Shadows of Destiny

by Rachel Lee

  “You can rest here today,” Tess said. “Your leg…”

  “Will heal as quickly in their camp as here,” he said. “Too many of us lie here. My cousins will need as many as can return. And I can return.”

  “As you wish,” Tess said. “But if you cannot keep up on the march, return to us.”

  “I will keep up,” he said, testing the leg gingerly. “I will do what I must.”

  As he walked away, Odetta shook his head sadly. “He will have to kill again, m’lady.”

  “Aye,” she said, nodding.

  “You cannot heal those wounds,” he said.

  “No, I cannot,” Tess said. Even the Weaver had limits, it seemed. And cruel limits indeed. She dipped the cloth into the basin, rinsing it, then wrung it dry and offered it to Odetta. “This is yours, I believe.”

  He started to reach for it, then paused. “Another will need it, m’lady. Perhaps the time for keeping such things has ended. You have sacrificed all of your past. I can sacrifice this remnant.”

  Tess nodded silently.

  In the distance, she saw the Anari soldier limping back to his cousins. He had surrendered a past of peace and an innocence he would never regain. She could only hope the sacrifice was worthy of its cost.

  “Can any victory pay such a debt?” she asked.

  Odetta did not answer.

  Neither could she.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tom looked up as Archer strode into his tent. With Sara busy tending to Alezzi’s wounded, his mind had been occupied with a little known verse of prophecy that he had come upon in Erkiah’s scrolls. But its vague references to cloud and vapor, sunlight and fire seemed impenetrable. If there were any deep meaning, it lay hidden behind a curtain of fatigue, frustration and fret.

  The military arts that now occupied the army and its leaders were beyond his knowledge, and he had little to contribute to the daily councils of war. Nor could he remain at Sara’s side, for she was moving quickly between Alezzi’s regiments as they scouted the terrain ahead. Both Erkiah and Maluzza had insisted that Tom could not be so close to the action that he would be unavailable if needed. Twice already, Sara had barely escaped capture as she and a small personal guard made their way from one patrol column to another. It was impossible not to worry about her, and impossible to accomplish anything else while he did.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Archer,” he said, grateful for the interruption. “Are the preparations going well?”

  “As well as we could hope,” Archer said. “There is too much to teach and too little time to teach it, but has it not been thus for us all along?”

  “Aye,” Tom said, nodding to a chair. “Your brother did not afford us leisure.”

  “No, he did not,” Archer said. He sat and drew a breath before he spoke. “And now the time has come to meet him. We must prepare.”

  “We?” Tom asked.

  “Aye.”

  Archer was obviously uncomfortable, and for a moment Tom thought back through what he had said, wondering if he had said something untoward. But he could find no cause.

  “What burdens you, m’lord?” Tom asked.

  “What does not?” Archer said, shifting in the chair, as if his legs wished to be propelling him to whatever fate may lie ahead, rather than resting idle. “But for the present, the greatest burden is my own weakness.”

  “The Eshkaron Treysahrans,” Tom said.

  “Aye, Foundling. While my pen birthed those words, I fear my mind did not. Now I must turn to you for guidance of my destiny, lest I misstep and fail us all. Again.”

  “Lord Annuvil did not fail the world….” Tom began, but Archer stopped him.

  “I have made my peace with that mistake, and a grave mistake it was, Tom. It is not one I wish to repeat. So I come to you, not as a teacher but as a disciple. I come to you and I ask you to teach me. Please.”

  This was a different man than Tom had ever known. Gone was the stout heart, which had guided them for these past months. For a moment, it seemed as if Tom were looking at the Annuvil of the First Age, and not the Archer Blackcloak who had walked this world throughout the Second. Tom realized that he had never imagined Annuvil, a young man in a contest with his brother, love turning to anger, anger to rage, rage to hate, consuming them bite by bite until they shredded their world and themselves.

  “You know you must go to your brother,” Tom said.

