It was times like this—times when she felt as if the tension and anxiety were crushing in on her—that she missed Mariyah the most. Loria had made great efforts not to become too close to the girl. Her experience had taught her that a soft heart dulled a sharp mind. But she had not been able to help it. Mariyah reminded Loria so much of herself as a young woman. While different in many ways, Mariyah gave her a peek into what Loria had once hoped to be, before the trials of life had sent her in directions that denied her the opportunity. Though to claim it was denied her was a poor excuse, really. Mariyah had been through one of the most dreadful nightmares imaginable upon leaving her home, and yet she held on to the ideals and dreams she had kept tucked away inside since she was a child.
The words Loria had spoken to Lem were sincere, but not for his benefit as much as they’d been to keep Mariyah’s hopes alive. If anyone could redeem someone who’d served as a purveyor of death, she could. And as Mariyah had hoped for so long to have Lem back in her life, Loria dearly wanted it for her. Or at least for her to have a real chance.
Loria finished her brandy and sat the empty glass on the table, staring at it for a moment, while considering pouring another. It was late. But then Lem and Bram were an hour gone. At least the visits from the soldiers would cease. Perhaps after one more. But the part of her that knew she would need to wake early stayed the impulse.
Maybe a few days at the lake, she thought.
It would be at least two weeks before she would learn anything about Mariyah. Even the Iron Lady needed a respite from time to time. She stood, the muscles in her back knotting above the waist.
“I feel more like the glass lady,” she muttered, rubbing firmly at the soreness.
A sudden tingle in her neck snatched her attention. Someone had tried to breach the wards. Spreading her hands, she muttered the spell so to know which had been triggered. The tingle repeated four more times in rapid succession. Something was very wrong.
Running from the parlor, she could hear shouts from the guards echoing through the corridor, which grew louder as she approached the foyer.
Two of her guards were facing the open front door, weapons drawn.
“What’s happening?” she shouted.
“We’re under attack, my lady,” one replied nervously.
“From who?”
“I don’t know.”
Loria hurried to the doorway. From the corners of the manor her guards were rushing toward the front gate. Confused orders were being given; some to return to the manor so as not to leave it unguarded, others to charge the gate.
She could see torchlight in the far distance, though it was impossible to tell how many there were.
“My lady!” Gertrude came running up from the direction of the east wing.
As she turned, more wards were set off. “Get back to your room and lock the door.”
“It’s Ralmarstad,” she called out, stumbling to a halt.
“Are you sure?”
Gertrude nodded frantically. “Marison saw them just as they arrived.” She was weeping.
“What’s happened?”
“They shot him with an arrow when he ran to warn you, my lady.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. They only grazed his shoulder. But we need to leave now. He said there are at least a hundred soldiers coming.”
The words chilled her blood. More than enough to overcome the wards if they were determined. They would stop the first attacker, perhaps the second. But then the magic would fail. The wards had never been meant to hold off an army.
“Get Marison and meet me in the west garden,” she commanded. “Hurry.”
Gertrude obeyed without hesitation. She didn’t have much time. Once it was revealed who was attacking, the guards would likely surrender—unwilling to fight a contingent of real soldiers.
The question of why they were attacking was irrelevant at this point, though as she hurried to her bedchamber she considered that it could only be one of two reasons. It was possible that Lem’s killing spree had prompted action by Belkar’s followers, but that was improbable. If they’d suspected her involvement, they could have sent the Ubanian city guard with a warrant that day. These were soldiers of Ralmarstad. They had to have come across the Sea of Mannan. Most probably they were securing the city and putting down anyone deemed a threat.
Lem had been correct. The war was beginning.
Loria had made a habit of leaving a small pack ready in the event of such an emergency. But at that moment, it felt like she was woefully unprepared. Taking time only to change out of her robe and into a pair of trousers, shirt, and shoes better suited for running, she threw the pack over her shoulders.
Before she could reach the door, it flew open, and two men in chainmail armor and carrying short blades, the sigil of Ralmarstad across their chest, burst in.
“She’s in here!” the one on the left bellowed over his shoulder.
Loria was not about to be taken—though from their posture, capture was not their intention. She threw her arms forward and released a web of blue lightning that flew from her fingertips. Both men were thrown back against the wall, and their weapons clattered to the tiles. The hasty way she’d cast meant the spell wasn’t lethal, but it was more than enough to render them unconscious.
In the hall, six more soldiers were running toward her, weapons ready. With a few additional seconds she prepared a far more powerful attack, voicing the words with precision and waving both arms in a wide circle.
A tempest sprang up just ahead of the assault, tossing the bodies of her foes about like cloth dolls. She maintained the spell until certain they were all down. Two were not moving at all; the rest were moaning, broken and twisted from being repeatedly slammed against the hard stone of the walls and floor.
She continued at full tilt, encountering three of her own guards along the way who were fleeing the west garden—right where she’d sent Marison and Gertrude. Her mind flashed to the rest of her staff, but she was helpless to save them. They wouldn’t put up a fight. Hopefully, she was the only one they’d been ordered to kill. But there was no time to dwell on it.
