How many cycles of fire and ice followed before she woke, she did not know, save that she lay in her own bed with Uleanna and Wyandra looking at her.
“Lady … are you awake?”
For a moment, Mykella could not speak, as if she had forgotten how.
“I’m … awake,” she finally croaked. “Thirsty…”
“You should drink this,” said the dressing maid, offering a beaker.
Mykella eyed the amber liquid.
“It’s watered ale. It helps more than water.”
Mykella didn’t argue. As Uleanna helped her sit up and propped her up with pillows, she sipped the watered-down bitterness.
Later, as she lay back, her face still burning, she wondered, How long can you keep doing this? Every time it gets harder … and worse.
That was another of the questions for which she had no answer, and she was so tired and weak that she could only hope that the coastal forces continued to take their time in advancing toward Viencet.
59
On Duadi, weak as she was, Mykella did not leave her apartments although the reason was not so much exhaustion as her appearance. She hated canceling the ministers’ meeting by note, but having them see her the way she was would have been worse. By Tridi morning, she was strong enough to sit up and move without feeling too light-headed.
She couldn’t help but feel trouble was heading toward Lysia, and she felt angry, more than anything, because she could hardly move. Why do you have to be so small? Why didn’t you think more before you entered the pink Table chamber?
So many things she’d had to learn the hard way, and she was running out of time and strength for that. Yet every move she made hurt, and her entire body radiated heat, despite all the watered ale she had drunk.
As she sat on the end of her bed, her eyes moved to the dressing-table mirror and her reflection there. Irregular dark blotches were scattered across her face. They were also distributed across most of her body. The skin of her face was close to bright red, as if she’d spent days in the summer sun without a hat, and it radiated heat hotter than any sunburn she’d experienced as a child. The warm muggy air that came through the windows didn’t help that, either.
Isn’t there anything you can do?
She nodded. There was something she could do … she thought. Slowly and gingerly, she rose to her feet and took slow step after slow step toward the window. When she was finally close enough, she touched the stone of the casement … and called out to the darkness, the deepest and greenest of those depths.
After a long, almost-endless moment, the deepest greens of the depths enfolded her, almost caressingly, cooling the heat yet not chilling her. In time, they dropped away, retreating to the deepness from which those greens had risen.
What Mykella noticed first was that the insufferable heat had vanished. So had the pain.
She turned her head and looked at the mirror. Even from across the bedchamber, she could see that the redness to her face had vanished—but her skin was dry and flaky and peeling, and she was again so terribly weak and light-headed that she found herself swaying so much that she had to put out a hand to the stone casement again just to steady herself.
The four steps from the window to the bed were so exhausting that she could not even reach for the coverlet before the darkness rose … but it was a comforting and refreshing darkness.
She surrendered, hopefully, to sleep.
60
When Mykella woke again, it was just after dawn on Quattri. She stretched, and no stabs of pain shot through her shoulders or elsewhere in her body although she was aware of soreness in her upper arms and abdomen. She stood and walked to the dressing-table mirror, studying herself. Most of the dead skin on her face had flaked off, but there were still a few patches … nothing that unguent and powder could not disguise.
She did take her time washing up and dressing in the clean nightsilks that someone—doubtless Wyandra’s assistant—had washed, let dry, and folded. By the time she had eaten breakfast, one of the size Salyna usually wolfed down, and made her way through the darkness down to the Table chamber, she felt decently refreshed. Not wonderful, but far better than she had before she had called to the depths.
Given the resulting exhaustion from using the green of the depths, though, it was clear that seeking such aid had its own dangers. Doesn’t everything?
Holding her shields, Mykella approached the Table, then immediately sought out the location of Cheleyza and her forces. Again, manipulating the image took effort, enough that her forehead was damp when she finally looked down on the coastal forces—encamped just to the west of the rolling rises where some—but not all—of the Southern Guards were stationed.
Why are they taking so long … after they moved so quickly? Or is it because they need to rest their mounts and men after pressing them so much?
Mykella found Salyna in a small chamber, where she was talking with Areyst and another older officer, presumably Commander Choalt. Mykella didn’t recall ever meeting Choalt although she might have seen him in a season-turn parade when she was far younger.
Just before she was about to release the last image, she felt … something … that distant sense of presence she had sensed once before, but it vanished instantly, and as much as she probed the Table and manipulated the image, she could find no remaining trace of that Ifrit.
Before she left the Table chamber, she dropped into the dark greenness slightly, trying to sense what was occurring with the Table in Lysia, especially after the presence incident with the Tempre Table. While she could sense pulsations, the Table in Lysia was not that much brighter.
She still did not understand why the Ifrits had not attacked again during the previous two days when she had been unable to do much of anything. Then … she frowned. She could not sense them through a Table—unless they were using it.
Could that also be true for them?
Was that why she’d felt that distant presence?
Even so, why had they not followed up on the earlier attacks? She was thankful they had not but was convinced it would not be long before they did.
Knowing there was nothing else she could do, she returned to her apartments, then walked down the upper palace corridor toward her study. When Mykella walked into the anteroom of the study, Chalmyr bounded to his feet, a smile of relief on his face.
“We are most glad to see you, Lady. There were … stories … you were most ill…”
“Injured,” Mykella said dryly. “When this is all over, matters will become clearer. We are fighting more than one enemy.” She straightened. “Are there any messages, any dispatches?”
“Yes, Lady…” He handed her four envelopes. “This one is the latest. It arrived less than a glass ago.”
“I’ll read it immediately.” She paused. “Was the Chief High Factor too upset at my departure the other day?”
Chalmyr shook his head. “He was puzzled, I believe, but he said something about it being unwise to doubt you.”
