Time's Children

by D. B. Jackson

  The minister smacked his hand on the table, jarring the blocks. “He didn’t ask you for options! He asked what you’ve seen! And the truth is, you’ve seen nothing at all, have you? You don’t know what’s going to happen, just as you didn’t know those assassins would come for the lad. You’re dried up, Seer. It’s time you admitted it.”

  “Isak!”

  Osten’s glare would have kindled damp wood. His cheeks had gone white, his lips a thin gash. “Forgive me, my liege, but I cannot work with this man. If my visions have failed you as of late, it is because of his constant questioning of my competence and loyalty. I will withdraw to my quarters, but will, of course, be honored to speak with you in private.” He directed a stiff nod at Tobias. “Walker.”

  He strode from the chamber, his steps clicking like a pendulum on a clock.

  When he was gone, Mearlan rounded on the minister, ire manifest on his face. “Was that really necessary?”

  “You depend on him, now more than ever. And he has nothing to give you. Nothing at all.”

  “He has wisdom, he has vast knowledge of Oaqamar, of the Axle, of the isles of the Outer Ring. You make him sound useless, and he’s not.”

  The minister gaped. “I’m right, then. He is dried up. And you’ve known all this time?”

  “I suspect. Nothing more. But he still has a good deal to offer. He’s served me for all my years as sovereign. He served my father.”

  Isak’s mouth twitched. He looked off to the side. “I know that, my liege.”

  “Then respect my wishes, and ease up on him.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  Mearlan eyed the map again. “We’ll speak of this later. For now you’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  The minister started toward the door, as did Tobias.

  “Walker, I’d like you to remain.”

  “Of course, my liege.”

  Isak opened the door, but paused there and faced the sovereign once more. “You have my deepest apologies, my liege.”

  The sovereign watched him leave. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said when they were alone. “They’ve never gotten along.”

  Tobias held his tongue.

  “The truth is, even when he still had his powers, Osten was a pompous ass. But as I say, he’s served Daerjen since I was a boy.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  Mearlan gave a wan smile. “You’re right in the middle of it all, aren’t you? One day in my court and you’ve been feted, hunted, and drawn into a personal rivalry that’s older than you are. You probably wish you were back in Windhome.”

  “Not at all. Windhome’s boring. No one would ever say that about this place.”

  The sovereign laughed. “No, I don’t suppose they would.” He leaned over the map, adjusted a few of the blocks that Isak had upset with his outburst. “So, what do you make of all this?”

  “The war, you mean?” Tobias shook his head. “I don’t have the minister’s expertise, or the Seer’s experience. I doubt anything I could offer–”

  “Don’t. I have no time for doubts or modesty. You were educated in matters of warcraft as well as statecraft, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  “Then tell me what you see here.”

  Tobias studied the map. “How many ships per block?” he asked.

  “A dozen.”

  He exhaled. Matters were worse than he thought. “What of Ensydar, my liege? Have they contributed at all to the effort?”

  “Not in a meaningful way. Why?”

  “Because they would fall after Aiyanth. If Oaqamar controls both isles, it can cut off all northern routes to Daerjen. So if Ensydar’s king can be convinced that his own survival is at stake, he might add his ships to your fleet.”

  “Or he might choose to negotiate a peace with the autarch, then sit back and allow Aiyanth to fall.”

  “Do you believe that’s likely?”

  “We’ve had word of Oaqamaran envoys in the royal city.”

  “Oh.” Tobias considered the map again, chewing his lip.

  “You see my problem.” Something in the way Mearlan said this drew Tobias’s gaze. “We’re on a precipice, and I see no way off save one. We can’t win. We can’t afford to lose. The autarch has no incentive to end the war now, unless we concede everything, which would be much the same as losing.” He picked up a red block and rolled it in his fingers. “We can fight on, and hope for a miracle, but at what cost in lives and treasure?”

  “Yes, my liege. I suppose it would have been better…”

  Tobias stopped himself, his face going cold as the blood rushed from his cheeks.

  The sovereign watched him, his eyes appearing darker than they had the previous day, as if the blue were shrouded in storm clouds. “Better what, Walker?”

  “Nothing, my liege.” He could barely whisper the words.

  “It wasn’t nothing. Tell me.”

  “I was… I was going to say… Better you shouldn’t have fought the war at all.”

  “Yes, lately I’ve been thinking much the same thing.”

  Tobias backed away from the table, found a chair, and lowered himself into it. “That’s why you wanted me. That’s where – when – you want me to go.”

  “You have to understand. If I saw any other path, I’d take it. Even before you reached the palace, I was searching for other options. But I felt it was my only choice. And then you arrived, and you’re so young. I… I’m not ready to ask this of you yet. I’m still looking for another way out.”

  “The autarch knows you’re considering this?” Tobias asked. “That’s why he sent the assassins?”

  “He knows I petitioned the chancellor for a Traveler, and I suspect that at some point he learned you’re a Walker. Or else he just assumes it. Knowing or assuming that much, it wouldn’t take him long to piece together the rest.”

  “And it frightens him.”

  “Yes, I expect it does.”