In the kitchen she encountered two more soldiers, but they were easily overcome by a ribbon of magical energy—a silent spell unlikely to draw the attention of nearby foes.
Reaching the door, she peered into the garden. Off to her right torches heralded the approach of dozens of more soldiers.
“My lady.”
Marison and Gertrude rose from behind a row of bushes a few yards from the entrance. Marison’s shoulder was wrapped in a hastily made bandage, and he was still wearing his formal work attire. Not inconspicuous, to say the least.
“The south end is unwatched,” he told her, doing his level best not to look afraid.
This was good news.
Without another word, they threaded their way around the manor. More orders being shouted followed by men crying out and begging to be spared told a tale that she did not want to hear. Her guards were being slaughtered. Which meant the staff would suffer the same fate. The tears pouring down Gertrude’s cheeks said that she realized this as well.
A line of soldiers rounded a hedgerow, prompting the trio to duck behind a flower bed. Loria’s heart was pounding. Marison wrapped his arm around his wife as they all held their breath until the soldiers marched past at a double clip.
The screams of the dying followed them the rest of the way to the southern fence line. Loria disabled the wards and pointed for Marison and Gertrude to go first. After a brief look of protest, Marison helped Gertrude over, who slipped on the way down, landing flat on her backside. After she waved that she was unhurt, Marison and Loria followed.
Loria was grateful when they entered the trees and the wails of pain could no longer reach her.
“You don’t think they know where we are?” Gertrude asked, her face soaked in tears but her voice steady.
“Let’s hope not,” Loria responded grimly.
It took some time to navigate the forest, staying far enough away from the manor to be sure not to encounter any patrols. It would be a while before they realized she’d escaped. Even with a hundred men, searching every inch of her home was no small task.
It was about two hours until dawn when they reached the cliffs. Loria had to stop and think for a few minutes to remember where the entrance to the stairs was hidden. She’d only come here twice in her life: once when her mother showed it to her, and the day her father died.
“We’re trapped,” Gertrude said, stepping close to the edge of what was a three-hundred-foot drop to the rocks below.
Loria held up a hand to silence her while she searched the ground a few yards from the tree line. Finally, she found the slight depression in the grass where a round piece of slate had been carefully placed. It took a few minutes to tear away the roots that had through the years grown over it, and it was only with Marison’s help that she pulled the slate from the grip of the soil.
The stone stairwell was barely wide enough to step within, and descended almost vertically into pitch blackness.
“If you fall, you die,” Loria warned. “There are niches carved into the walls. Don’t move until you’re secure.”
The steps were slippery, and as she had said, a mistake would send you three hundred feet down with no way to stop your fall. She found the first niche and gripped it tightly before entering, making sure to have a firm hold on the next before stepping again.
It took more than an hour to reach the bottom. Marison could be heard sucking his teeth against his wound from time to time, prompting Gertrude to whisper that he would be all right. Loria hoped it wasn’t too bad. She had a kit for treating minor injuries in her pack, but anything more serious would require proper care.
Loria lit a torch in an iron sconce on the wall, revealing a platform next to a narrow channel in which waited a small dinghy equipped with a single sail. Waves could be heard crashing against the rocks off to their left around a sharp bend, where the channel opened up to the Sea of Mannan.
“We’re lucky it’s low tide,” Loria remarked.
“Of everything I’m feeling, lucky isn’t one of them,” Gertrude said.
“We live,” Marison said. “Which is more than the others can say. That alone makes us lucky.”
His indelicacy earned him a scathing look from his wife. “They were our friends.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Yes, they were. And I will weep for them later. But at this moment, I only care about your safety.”
Gertrude wiped away the tears and turned to Loria. “Where are we going?”
Loria stepped aboard and tossed her pack to the stern. “I’m taking you to Lytonia.”
Marison untied the ropes, exchanging knowing looks with his wife. “If your intention is to see to our safety, I beg your pardon, my lady, but you have misjudged the situation.”
“My road takes me places where I cannot watch out for you,” she countered with firm resolve.
Gertrude boarded and helped Marison pull in the ropes. “The way I see things, my lady, you can release us from your service, in which case we’ll go where we like, or you can allow us to remain and help. But I warn you—release us and we’ll follow you anyway.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. The dangers I face—”
“Should be faced with loyal friends at your side,” Gertrude cut in. “I’ve known you since you were a child. If you think I’ll abandon you now, you’re as daft as that young man … Lem. If war has come, where could you send us?” Her tears returned. “All of our friends are dead. I will not do nothing.”
Gertrude’s tears brought a lump to Loria’s throat. “I understand how you feel. I’m sure you know this. But the fight I have ahead is beyond you.” Gertrude opened her mouth to protest, but Loria raised her hand. “I’m not suggesting you’re useless. And I can see any attempt to dissuade you would fail. But if you are to help me, you must do as I say. And go where I tell you.”
Gertrude nodded. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“Right now, I need you to dress your husband’s wounds while I get us out of here.”
