The question had no sooner left his mouth than he heard it.
Voices.
Far off, moving closer.
A smile curved his lips. Perhaps fate was finally going to shine on him.
About bloody time.
And then again, perhaps fate was more in the mood to taunt him.
Hours later, Dais stood on weary feet before a Warlord as he repeated his story for the third time. His clothes were stiff with river water and his belly was a tight, cold knot. His throat was parched.
He needed food. He needed water. He needed a damn bath.
But the men before him weren’t in a congenial mood—basic courtesies were either beyond them or they simply didn’t care to extend them.
It was intolerable. Before, when he had served as a spy to Raichar Taise, he had been respected. Honored. Granted, only Char and his Sirvani, a few select others, had known of Dais’s existence, but he had never been left hungry, never been left thirsty.
Nor had he been mocked.
But the Warlord in front of him watched him with a sly smile on his mouth. “That is the most absurd tale I’ve heard in quite some time. Do you expect us to believe you?”
“I have no reason to lie, my lord.” Tale? Dais clenched his jaw shut to keep from sputtering as he fought not to flinch under the Warlord’s unyielding stare. He’d spent weeks searching for Anqarians. Now that he had finally found them—or rather had been found by them—this bastard mocked him.
It was utterly humiliating.
There had been a time when he could have faced down a bastard like this without blinking an eye. But that had been before . . . back when he wasn’t being hunted by his own people like a fucking animal.
Turning traitor didn’t come without its risks, and Dais was fully aware of those risks. Getting caught had always been a possibility, and he wasn’t fool enough or arrogant enough to believe otherwise. But being aware of the possibility and dealing with the reality were two very, very different things.
He couldn’t continue to run. Not with winter edging ever closer. Plus, the forest was proving to be more and more dangerous for a man alone. Even if he managed to evade the demons, he couldn’t evade nature. He couldn’t evade basic facts.
He needed food.
He needed shelter.
Winter was coming and Dais had to either secure himself a place here or head south.
But he didn’t want to head south. He wanted to be here, because if ever another Gate was raised, it would be here. Though the Roinan Gate had collapsed, there was still power in the air, and when the Warlords acted, it would be here.
Dais would be here when it happened, because come hell, high water or demon hordes, he was going through the damn Gate. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life like this.
If he stayed here, he was a dead man. At least in Anqar, he might have half a chance.
But first he had to get them on his side.
“I assure you, Warlord, there is nothing absurd about this.” Refusing to let any of his desperation show on his face, he met the Warlord’s penetrating gaze. “It’s not a child’s tale; it’s not some campfire story that’s been bandied about—it’s simply fact. She was Warlord Raichar’s child. Her mother was a rather powerful witch.”
“And you say this woman has Gate magic? Women do not have Gate magic. The Gates do not recognize women.”
“I beg to disagree, sire. They will recognize this woman.” He lifted his hands and fought to look humble—it wasn’t terribly hard just then. He had precious little pride, precious little arrogance left after the past few weeks, a fact that incensed him to no end. What he did have was rage—he had that in spades, but that didn’t serve him right now. If he showed the rage, then he’d be lucky if he only ended up dead.
He’d bide his time.
Sooner or later, he would be able to indulge in the anger. But until then . . .
He forced himself to give a pathetic smile. “Please understand, I cannot claim any deep knowledge of the Gates, and I do know that before meeting this woman, I’d never heard of a woman who could raise a Gate. But she can.”
“To my knowledge, Char’s daughter has been dead for many years.” It came from the depths of the tent. Dais couldn’t tell who had said it.
The small shelter was crowded. There were five Warlords of varying ages and varying strengths, and numerous Sirvani. The Sirvani, with their shaven hands and bare chests, stood on guard, between Dais and the Warlords.
As though Dais was fool enough to try to go for one of them.
So far, the youngest Warlord had done all of the talking. The rest of them looked on, watching Dais as though he was some bug they’d discovered—like they couldn’t decide whether to squash him or just leave him be.
“I’m aware of the rumor,” Dais said, lying without blinking an eye. He knew next to nothing about Raichar. More’s the fucking pity, too. If he had been aware of this little twist, perhaps he could have made better plans.
“Rumor.” The youngest Warlord watched Dais with a smirk on his lips. The bastard hadn’t so much as offered a name. Dais knew enough of Anqarian customs—withholding a name was an insult among their kind.
Shit.
The Warlord was young, but there was a great deal of power in him. The others looked to him in deference. Dais could understand why—just looking at him was enough to dry the spit in Dais’s mouth.
Like the others, he wore a thick chain around his neck. Light fell across the stone set in the metal—it was Warlord blue. That particular stone was worn only by Warlords and Sirvani—Sirvani, their little Warlords in training. The closer to black the stone got, the more powerful the Warlord.
This man’s stone was the same shade of the night sky. It was dull, though. Before the collapse of the Gates, the stones had always had some inner glow.
“Let’s say Char’s daughter did not die—let’s say this woman is indeed who you claim.”