  “You know it does, my liege. That’s why those men came for me.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and found the chronofor, smooth and cool against his fingers. “The Seer is right, you know,” he said. “The future changes constantly. If I do this – if I go back and stop you from going to war – it doesn’t assure Daerjen’s prosperity. Any number of other wars might take the place of this one. Or rather than war, the autarch might resort to assassinations or other strategies.”

  “I understand.”

  “I wonder if he does?”

  “The autarch?”

  Tobias nodded.

  “To be honest, I can’t begin to imagine what might cross the man’s mind. The more important question to my mind is, what will you do? I can’t make you go, I’m sure you know that. This would breach my contract with Windhome.”

  Tobias hadn’t thought of this, but Mearlan was right. This was his way out, if he wanted it. The laws governing the Travelers’ palace were clear in this regard. If the chancellor were to learn of Mearlan’s intentions he would abrogate the contract and demand that Tobias be returned immediately to Windhome.

  “If you don’t want to go back,” the sovereign continued after a brief silence, “I can’t make you. And even if I could, I wouldn’t make you. This is your decision.”

  That made it worse. Tobias feared what the sovereign might ask of him. He was far more afraid that Mearlan’s desire to spare him would lead to the conquest of Daerjen and Aiyanth by the Oaqamarans. He liked this sovereign, and he had grown up in Windhome, in the shadow of the autarchy. Fear of Oaqamar, and resentment of its aggression, its hectoring, ran deep in the northern isles. Tobias had been weaned on it.

  Trevynisle and the Sisters remained free because the autarch knew that the other sovereignties would unite to thwart any attempt on his part to annex the isles. All the courts depended on Trevynisle for Travelers. They might stand by and allow the autarch to take Aiyanth and Ensydar. Some might rejoice in the fall of Daerjen. But all would band against him if h
e moved against the chancellor and his palace. Oaqamar was strong, but the combined might of all the isles had long been enough to hold it in check. If Oaqamar won this war, Trevynisle and the Sisters would fall as well.

  “I wouldn’t refuse you,” Tobias said, the words coming out as a whisper.

  He had expected to see relief in Mearlan’s expression. Instead, the sovereign winced, as from a blow. “You honor me, Walker. You honor all of us.”

  Tobias didn’t respond.

  “So, you’re willing to go. Do you think it would be wise to send you back?”

  “I think it’s the only solution. What’s more, you agree with me, and so does the autarch.”

  “Walker–”

  “Forgive me, my liege, but if the Oaqamarans are willing to risk two Spanners for one Walker, they’re afraid. And you’ve already told me that you have no other options.”

  “When did I–”

  “We’re on a precipice, and I see no way off save one.”

  It was a risky thing, throwing the words of a sovereign back at him. If this angered Mearlan, though, he gave no indication of it. Rather, his shoulders sagged.

  “I might have been rash in saying that. I’m not sure I’ve exhausted all possibilities.”

  Tobias didn’t argue the point further. Instead he asked, “How long?”

  “What?”

  “The war. How long has it been going on?”

  Mearlan hesitated, his gaze slipping to the side. “Fourteen years.”

  The world around Tobias seemed to lurch and fall away. Fourteen years. He would be twenty-nine when he arrived in that time. He would be forty-three after he Walked back. Not much younger than the sovereign himself. Older by far than his father had been when Tobias left home for Windhome. A boy in the body of an aging man.

  “Nothing has been decided, Tobias.”

  He could only nod.

  The silence that followed was as oppressive as black smoke; he could have choked on it. The sovereign regarded him still, concern etching lines in his brow.

  Tobias pushed himself to his feet. “Perhaps I should leave you for now, my liege.”

  “You don’t…” He released a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have no reason to be.”

  “Don’t I? Would you have come had you known what I intended to ask of you?”

  He didn’t know how to answer. He felt as though he had already Traveled to a new place, one in which he could contemplate Walking back nearly as many years as he had lived. Would he have come here knowing what he did now? Maybe. Or perhaps he would have given more thought to Captain Larr’s invitation to join her crew.

  “Your silence tells me all I need to know,” Mearlan said.

  “When the chancellor told me I’d be coming here, I was thrilled. I wanted to serve your court in any way I could.”

  “Even if it meant losing so many years?”

  Another question that was too hard to answer just then. “Please, my liege, may I go?”

  Mearlan pursed his lips, his eyes on the desk. “Yes, all right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tobias hurried from the room.

  Sofya waited in the antechamber. She wore a simple gown of white, much like the one her mother had worn the previous evening. Her hair hung loose, and a blue gem, set in silver, flashed at her throat. She looked lovely, and Tobias wanted nothing more than to walk past her without exchanging a word. He kept his face angled so that she wouldn’t notice his bruised jaw.

  “Good morning, Walker.”

  “Good day, your highness.”

  “Did you hear all the commotion last night? I heard voices and shouting. It was all most strange.”

  “Yes, your highness.”

  “Yes, you heard it, or yes, it was strange?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  Tobias faltered, not wanting to lie, uncertain as to whether the sovereign would want him to tell the truth.

