Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Someone had told her that the battle had ended several hours ago, with some Chonao throwing down their guns and surrendering and others simply taking to their heels, but she didn’t believe it until the evidence lay before her.

  It was late afternoon, and clouds masked the sun, but Talis guessed it was only a few hours before sunset. Ombal Pass lay stretched out before her, its terrain so altered by what had gone on that day that it bore little resemblance to the grassy upland it had been in the morning. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, both human and equine. Cannon fire had scarred the land, leaving huge gashes in the earth, gashes that had now turned to mud. The grass was nearly gone, trampled by thousands of feet into a brownish-green slurry.

  Still leading Banner, Talis began walking, picking her way over the wounded earth.

  She saw medical teams running back and forth with stretchers, carrying men who screamed and babbled for their mothers, men who cried out in agony with every jounce.

  Banner snorted the first time they stepped around a dead horse, but after five or six more, he no longer reacted, plodding after her, his wet white coat streaked with dirt, mud, and blood that was neither his own nor Talis’s.

  When Talis at first stepped over a severed leg, still clad in its boot, she gulped, feeling the urge to retch, but after a few minutes she was numb to them.

  For a moment she wondered about Eregard. Had he survived? Or had he been killed, like his father?

  When she’d seen him up there on his horse, waving the Royal Standard, rallying his troops, she found it impossible to believe that they’d ever kissed, that his hand had touched her breast. It never happened, she reminded herself. It will never happen again, either. The thought brought a dull pain she didn’t want to examine too closely.

  As she plodded on, splashing through puddles, wet to the skin, hair unraveled from its neat braid and hanging in strings around her shoulders, she passed a contingent of Pelanese soldiers helping wounded comrades who could still walk off the field. She gave them a halfhearted wave, though the effort seemed too much to make.

  Two of the officers stared, and then one did something odd. He saluted her. The other officer stared at him as they helped their wounded comrade along. “She’s not an officer,”

  Talis heard him protest.

  “Don’t you know who that is?” the captain who’d saluted said. “That’s her. The one called Talis, who led the charge up in the foothills. See, that’s old King Agivir’s horse she’s leading.”

  How strange, Talis thought as she plodded on. They know who I am?

  She spent a moment wondering where Jezzil had gone.

  He’d been wounded; she remembered that. But she didn’t

  think it had been serious. By the time the fight with the Chonao cavalry was over, he’d disappeared.

  By now she’d almost reached the infirmary tents. Soldiers sat huddled on the ground, some eating or drinking, others simply sitting, too exhausted to move. Under an overhang-ing boulder, a few were trying to kindle a fire, without much success.

  I must see to Banner, Talis thought. A good rubdown and a hot mash, then I can …

  She shook her head, realizing she was too tired to even imagine what to do next. Wearily, she staggered on.

  “Ouch,” Jezzil said. “That hurts.”

  “Of course it does,” Khith said calmly. “I used up the last of my pain-numbing tisane to get the bullet out. It’s wearing off now, and I am still stitching.”

  The former Chonao lay on a table in the infirmary tent, trying to ignore the screams, the stench, and the pain as his teacher tended to his wounded leg. He jerked involuntarily when Khith set another suture, and when Khith gazed at him reproachfully, he nodded. “Sorry. I promise I’ll be still.”

  “You should not have walked on it,” Khith said. “That caused the surrounding flesh to tear.”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Jezzil said, then gritted his teeth, feeling the needle go in. He forced himself not to move. “Falar was almost dead on her feet. I knew I couldn’t help them in the fight, so once I was sure they were going to win, I started walking back to the pass. I had to take care of Falar.”

  Khith made a small sound of exasperation as it tugged, then knotted. “There, that’s the last,” it said. “Now I’ll bandage it and check your arm.”

  “The arm is nothing,” Jezzil said. “Barely a nick. I got one of the soldiers to bandage it.”