  Archer nodded. “Aye. I have known that moment would come. Had I been able to face that confrontation in the first age, we might not have come to this.”

  Tom drew a deep breath. “I am not certain it would have been so simple.”

  “No? I am. I let factions play out their games, the one raised by my brother, the other raised on my behalf by our father while I dallied with my lady love. Had I ever spent the time to speak to Ardred, to learn his disaffections, I might have found some way to avoid the pitfalls. I certainly could have spared Theriel’s murder and the revenge of the Ilduin, which rent the world.”

  “You underestimate yourself. Or perhaps overestimate what you should have been.”

  “Do I? I think not, Foundling. I have long had to live with my failings and weaknesses, longer than any mortal man. If I have not learned, then the years have been sorely wasted. So, aye, now I must finally face my brother. And instead of facing simple disaffections and jealousies, I will face a heart hardened by ages of bitterness.”

  He rubbed his chin, staring off as if to some distant place, then his gray eyes returned to Tom. To the younger man, it seemed they had become shards of ice. “My brother has always built well. I have no doubt that Arderon will be too strong for our army to storm.”

  “Lady Tess must accompany you,” Tom said. “For your brother will not open his gates to you.”

  “But he will to her,” Archer said, his face sagging with understanding. “For she is his true desire, as once Theriel was. Once again he has fixed his yearnings on the one thing that he cannot order. And I must use her as bait, that I can slay him and end this.”

  “She is not bait,” Tom said. “Search your heart and you will know that. You may be the Firstborn Son of the First-born, but Lady Tess is the Weaver. Let her weave.”

  Archer shook his head. “The last time I permitted Ilduin to weave, I left that blighted black glass. That I cannot allow again.”

  “They were Ilduin,” Tom said. “But they were not the Weaver. All that has gone before has led to the moment we now face. Even the destruction of Dederand and the rending of the worlds. This path was set for us by the gods, Lord Archer. For all of us. Even you. Even Lady Tess. We but merely set our feet on the path they have made for us.”

  Archer sat silent for a moment, staring at the ground between his feet. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with tears.

  “I love her, Tom.”

  Tom put a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “We need no prophet to know that, my friend. Though perhaps she does.”

  “I have not told her,” Archer said. “I dare not. For in the final moment, I must be ready to let her go.”

  And suddenly the painful truth lay open before Tom’s eyes. This was the true agony of soul that underlay the Eshkaron Treysahrans. The ultimate betrayal.

  “Aye,” Tom said. “You must. For to grasp her at that moment would be the end of all.”

  “How can I tell her that I love her,” Archer murmured, as if to himself, “when I know I will betray her thus? Is it not better that she never knows?”

  “There is much wisdom that I cannot plumb,” Tom said. “The human heart is such an abyss. I cannot tell you what you must do here, my friend. I can only tell you what I would wish for, if I were Lady Tess.”

  “And that is?”

  Tom smiled. “I would wish to know that I am loved.”

  Cilla was taking her supper when she found Ratha standing at the back of the line before the cook tent. The men ahead of him offered to defer to their new commander, but he shook his head firmly. He would not e
at until all were fed. It was a tradition among Anari fathers, and in the Bozandari legions as well, it seemed.

  When finally he had received his rations, she realized he had seen her as well. He came to her with a measured, purposeful stride, pausing to whisper a word into the ear of an officer, then sitting at her side.

  “If he means to lead,” Ratha said quietly, “he must first learn to serve. He took his meal before his men, and they noticed.”

  “He is young,” Cilla offered.

  Ratha nodded. “And he will be young in four days, when we stand before the gates of Arderon. We have no time to wait for age to mature us.”

  “He cannot lack for much maturity,” Cilla said. “He took your words well.”

  “Aye, that he did. They all have, thus far. We will see what four days of hard marching and the specter of the final battle do for their wills.”

  “These are good men,” Cilla said. “They are hardy and courageous. Most are not from Bozandar itself, but from the northern lands.”

