “I haven’t met the necromancer yet that good Skalan steel can’t deal with. We’ve grown too dependent on wizards. These past few years Mother’s been ruled more and more by them—first Nysander, and now Magyana. Mark my words, this fool’s gamble is her doing!”
Phoria was nearly shouting by the time she’d finished and was pleased to see Aralain properly cowed. Kor had stopped pacing, too, and was watching her warily. Womb mates they might be, but she never let him forget who held the power. Satisfied, she forced a thin smile and went back to her wine. A few minutes later, a soft scratching came at the tent flap.
“Come!” she called.
Captain Traneus stepped inside and saluted. The man was only twenty-four, considerably younger than most of her personal staff, but he’d proven remarkably close-mouthed, loyal, and eager for preferment—a most useful combination—and she’d groomed him as a second set of eyes and ears. In turn, he had amassed a useful cadre of informants.
“I kept watch as you ordered, General,” he reported. “Magyana returned to the queen’s tent under cover of darkness. I also heard the voices of two men inside: Thero and the drysian.”
“Could you hear what was said?”
“Some of it, General. I fear the queen’s health is worse than we’ve been led to believe. And Commander Klia is having doubts as to whether she is equal to the task the queen has set for her.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably under Phoria’s probing gaze.
“Was there something more?” she demanded curtly.
Traneus fixed his gaze somewhere on the tent wall behind her. “It was difficult to make out the queen’s voice, General, yet from what I was able to hear, Idrilain believes the commander is the only one of her children capable of carrying out the mission.”
Phoria’s fingers clenched momentarily on the arms of her chair, but she schooled herself to patience. Much as the words rankled, she knew they would only strengthen her position with the others. Korathan’s face had darkened. Aralain was studying her fingernails.
“The queen plans to send Lord Seregil with Klia,” Traneus added. “Apparently Magyana knows where to find him and that young man of his.”
“Mother’s pet Aurënfaie brought back to heel, eh?” Phoria sneered.
“Don’t be hateful,” Aralain murmured. “He was always kind to us. If Mother didn’t mind that he left when the war began, why should you? It’s not as if he’d have been any use as a soldier.”
“And good riddance!” Phoria muttered. “The man was a sensualist and a fop. He clung to rich young nobles like a tick to a dog’s back. How much of your gold did he help spend, Kor?”
He shrugged. “He was an amusing fellow, in his own peculiar way. I imagine he’ll do well enough as an interprete
r.”
“Keep a close eye on my mother and her visitors, Captain,” Phoria ordered.
Saluting, Traneus disappeared back into the night.
“Seregil?” Korathan mused. “I wonder what Lord Torsin thinks of that? He’s more of your opinion, as I recall.”
“I can’t imagine Seregil’s people will be in any hurry to welcome him back, either,” Phoria agreed, dismissing the matter. “Now, as for this mission of Klia’s, we’ll want an observer of our own among the company.”
“Your man Traneus?” suggested Aralain with her usual lack of imagination.
Phoria spared her a withering glance. “Or perhaps we should begin with someone Klia trusts, someone she’ll speak openly around.”
“And someone in a position to send dispatches,” Korathan added.
“Who, then?” asked Aralain.
Phoria arched a knowing eyebrow. “Oh, I have one or two people in mind.”
2
AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS
Beka Cavish paced the ship’s foredeck, scanning the western horizon for the first dark line marking Skala’s northeast territories. It had been a week since they’d ridden out from Idrilain’s camp; it might be another before they rejoined Klia for the voyage south and she didn’t take well to inactivity.
She plucked absently at the new gorget hanging at the throat of her green regimental tunic. The captain’s brass seemed to sit more heavily against her chest than the plain steel crescent of lieutenant. She’d been perfectly content leading her turma and they’d made a name for themselves as raiders behind the enemy’s lines: Urgazhi, “wolf demons”—bestowed on them by the enemy during the early days of the war. They wore the epithet as a badge of honor, but it had been dearly bought. Of the thirty riders under her command today, only half had come through those days and knew the truth behind the silly ballads sung across Skala and Mycena, knew where the fallen bodies of their comrades lay along the Plenimaran frontier.
The turma was at full strength now for the first time in months, thanks to this mission. Never mind that some of the newer recruits had only just lost their milk teeth, as Sergeant Braknil liked to say. Perhaps, Sakor willing, they could be taught a thing or two before they all found themselves back in battle.
Less than a month before, Urgazhi Turma had been slogging through frozen Mycenian swamps, and even that was better than some fighting they’d seen.
Fighting across windswept sea ledges, the waves red with blood about their feet.
Beka leaned on the rail, watching a school of dolphins leaping ahead of the prow. The closer she came to seeing Seregil and Alec again, the more the memories of their last parting after the defeat of Duke Mardus rose to haunt her.
That brief battle had cost her father the use of his leg, Nysander his life, and Seregil his sanity for a time. Months later she’d had a letter from her father, saying that Seregil and Alec had quit Rhíminee for good. Now that she knew the reason, she wasn’t so sure arriving with a decuria of riders was the best way to coax them home.
She gripped the rail, willing those thoughts away. She had work to do, work that for at least a little while was sending her back to those she loved best.
Two Gulls was barely large enough to merit the title of village. One poor inn, a ramshackle temple, and a dicer’s throw of shacks clustered around a little dent of a harbor. Micum Cavish had spent a lifetime passing through such places, wandering on his own or on Watcher business with Seregil.