  A nurse hurried up to the little Hthras. “Healer, we need you. There’s a case been brought in, a belly wound, a young lieutenant. None of the other doctors can treat it.”

  Khith nodded wearily as it finished the bandaging. “I know. I will be there.” The Hthras looked at its apprentice.

  “As soon as you have had time to rest, I will need you here. I am the only one who can use avundi to help the wounded, and I cannot be everywhere.”

  Jezzil sighed. “I understand,” he said. “I just need some food.”

  “And sleep,” Khith admonished. “You may put your breeches back on. I will see you at first light, Jezzil, and I will teach you so that you may help.”

  “I’ll be here,” Jezzil said. “But, Master, where is Thia?

  Back at the palace?”

  “No, she is here, along with the Princess—or rather, the Queen, I suppose—helping in the infirmary.”

  “Which tent?”

  “I do not know, Jezzil.” Without further ado, Khith turned and followed the Pelanese nurse into the back of the tent.

  Jezzil fastened his breeches and stood up, a little wobbly, but Khith had wrapped his leg well and it bore his weight.

  He limped out of the infirmary tent, glad to be away from the stench.

  Outside, he stepped over the guy lines holding up the tent and walked around a huge barrel crammed full of severed limbs. Flies buzzed so loudly they nearly drowned out the screaming.

  Jezzil walked over to where several soldiers sat, passing a flask back and forth. A broken lance lay beside one of them.

  “Mind if I borrow this?” Jezzil asked, picking it up.

  The soldiers looked up at him. “They took it out of Garando’s chest,” the closest said. “That funny little doc, he saved him, they say.”

  “Yes, Khith is very good,” Jezzil agreed absently. “I need to find a friend of mine. I could use something to lean on.”

  “Sure, take it,” said the soldier.

  Having the lance to lean on helped. Jezzil began limping from one infirmary tent to another. He would duck inside, scan the people there, and then, when he didn’t see Thia, leave. He did see Ulandra, wearing a plain black dress and a blood-splashed apron, but there was no sign of Thia.

  His urgency grew. Jezzil’s rational mind told him that she was all right, she was fine, that he would see her soon, but he found himself unable to sit down, unable to stop searching.

  He had to find her. He had to find her now.

  And find her he did, in the sixth infirmary tent he tried. She was standing beside one of the doctors, helping to hold down a patient for an amputation. For a moment he just watched her, thinking that many men wouldn’t have had the courage to do what she was doing. The soldier, a woman, was screaming, high, piercing screams that made his own throat ache. It was a relief to all present when she finally passed out and lay silent.

  The doctor continued sawing in relative peace.

  Jezzil stood there quietly as Thia and the Pelanese surgeon finished their work, bound up the stump, then transferred the soldier to a cot.

  Carrying the severed limb and a basin of bloody water, Thia ducked through the back entrance to the tent. Jezzil hastily backed up and made his way around it, avoiding the guy ropes, pushing himself faster. He had to see her.

  By the time he reached the rear of the tent, she’d almost completed her gruesome task. The limb had been deposited into a barrel, and Thia had just finished dumping the bloody water into a stained hollow in the ground that had obviously served that purpose many times. She ha
d her back to Jezzil, and as he moved toward her, she straightened, put a hand to the small of her back and stretched, making a weary little sound that tore at his heart.

  “Thia?” Even though he hadn’t spoken loudly, his voice seemed to ring through the noisy camp.

  She whirled around, and the basin dropped from her hands. “Jezzil! You’re alive!”

  He laughed, now that he was here, not knowing what to say or do. “I am,” he admitted. “Only a bit the worse for wear.”

  She ran to him, but just as he thought she was going to fling herself into his arms, she stopped, her eyes going to his bandaged leg. “You’re wounded!”

  “It’s not bad,” he said. “Khith took care of it. It told me where to find you. I … I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I had to see you.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, feeling awkward and confused. “It’s so good to see you,” he added idiotically.