  “I have seen that, cousin,” he said. “In many ways, they remind me of our friends from Whitewater. They take care of one another in the manner of those to whom life has often given hardship, and who learned to rely on one another from the cradle.”

  “Like Anari,” Cilla said.

  He took her gnarled hand and kissed it. “Yes, cousin. Like Anari.”

  A quiet murmur spread through the men, and when Cilla looked up, she realized Ratha’s kiss had drawn attention.

  “We should perhaps be discreet,” she whispered. “Your men do not need to see their commander acting like a schoolboy with a crush.”

  “Their commander is with the woman whom he hopes to take as a wife when this is over,” Ratha said.

  Cilla’s breath caught. For a moment, her heart leapt, and then it sank. “This is not the time for such thoughts, Ratha. Not with what lies ahead.”

  “It may well be the only time we have,” Ratha said. “And if we cannot speak of hope in such a moment, we have naught left but fear.”

  Fear. It had been her constant companion for so long that she had forgotten its name. But the word brought it all forth. So many had fallen. Ratha was a good man, but those who fell had also been good men. Why would the gods spare him? For her love? That did not seem to count for much in this age.

  Yet he was right. If they forsook hope, there was nothing left to cling to. Not even each other. She kissed his hand softly.

  “Yes, Ratha Monabi. I mean to be yours when this war ends. We will marry in the Temple of Anahar, and we will raise children in our Tel. They will listen as you tell stories of all that we have been through.”

  Ratha laughed. “They will pretend to listen.”

  She squeezed his hand hard. “No, Ratha. They will listen, and they will learn what it means to be Anari, and the price we paid to live free and in peace. They will honor you and all of those who paid that price.”

  “Like Giri,” he said softly, his stomach turning to lead.

  Her grip on his hand softened. “Yes, cousin. Like Giri. We will want to forget these days, to forget the pain and sorrow, the fear and hardship. But we cannot forget. And we cannot allow our children to forget, or their children. These days must be marked forever, that we shall never fall into them again.”

  Ratha smiled. “You speak to a soldier, cousin. I am no scribe.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But who among us is all that he will ever be?”

  “You would make me a scribe and a priest,” Ratha said.

  “And a father, forget not that!” Cilla cut in.

  “And when will I make time for this?” He leaned in and kissed her lips.

  She was about to respond when the murmur around them grew to a chorus of whistles. She was certain her cheeks were a deep crimson when their lips parted, and to her greater horror, Ratha stood and lifted her to her feet, then bowed to the men.

  The whistles grew to a roar of applause, and despite her embarrassment, she felt as light as she had since the first time she kissed him. Lighter, even, for now she had no doubt that their hopes ran side by side in the river of time. To her surprise, she could feel that a smile had broken out over her face.

  More to her surprise, that same smile was mirrored in the faces of the men around them. They were not making fun of her and Ratha. They were sharing the moment, marking the memories of times with their own lovers, long leagues away and months or years past. For that brief flicker of the day, as the sun set behind the mountains, they were no longer in a cold valley, in the shadow of Arderon and a battle many of them would not survive. They were back at home, in a world where it was safe to think only of the pleasures of the moment.

  The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

  No sooner had the long shadows fallen over the valley than the cries of sentries split the dusk. Ratha set her on her feet almost before Cilla recognized the sound.

  “To ranks!” he cried, although the men were already in motion, grasping shields as they stuffed last morsels of bread into their mouths. “Fly, Golden Eagles. Fly!”

  In moments, the area around the cook tent was deserted save for men who were unable to return to their units. They ushered her back to the aid station, carrying food and water for those who could not rise from their beds. There were far too many of these for the few cots she had.

  And tonight, she knew, there would be more.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The night’s fighting had been a series of brief but bitter skirmishes. At various times, the Enemy had probed at nearly every point along the army’s perimeter. At each point, the new hammer-and-anvil tactics had been employed to take advantage of the hives’ weaknesses. When the sun rose, the Enemy dead once again numbered in the thousands, but this army had fewer than a hundred of its own. Now the army’s vanguards were on the march, the Snow Wolves falling into formation to take their place in the center column.