Dais inclined his head.
“How do you know this?”
“I know a great many things, sire. I deal in . . . information. It’s my specialty.”
“You make it sound so grand, offworlder. So elegant, so noble. But you’re just a spy,” the Warlord said, that small, amused smile curling his lips.
Shame and humiliation curled inside him but he didn’t look away. He didn’t dare—this was a man who could put a knife between his ribs and Dais wouldn’t even know it until he was already on the ground.
“A spy,” the Warlord said again, in a smooth, deep voice. He smiled at Dais, a feral curl of his lips. “Nothing more, and not a particularly good one, I’d wager. After all, you were caught.”
Dais bristled. It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been one of the most valued assets in Anqar’s army, even though most of them knew nothing of him. He’d also been one of the most respected men in the rebellion—leading a double life and doing a damn fine job of it, too. For close to forty years.
Until Morne—damn the man.
And Lee. Kalen. Damn them all to hell.
He made a conscious effort to relax, waiting until he knew he could speak without the knife-edge of anger apparent in his voice. “What I am, or what I am not, isn’t the important issue here, my lords. The important issue is the information I’ve given you. Precious information.”
“Precious.” The Warlord began to pace around Dais in a slow circle, moving ever closer, until even a slight shift would have their bodies brushing. Dais held himself rigid—the thought of allowing this man to touch him in any way seemed about as foolish as drinking poison.
“Precious information,” the Warlord murmured.
The Warlord was damned creepy. From the corner of his eye, he tried to watch the other man, but it was hard to watch him without turning, and he didn’t dare give the other Warlords his back. He couldn’t afford to let any of the others recognize his unease.
“You must admit, my lords, a female that can bear your power, surely the id
ea is enticing.”
Circling to stand before Dais, the Warlord stopped. A smile curled his lips as he studied Dais’s face. “Of course, we have only your word that this female, this daughter of Raichar, can actually use Gate magic. That she actually is the daughter of Raichar. No proof. Just your word.”
“The word of a spy,” somebody within the tent said in a voice thick with derision.
“The word of a spy,” the Warlord murmured, shaking his head. “How much faith do we place in the word of a spy?”
Mouth gone dry, Dais forced a smile. “If she were delivered into your hands, perhaps then you would believe?”
“How do you plan to do that?”
Dais started, caught off guard as one of the other Warlords spoke. It was the older one, one who had silver starting to show in his reddish blond hair. Lines fanned out from his faded gray eyes, but although the years showed on him, so did strength and power.
“My lord?” Dais asked.
“How do you plan to deliver this so-called female Warlord into our hands?” He watched Dais with no expression. “Do you think we shall let you go? Leave you to this fool’s errand simply at your behest?”
Dais was hard-pressed not to react to that.
He couldn’t very well go on his “fool’s errand” without their permission. They had more or less captured him. Instead of him approaching them as an equal—or at least approaching them from a bargaining position—they had taken him off guard and now he was their prisoner.
He gave the eldest Warlord a cagey smile and said, “Truly, my lord. What is the more appealing prize? My mangy hide? Or the possibility of a young, powerful woman?”
“Hmmmm. You do make a good point.”
They watched as he left.
They remained silent and motionless long after the flap of the tent swung closed behind him, aware he was skulking about in the shadows. He made no sound, but he was there nonetheless. They continued to wait, until he finally withdrew.
After all, he couldn’t stay there forever, not if he wanted to find this so-called female Warlord to turn over to them. Not if he wanted to live. Warlords rarely lost their prey, and if he did not deliver as promised, his life was forfeit.
“What is your opinion of the man?” the eldest Warlord asked, his voice indifferent. As though the answer mattered less than nothing.
“I do not trust him.” With a deferential bow of his head, the youngest Warlord spoke.
“Of course you don’t,” Reil said, amused. “You trust nobody.”
“No, there are a specific few whom I trust.”
Reil imagined he knew who the few were—they didn’t include the spy, or even himself.
He didn’t trust the fool, either. Ironically, he did trust the Warlord before him. He came from a long, proud line—with a few exceptions, this man’s family was held in high regard. They were merciless without being brutal, commanding without being domineering. Traits well admired in Anqar.
Unlike the cagey, conniving cur they had allowed to walk away.
Was it a fool’s errand? Or could it possibly be true?
Dais Bogler was a desperate man, and desperate men did desperate things. Desperate men often did foolish things.
But whether Reil trusted him or not, they had a decision to make.
“He isn’t to be trusted,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. He came to his feet, knees aching as he did so. He shouldn’t have come on this final raid. Every year was harder for him—the damp, heavy air in Ishtan wreaked havoc on aging bones. After three hundred years, time was catching up with him. But two of his offspring had been selected for the raiding parties, and he’d wanted to be with them. One more journey, before he retired to his lands to live out the rest of his life in relative obscurity.
Both of the boys were dead now and he may never see his estate again.