  She was staring at him, and there was something in her eyes that made him feel more light-headed than his wound had. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, too,” she said. “All day I’ve thought, ‘What if the next one they carry in is Jezzil? What if he’s dying?’ ” She reached over, picked up his hand from her shoulder and held it to her cheek. He felt a warm droplet amidst the raindrops. “I thought I’d rather be dead myself than see that.”

  He didn’t know who made the first move. Perhaps they both did. Somehow she was in his arms and he was holding her. The pain from his leg was gone, and the sounds of the camp faded away. They held each other so tightly it hurt, and the hurt felt more wonderful than anything he’d ever felt before.

  She was mumbling his name as he awkwardly kissed her cheek, her forehead, her nose. By the time he found her mouth, she was half laughing, half crying.

  Their first kiss was clumsy, tentative, but the second was much better. They were learning fast. Jezzil had not known that kissing felt like this, that such an intimate act could feel so natural. He kissed her until his head swam, and by the time they finally pulled away from each other, they were both learning by leaps and bounds.

  He stared down at her. “Is this what love feels like?”

  “It must be,” she gasped, and pulled his head back down.

  “Thia! Thia, where are you? I need you! Thia!”

  It took a long time for the sound to penetrate Jezzil’s fogged brain, but finally he could no longer ignore it. He lifted his head and looked around, to see the Pelanese doctor standing there, staring at them.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said in a more moderate tone. “It’s obvious this is important … but I do need you, Thia.”

  She nodded at the surgeon, then looked back up at Jezzil.

  “I have to go. Besides, you must rest.” She stepped back, away from him, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, though.”

  Jezzil half raised a hand and smiled back at her. “Soon,”

  he echoed.

  And then she had ducked back into the infirmary tent, and he was alone, wet from the rain, his wounded leg throbbing— and he’d never felt such joy in his life.

  Jezzil turned his face up to the rain and, not sure exactly who he was addressing, whispered, “Thank you … thank you.”

  Epilogue

  Thia, Jezzil, Talis, and Khith stood on the old battlements, looking out at the harbor of Minoma, waiting for sunset. It had been four days since the Pelanese victory over the Redai’s forces, and the work of healing the wounded and burying the dead was still continuing.

  Three of them were still working in the tents housing the wounded: Khith and Jezzil using Hthras medical techniques to heal internal injuries, Thia helping to care for the injured. Talis had ridden out on the expeditions to patrol the countryside, lest any fleeing Chonao soldiers turn renegade. But it seemed that the vast majority of Kerezau’s surviving army was even now marching back to Gen under guard. Salesin had promised the rank and file soldiers amnesty if they would set sail back to Ktavao, which is what almost all of them elected to do.

  Eregard was in mourning for his parents, and they saw little of him. Salesin had put his brothers in charge of the army and the prisoners of war, so the new king could devote his time to planning his coronation.

  King Agivir and Queen Elnorin had lain in state side by side for two days, in closed coffins, while the people of Pela passed by in droves to pay their final respects. Then, yesterday, there had been two memorial services, one a huge state funeral that took hours, and the other a quieter, private service for the family and members of the court.

  Eregard had spoken with Prince Adranan in private before the family service, his expression bitter. “You realize that Father was almost certainly assassinated.”

  Adranan’s eyes widened. “How can you say that? It was a battle, Eregard!”

  “Did you look at him?” Eregard asked, his voice harsh with grief.

  “No,” Adranan admitted, “I couldn’t bear to.”

  “I was with him when it happened. Adranan, you’ve been in enough battles to know how a bullet acts on flesh and bone. Father’s face was destroyed, not the back of his head.

  That shot came from our own ranks.”

  Adranan gazed at his brother, his expression sad but not particularly surprised. “It could have been a stray bullet. An accident,” he said, but Eregard could tell even he didn’t believe it.