  Tuzza had not been comforted when Lord Archer had announced that he and Lady Tess would be leaving the Snow Wolves in Tuzza’s hands.

  “We have a private mission that we must fulfill if the army is to have any hope at all,” Archer had said.

  “Your brother,” Tuzza had replied.

  Archer had nodded silent agreement, apparently neither wishing nor intending to give a more complete explanation. Of course, Tuzza had some idea of the task Archer and Tess faced, because he had listened to the many conversations that had floated around over the weeks since they had left Anahar. Perhaps all of his men had heard the same talk in the wind, and knew what was afoot. But he feared for morale if his men began to suspect they had been abandoned in their time of greatest need.

  “Take not counsel of your fears,” Tom said, seemingly appearing at his side, eyes concealed behind the leathern mask he wore.

  “You startled me, Prophet.”

  “My apologies, Overmark. Though perhaps it is for the better that I did. Your face was dark with worry.”

  Tuzza feigned a smile. “There is a reason they speak of the burden of command, young friend.”

  “Perhaps,” Tom said. “But take not upon yourself an undue burden. It rests upon each of us to do what he can, and trust that the gods will grace our efforts.”

  Tuzza compressed his lips. “You will pardon me if I say that is easier to do when one’s decisions do not leave one’s men dead and bleeding on the field. Please, I mean no disrespect, Prophet, but my men are walking into battle, a battle I know they cannot carry themselves. This ending will be written by Annuvil and the Weaver. If they cannot triumph over Ardred, we can but die in the trying. Are my men not mere fodder in their game?”

  Tom seemed to think for a moment before he spoke. “Have you ever built a house, m’lord?”

  “No,” Tuzza said. “I have not.”

  Tom nodded. “I have, back in Whitewater. When fire or storm would claim the house of someone in the village, we all came together to rebuild it.”

  “In Bozandar, a man w
ould pay a builder to do that,” Tuzza said. “I am not saying that we are better, nor that you are. It is simply a different way of doing things.”

  “Aye,” Tom said. “When I build a house, perhaps my hands touch only the beams of a single wall, or lay only a small portion of the tar and thatch on a roof. Are my hands not fodder in a larger effort whose outcome is beyond my control? Have I wasted my sweat and my blisters if my neighbor does not perform his part of the task well, or if a windstorm destroys the house before we can finish it?”

  “But it is your sweat, and they are your blisters,” Tuzza said. “You bear personally the cost of your action in helping your neighbor. Whatever cost I bear pales beside the cost borne by my men and their families and loved ones. I may choose to help build this house, but these men—” he drew a hand around, pointing to the ranks of the Snow Wolves “—these men will suffer the blisters. Or worse, they will never see their own homes again. It is easy, far too easy, for us to say that the promise of light is worth the wax of the candle. If indeed we do prevail, we will see that light. But too many of them will be the wax burned away for a light they will never see. And those who do see that light will have not their own victory to credit for it, but their having fought and bled to lay the table upon which Annuvil and Ardred could settle their age-old blood feud.”

  “Do you believe in our cause?” Tom asked plainly.

  For a moment, Tuzza wondered if Tom were questioning his loyalty. But perhaps that questioning was not wholly unfounded.

  “I do,” Tuzza finally said. “And if we can do naught but to keep Ardred’s army occupied so that Annuvil and the Weaver can deal with him directly, that must be our task. But I grieve for these men, Prophet. Every one that falls is a weight against the balance of my soul. When finally I meet the gods, I pray that weight will not be so great that I am cast out. For I fear I will deserve no less.”

  “Let the gods weigh those measures, m’lord,” Tom said, grasping Tuzza’s shoulder. “We lack the wisdom to do thus for ourselves.”