Loria retrieved the kit and, unfastening a long pole tied to the rail, began pushing the boat along the channel. She could see the displeasure in Marison at watching his mistress labor. But when he tried to pull free to help, Gertrude gave him a sharp pinch.
“Lady Camdon isn’t frail,” she scolded. “Be still or I’ll end up stabbing you with the needle.”
Sulking, Marison did as told.
The seas were rough when they reached the mouth of the cave, and it took both Gertrude and Loria some effort to raise the sail without being pitched overboard. Marison was instructed to work the rudder, Loria directing him so he could catch the wind. It had been a long time since she’d been sailing, and the swells crashing over the tiny craft brought back memories of how much she disliked it. By the time they were in good position and the boat began moving at a decent clip, they were all drenched to the skin.
If conditions worsened, they could be in serious trouble. Taking Marison’s place, Loria tried to guide them at a better angle, using the lessons her mother had taught her as a young girl when she would take them out in this very vessel—though they never went out at this time of year, when the sea was a churning caldron of death.
High above, a bright glow rose from the lip of the cliffside. Gertrude and Marison saw it as well. The soldiers had torched the manor.
“My lady.” Gertrude spoke just above a whisper.
Loria shut her eyes. “It’s all right. Homes can be rebuilt. Possessions replaced. Many we cared for lost more tonight than I.”
Loria would not weep. Not now. Not until her task was done and the war was ended. But in spite of her assurance to Gertrude, it was more than a house. And they were more than mere possessions. She had worked her entire life to build it. She opened her eyes and turned her head to the darkness, knowing that she was likely never to see Ubania again. Even if they achieved victory, she would not rebuild. This life was over, destroyed by the flames that now consumed decades of hopes, dreams, and desires. Lady Loria Camdon. That person was as dead as the men and women the soldiers put to the sword.
“You are no longer to refer to me as my lady.”
“Of course,” Gertrude said. “But what do you want us to call you?”
“Loria will do for now.”
She would choose another later. A new name for a new beginning.
26
THE CHOICE
The scales of mortal hearts are tilted in favor of love. It is in this their virtue is made manifest.
Book of Kylor, Chapter One, Verse Seventeen
Mariyah lay back on the floor and spread her arms. The twinge in her neck gave a painful admonishment. She’d sat too long again without stretching. And the void in her belly reminded her that she’d skipped the midday meal.
She lay there for a short while, recounting the lesson, smiling. It was coming so much more easily now. Each page of the books Belkar would leave for her in the morning revealed its meaning as if eager to pass on its contents. She could now turn stone to wood without difficulty and was on the verge of doing the same with metals.
But it wasn’t the spells that excited her. It was the mysteries of magic she was learning—the way magic flowed into the human body and bonded itself with the spirit. Its very essence one with life, and yet separate, almost as if a creature in its own right.
The way she could now control elemental magic was far beyond anything she could have learned at the enclave. So inclined, she was certain she could produce rainfall over as much as a mile of fields, or winds that could propel a merchant craft through the sea. And this was only the beginning.
Mariyah rolled onto her stomach and pressed her cheek to the cold stone. There were dangers. Should common metal be transmuted to gold, a feat beyond the power of standard transmutation, wealth would be meaningless. When thi
s had first occurred to her, it seemed a wonderful idea. But the more she thought on it, the more frightening the various scenarios became—ranging from social chaos to unending war. If the Thaumas were the only group with the ability to end hunger, and also controlled the wealth of Lamoria, by passing on her knowledge, she could simply be replacing one corrupt system with another.
These thoughts ended as always: pushed aside by the reality of her current dilemma. There would be no world to save, no knowledge to pass on, if she didn’t find a way to leave this cavern. Belkar, while having remained out of sight for the most part, was watching—waiting for her powers to grow enough to destroy the Gate. And while she would never do so willingly, he was aware of this also. Thus far, any attempt in outmaneuvering him had failed. He had a plan to enlist her aid. And whatever it was would have been carefully crafted and impossible to divine until the moment it was hatched.
Mariyah pressed herself up and stretched. It was well past midday, judging from the dimming orbs on the ceiling. She didn’t have much of an appetite that morning. There would be lamb today. There was always what she wanted to eat waiting when she entered the dining room. She had considered asking Belkar if it was the magic that knew what she wanted or if he were reading her thoughts. But conversations between them always ended the same way: with him deriding her for continuing to use hand motions and chants to help manifest the spells.
She could cast without them. But that was like a rose without fragrance—while still beautiful, stripped of a part of its allure … its joy. Belkar, she was now sure, lacked the capacity to see beauty in anything other than power. That was why the food had initially lacked flavor as well as why he viewed the world as a thing to be subdued and conquered.
“There is something you must see.”
Belkar’s voice startled Mariyah from her musings. His countenance was grave, and he was wearing a long red and black robe rather than the shirt and trousers he typically wore. There was a cold emptiness in her chest, and her skin crawled as a sense of impending peril drove her instincts to near panic.
A Chorus of Fire Page 37