He grieved the loss of his boys—his great-greatgrandsons. He grieved for them and awaited the time when he could lay his arms down and join those who had passed on.
He was weary.
But there were others depending on him. More sons, even a few daughters back in Anqar, and he couldn’t protect his family if he was trapped in this world. Getting back was key. Anqar would be in turmoil and too many of his people preyed on any and every perceived weakness. Without him there, his family might be perceived as weak. He feared for them.
They must return home.
If by some chance this elusive “female Warlord” existed, she might prove useful.
Very useful.
There were other options, however. Reil didn’t believe in limiting his choices. He’d been laying the groundwork for possible courses of action well before Dais Bogler entered their camp. If Dais was correct . . . He found himself smiling as he pondered the possibilities there.
Still, he hadn’t gotten to his station by entertaining possibilities. He’d gotten where he was because he made things happen and left nothing to fate or happenstance.
He stroked a thumb down his stone as he studied the Warlord before him. He was well-known for being something of a diplomat—but a deadly one. He could, and had, easily cut the throats of his enemies. A swift, silent arrow in the dark.
A useful man to have at his hand.
“I want him followed,” Reil said quietly. “I want him watched. If it seems he’s right about this female Warlord, then I want her. She could be the very thing we need to return home.”
They’d need all the power they could gather, if they’d even have the chance.
Night came, and with it, there was a blissful respite from the humid, heavy heat that had plagued the region for much of the summer.
It had been another long, tedious day, one Xan was glad to see end. That was the way of it, though. The days stretched on, one slow hour ticking by followed by another and another, with nothing to relieve his monotony.
Nothing but the few times each day he saw the captain. Every day during hand-to-hand, and at odd intervals with weapons training. Those hours seemed to dance by without him even realizing it, leaving him waiting for the next time he’d see her.
Two weeks. He’d been in the base camp for two weeks, and he measured time by how often he got to see the captivating captain each day.
He was becoming far too much like a lovesick boy, and the woman barely seemed to realize he was alive—or that he could serve as anything else but a target.
By the time he started making his way to his assigned dormer, darkness had fallen. The pathways were lit with solar-powered lights that did little to dispel the gloom. Just ahead, he could make out the dark shadow of the dormer he shared with nineteen others.
Strangers—every last one of them. For the first time in his life, he was completely and utterly surrounded by strangers. Any other time in his life, he’d either been with friends or comrades . . . or he had been alone.
Twenty bodies, packed into one crowded room. What he wouldn’t give for some solitude.
The sounds of a struggle caught his attention. Solitude forgotten, he followed the low but unmistakable sounds. A woman—his attention sharpened and he realized he was snarling, his lips peeled back from his teeth. He drew the long knife from the sheath he wore at his back as he followed the sounds.
Brighter lights cast long shadows on the ground as he rounded a corner and ended up part of an audience at a sparring match. Feeling like a fool, he slid the knife back into place and started to turn away, but the opponents in the circle caught his attention.
The woman had a banner-bright head of blond hair, pulled back and woven in a tight tail that trailed down her back. The man was the commander, Kalen Brenner. Curious, Xan found himself moving through the crowd to take a place near the edge of the circle, staring at the combatants in the sparring circle.
The base camp had twelve different training areas, each one complete with a sparring circle. He had yet to see one of them empty for more than a moment or two.
This one was far from empty as well, a
nd quite a few people stood off to the side, watching the participants with rapt interest.
He’d yet to see the woman’s face. She stood with her back to him, facing the commander. She was long and lean, standing on the balls of her feet. Brenner was watching her with a grin on his face. It was the only time Xan had seen him with any sort of true expression on his face.
The light glinted in his eyes, and he rushed the woman. Xan felt something inside him clench, and then the woman spun out of the way at the last second, using a move that was oddly familiar. He was quite certain Syn had used a move similar to that one of the times she’d taken him down.
The women in this camp were just plain evil, he decided, watching as the commander hit the ground.
He hadn’t been down a second before the woman joined him. Light fell across her face as she crouched down, one leg on either side of his hips. A grin curled her lips, and she said, “You’re down, pal.”
Her voice—the words, they had an odd inflection to them.
Her eyes were blue and the light in them was just a little wicked, just a little wanton, as Brenner shifted and moved, putting her under him on the ground. They grappled, fighting for control, barely aware of anything besides each other.
Somebody in the crowd called out, “Maybe we should leave the two of you alone.”
“Maybe you should,” the woman responded.
Kalen rolled away from her and came to his feet, smirking at the woman. “I’ve got five on you now.”
“You do know that bragging is never sexy, right?” the woman asked, circling around him.
She moved well. The commander was better, but she was . . . sneaky. Yes, sneaky described her right as she let him close in on her. She gasped and when he paused, she used his momentary distraction to hook her ankle behind his.
They both went toppling to the ground, the woman on top of him, with her knee poised high between his thighs.
One of the spectators called out, “We do need him functional, ya know.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” With a slow curl of her lips, the blonde smiled down at Kalen. “I like him functional myself.”
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