  “The Chonao weren’t in range or position to make that shot. The bullet came from behind us—the Chonao attack was off to the side. The shots that killed the Standard Bearer and the guard were just to make it look good. Father was the target—and so was I. If I hadn’t bent over to get Father water at just that moment, I’d have been killed, too.” Eregard raised his bandaged arm. The wound, thanks to Khith’s ministrations, was healing well.

  His brother gazed at Eregard for a long moment, then sighed. “Bullets do go astray during battle,” he said simply.

  “There is no way to prove anything.”

  “You’re right,” Eregard admitted. “But I know what I know, Adranan. First Salesin set it up so Father would have to personally go to battle, then he made sure he would never live through it.”

  Adranan gazed at his brother sadly. “Eregard, we both have to walk a tightrope from now on. Until Salesin gets himself an heir, we’re both in danger. I don’t want to lose you again, brother. Please say nothing of what you suspect.

  Please. For my sake.”

  Eregard had sighed and nodded. “Very well, Adranan. As you say, there is no way to prove anything.”

  But the Prince did find some outlet for his feelings by composing a song that he sang at the private memorial service. Eregard did not dare to look at Salesin as he played and sang, so he had no idea how much his brother understood of what he was trying, subtly, to say.

  “Strength and beauty, dwelt apart, met and wed at last

  Strong through test of war and creeping villain Famine’s fast

  Beautiful together through the lush and festive years

  Shielding sons and kingdom from grim danger, crippling fears

  Setting founding stones beyond our might of mortal ken

  Sudden now a world without them we must comprehend.

  Elnorin, Mother, queen and noble lady fair

  Taken at her height of questing mind and gentle beauty rare

  Queen and Mother, both in fullest measure, she

  Who surpassed all gentler measures bringing us to be

  Elnorin the Queen, see the ringing heavens blaze her name

  Yet it is for loving Mother we must mourn and yet remain.

  Now Agivir, our king and father, killed in blaring battle’s song

  He whose seed gave strength and life to us, his struggling sons

  Violent more than troubled birth was our great father’s death

  His life and fame and regal power robbed of hearty breath

  The golden fruit falls early, rudely shaken from the tree

  As all Life and Power know but bitter brevity.

 
Truthful Strength and gentle Beauty long were met and wedded strong

  Wedded fast, alas, but not for us forever long

  Now for us a world less strong, less beautiful displays

  For us to keep their honor by our poorer deeds and ways

  Stark see we now how lesser Power fleeting passes on

  Let Strength and Beauty grow to be their greater standing stone.”

  This morning they had buried the King and Queen in the family vault, side by side.

  Now, standing on the battlements, waiting for sunset, the four companions looked out on the bustling harbor town, each busy with his, her, or its private thoughts.

  Knowing that Thia had spent yet another exhausting morning in the infirmary tent, Khith reached out a narrow-fingered hand to touch the former priestess’s face. “I sense great weariness,” it said softly. “You must not make yourself ill, Thia.”

  She gave the Hthras physician a wan smile. “I’ll be all right. It’s just that sometimes they die. And it’s terrible when that happens.”

  “It is,” Khith murmured. “I know.”

  Jezzil was still gazing out over the harbor. “I wonder if any of Kerezau’s forces will be able to regroup. He had some strong subcommanders.”

  “I don’t think so,” Talis said. “Major q’Rindo told me that we captured most of the top leaders. And do you know what they found in the command tent?”

  Jezzil shook his head. “I’ve been so busy in the infirmary, I’ve scarcely had a chance to talk to anyone who was unwounded. What did they find?”

  “Kerezau’s body, bound and gagged. He’d been dead most of the day, the major said.”

  Jezzil nodded. “Barus said he’d gone mad, and that after he ordered that suicidal cavalry charge, his commanders hustled him away and restrained him, to make sure he couldn’t issue any more such orders.”

  Talis gazed up at Jezzil. “They also said he had an inflamed spot on his neck. Right about here.” She touched the side of her own throat. “That poison in your bag … what effect would it have on someone if it touched the flesh but did not actually pierce the skin?”