  His failure to answer told her much. “You do know,” she said, eyes narrowing. She stepped closer, took hold of his chin, and turned his head so that she could examine his bruise.

  He hissed through his teeth at the pain.

  “What happened to you?”

  He pulled back from her grasp, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. Does this have something to do with what I heard last night?” Before he could reply, she answered her own question. “It must. You didn’t have that bruise when we spoke in the courtyard. Did you get in a fight?” She eyed him critically. “Were you drunk?”

  At that, he did meet her glare. “Certainly not!”

  “Then what happened? Was it a fight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A fight!” she said again, raising her voice. “Did you have an argument? Did it become violent?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “So, no fight. And no drinking.” She blinked. “Was there an attack on the castle? But no, that would… It couldn’t be.”

  “I think,” he said softly, “this is a conversation you should have with your father.”

  “Why not with you?”

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you and what I can’t.”

  Her expression turned flinty. “I see. Last night you declared yourself my friend. And now you treat me like I’m a child, and you’re suddenly ten years older. I don’t give my friendship lightly, Walker Doljan, and I certainly don’t expect it to be spurned by a little poor boy from Trevynisle.”

  The prescience of her remark – ten years older – left him mute. He probably should have been insulted by the rest of what she’d said, but little of it reached him.

  “I meant no offense, your highness,” he muttered at last, because she expected him to. “Truly.”

  “Nevertheless, you’ve given it.” She walked past him, knocked once on her father’s door, and entered, leaving Tobias alone in the antechamber.

  Chapter 12

  17th Day of Kheraya’s Ascent, Year 647

  Tobias dragged himself through the corridor, down the stairway, and out into the gray morning. Whether due to the events of the night, or the prospect of Walking back so far in time, fatigue weighed on him more heavily than he could remember. He wished only to retreat to his chamber and the comfort of his pallet, and he started in that direction.

  Familiar sounds stopped him, brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. The clash of steel, and shouts of instruction: somewhere nearby, soldiers trained with swords.

  Tobias followed the noises to a third ward, smaller than the others and located at the west end of the castle. Compared with the other two courtyards, this one was austere. The walls were gray rather than white, and completely unadorned. Tobias saw no gardens, no fountains, no painted tile. There was naught but grass. In the middle of the space, the minister of arms drilled several dozen uniformed guards in close combat. The soldiers looked young – younger by far than the guards Tobias had encountered since his arrival.

  Isak spotted Tobias and waved him over, though he continued to call out to the trainees. Out here, his ministerial robe discarded carelessly upon the grass, the minister appeared more powerful, broader in the chest and shoulders.

  “A minister of arms who trains his own soldiers,” Tobias said as he reached the man. “I’m surprised.”

  “I don’t usually. But after going head to head with the Seer, or delivering bad news to his majesty–”

  “Or both?”

  The minister arched an eyebrow. “Aye, or both. Sometimes then, it feels good to come out here and yell at the probationers for a while.”

  Tobias watched the soldiers. It had been more than a ha’turn since last he held a sword. He missed it.

  “Did they train you in swordplay up there in Trevynisle?”

  A grin crept across Tobias’s face. “A bit.”

  “Ho! A bit, is it? I take it you’ve some skill, then?”r />
  Tobias’s grin deepened. “A bit.”

  Isak laughed. “That’s enough there,” he called to the young guards. “I need two blades. Quickly now.”

  Two women stepped forward and handed their blades to the minister. One he tossed to Tobias, who caught it by the hilt. Isak tested the feel of the other with three vicious swipes, steel carving the air with a sibilant whistle.

  Tobias held out the sword to one of the men, removed his robe, and stretched his back and shoulder muscles. He wasn’t properly dressed for training, and his new shoes would not grip the turf well. Those, however, were the least of his concerns. The minister might have been past his best days, but Tobias had little doubt he remained a formidable swordsman. Tobias stood half a hand taller than the man, and probably had a longer reach. He knew, though, that this single slight advantage would prove meaningless. He’d be lucky to come out of this unbloodied. Not that he minded. A fight, a chance to sweat and match wits with a foe, was what he needed.

  Feeling more limber, he reclaimed the sword and faced the minister, weapon held ready.

  “Someone keep an eye on him,” the minister said with a rakish smile. “Make certain he doesn’t jump back in time and beat me before we’ve begun.” He took his stance as well. “Ready, Walker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on then.”

  When you find yourself overmatched, Saffern once told Tobias and his fellow novitiates, strike hard and fast. The longer the fight goes on, the more likely skill and experience will win out.

  Tobias leapt forward, slashing at the minister’s head, his neck, his chest. He didn’t worry about hurting the man, trusting to Isak to block or deflect blows that might do serious damage. He did take care to remain in his crouch, to control his attack and not open himself to the minister’s counters.

  Restrained fury. That’s what you’re striving for. Anyone can swing a sword. A swordsman finds the balance between aggression and caution.

  Tobias toed that fine line, his assault furious, unrelenting, yet measured. Any of the Windhome novitiates would have succumbed already and borne a gash or two. He might have managed to bloody some of the probationers observing this battle. Against the minister, he hadn’t a chance.