These past few years he’d stuck close to home, nursing his bad leg and watching his children grow. He’d enjoyed it, too, much to his wife’s delight, but this journey had reminded him just how much he missed the open road. It was good to find out that he still knew instinctively where to show gold and where to guard his purse.
Five days earlier a mud-spattered messenger had ridden into the courtyard at Watermead, bearing news that the queen required his service and that of Seregil and Alec. It fell to him to talk his friends out of their self-imposed exile. The best news, however, had been that his eldest girl, Beka, was alive, whole, and on her way home from the war to act as his escort.
Within the hour, he was on the road with a sword at his side and pack on his back, heading for a village he’d never heard of until that day.
Just like old times.
Sitting here now on a bench in front of the nameless inn, hat brim pulled down over his eyes, he considered the task ahead. Alec would listen to reason, but a whole troop of soldiers wouldn’t be enough if Seregil dug his heels in.
“Sir, sir!” a reedy voice called. “Wake up, sir. Your ship’s coming in!”
Micum pushed his hat back and watched with amusement as his excitable lookout, a lad of ten, came scampering up the muddy street. It was the third such announcement of the day.
“Are you sure it’s the right one this time?” he asked, then winced as he stood. Even after a day’s rest, the scarred muscles behind his right thigh ached more than he cared to admit. The wounds left on a man by a dyrmagnos went deep, even after the flesh healed.
“Look, sir. You can see the banner,” the boy insisted. “Crossed swords under a crown on a green field, just like you said. There’s Queen’s Horse Guard aboard, all right.”
Micum squinted out across the cove. A few years back, he wouldn’t have had to.
Damn, I’m getting old!
The boy was right this time, though. Taking up his walking stick, Micum followed him down to the shore.
The ship dropped anchor in deep water and longboats were lowered. A small crowd had gathered already, chatting excitedly as they watched the soldiers row in.
Micum grinned again as he caught sight of a redheaded officer standing in the prow of the lead boat. Old eyes or not, he knew his Beka when he saw her. She spotted him, too, and let out a happy whoop that echoed across the water.
At a distance, it was easy to see the girl she’d been when she’d left home to join the regiment, all long legs and enthusiasm. From here, she looked too slight to bear the weight of chain mail and weapons, but he knew better. Beka had never been frail.
As the longboat drew closer, however, the illusion dissolved. A mix of authority and ease emanated from her as she shared some joke with a tall rider standing just behind her.
She has what she always wanted, he thought with a rush of bittersweet pride. Just shy of twenty-two, she was a battle-scarred officer in one of Skala’s finest regiments, and one of the queen’s most daring raiders.
It hadn’t given her airs, it seemed. She was out of the boat before it ground up on the shingle.
“By the Flame, it’s good to see you again!” she cried, throwing her arms around him, and for a moment it seemed that she wasn’t going to let go. When she did finally step back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “How are Mother and the children? Is Watermead just the same?”
“We’re all just as you left us. I have letters for you. Illia’s is four pages long,” he said, noting new scars on her hands and arms. Freckles still peppered her face, but two years of hard fighting had sharpened her features, stripping away the last vestiges of childhood. “Captain is it?” he said, pointing at the new gorget.
“In name, at least. They gave me Wolf Squadron, then sent me and my turma home. You remember Sergeant Rhylin, don’t you?”
“I always remember people who save my life,” Micum said, shaking hands with the tall man.
“As I recall, it was as much the other way ’round,” Rhylin replied. “You took on that dyrmagnos creature after Alec shot her. I don’t think any of us would be standing here if you hadn’t.”
The comments drew curious stares from the bystanders and Micum quickly changed the subject.
“I only count one decuria here. Where are the other two?” he asked, waving a hand at the ten riders who’d come ashore with them. He recognized Corporal Nikides and a few of the other men and women, but most were strangers, and young.
“The rest sailed with Klia. We’ll meet up with them
later on,” Beka told him. “This lot should be enough to get us safely where we need to go.”
She glanced up at the afternoon sky, frowning slightly. “It’ll take a while to ferry our horses in but I’d like to cover some ground before nightfall. Can we get a hot meal in this place before we go? One that doesn’t include salted pork or dried cod?”
“I’ve had a word with the innkeeper,” he replied, giving her a wink. “I think he can come up with dried pork or salted cod.”
“So long as it’s a change,” Beka said, grinning. “How long will it take us to reach them?”
“Four days. Maybe three if this good weather holds.”
Another look of impatience creased Beka’s brow. “Three would be better.” With a last restless glance at the ship, she followed him up to the inn.
“Whatever happened to that young man you wrote us of last year?” Micum asked. “That lieutenant what’s-his-name? Your mother’s beginning to get notions about him.”
“Markis?” Beka shrugged, not looking at him. “He died.”
Just like that? Micum thought sadly, sensing there was more to the story. Ah, well, war was a harsh business.
• • •
The weather held fair, but the roads grew worse the further north they went. By the second day, their horses were sinking to the fetlocks as they plodded along what passed for roads in this stretch of wilderness.
Easing his bad leg against the mud-caked stirrup, Micum scanned the jagged peaks in the distance and thought wistfully of home. Little Illia, just turned nine, had been picking daffodils in the pasture below the house the day Micum left. Here, in the shadow of the Nimra mountains, snow still lingered in dirty drifts beneath the pines.
Beka still hadn’t explained the exact reason for their journey, and Micum respected her silence. They rode hard, making use of the lengthening days. At night, she and the others recounted battles, raids, and comrades lost. Lieutenant Markis was not mentioned around the campfire, so Micum made it his business to get Sergeant Rhylin aside one morning when they’d halted to water the horses.
Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3 Page 2