“And the ministers?”
“None ventured a word.”
That could mean anything. But Mykella did not pursue it. There wasn’t anything she could—or should—do about it at the moment. “If you would please draft a note conveying my apologies…” Mykella looked at the old scrivener. “You already did, didn’t you?”
Chalmyr smiled. “It is on your desk. You may need to change it.”
“Thank you.” Mykella carried the four envelopes into the study, warm and damp, despite the open windows. She immediately opened the latest dispatch and began to read.
My Lady-Protector—
Mykella smiled at the salutation and then continued reading.
As you may have gathered from your own observations, the coastal forces have moved slowly since they entered Lanachronan lands. Our scouts have observed them, at times from less than half a vingt. From the look of their mounts, they are resting them and feeding them on our spring grass and crops. I can only surmise that t
his was necessary because of the speed with which they rode to Lanachrona. It is also possible that they feel that we cannot maintain our position without great costs and that we will have to attack them before long from a position of disadvantage. I do not plan to do such. Instead, we have begun to implement the tactics we last discussed using Commander Choalt’s forces and two other excellent companies. Before long, I believe, they will tire of losses and resume their initiative. If there is any reason why we should not employ this strategy, it would be best if you so informed me at your earliest convenience …
In short … let me know quickly. Mykella smiled briefly.
We have at most three days, I would judge, before our enemies begin to bring the battle to us. Then we will see how well we have prepared.
That was all, except for his signature.
Two of the remaining envelopes were also addressed in Areyst’s hand, and she opened them and quickly scanned them. They conveyed nothing she had not gathered from the Table or from his last dispatch.
That left one envelope, and she recognized that clear but functional script even before she slit the envelope and spread the single sheet out before her.
Dear Mykella—
I do not know what the commander has conveyed, but the scouts I have talked to tell me that we are outnumbered, by as much as two to one. It may be more.
I know that all the officers will claim that no one person can change what happens on a battlefield. I also know that you may be the only one able to do the impossible. I can only hope that you are able to deal with whatever keeps you in Tempre quickly and join us before too much longer.
The signature was a simple “S.”
Mykella set down the letter. She had no doubts about the accuracy of both Areyst’s dispatch and Salyna’s letter. Yet … if she left Tempre, she would lose all ability to follow matters with the Table. If she went to Viencet, she would not even be able to check on what was happening in Lysia without a ride of at least half a glass—and then she would be out of touch with the Southern Guards.
If you don’t deal with the Ifrits, none of us will have lands to worry about before long. Did she know that in all certainty?
While that question echoed in her thoughts, images flooded through her mind—the first Ifrit who had tried to take over her mind and body through the Table, the three who cut down Southern Guards and Klevytr’s helpless retainers, those who had appeared in Blackstear … and the latest two pair with a weapon that would have cut down hundreds of Southern Guards—or Northcoast cavalry—in instants.
Had a one showed any concern for a single individual out of all those they had killed?
From what she had seen in the Table that morning, it would be at least another day, more likely two, before the coastal forces were ready to attack. Then … then she would have to decide.
In the meantime, she would watch from the Table … and keep observing and visiting the Table chamber in Lysia.
What else could she do?
61
On Quinti, Mykella overslept, not waking until the sun actually crept into her room, rather than rising at dawn. For the few moments after she opened her eyes, she just lay there, glad that she felt better. Then, thinking about Tables and battles, she threw herself out of bed and began to wash up. She dressed in her nightsilks and headed to the breakfast room. It didn’t matter that the egg-and-ham scramble was almost cool, as was the bread. She ate quickly and returned to her apartments, from where she dropped through the darkness-infused stone to the Table chamber.
Her first thought was to locate the coastal forces. They had moved their encampment to another rise, one less than three vingts from the Lanachronan position, but the cookfires were still burning, and she didn’t see anyone forming up … not yet.
When she checked on Salyna, however, she was dismayed to find that the auxiliaries were not in Viencet but encamped on the rise to the east of that occupied by the main body of the Southern Guards. She was still considering that when, once more, she felt that sense of distant presence through the Table. Again, it vanished before she could do anything.
She pulled on her gloves and dropped through the darkness to the Table chamber in Lysia, making an entry beyond an archway and at the foot of a set of steps seemingly carved out of solid stone. Then, shields in place, she eased back toward the Table, now markedly brighter, with stronger pulsations.
She just looked at it for a time. She didn’t like the idea of remaining in Lysia. Something might happen in a glass—or not for days.
Finally, she called the darkness and made her way back to Tempre … directly to her own apartments, from where she walked to the study. There she drafted several letters, her mind still on Lysia and on Viencet, wondering which conflict would happen next. She signed the final version of the apology to Chief High Factor Lhanyr and walked to the window, from where she looked out on a hot, hazy morning.
Abruptly, she turned and left the study, walking back to her quarters.
There she donned the nightsilk riding jacket and gloves and dropped through the darkness to the Table chamber, where she immediately called up the image of the coastal forces.
They were definitely beginning to form up.
She could travel the dark ways to get close enough to the battle so that she’d only have to walk a vingt or two … and that would be far faster than riding. She squared her shoulders and prepared to depart.
At that moment, the Table flooded with pinkish light—and the image she’d been viewing vanished. Even without trying, she could sense a wave of power surrounding the yellow and orange of the Table in Lysia.
Frig! Frig! Frig!
Yet she had no real choice. The world she knew would vanish if she did not deal with the Ifrits. Her eyes burned. She swallowed and called the darkness.
She did not rush, but let herself drop into the very depths of the deepest green, letting it infuse her and surround her before she reached Lysia. There, she emerged near the rubble blocking the top of the staircase, where she restructured her shields, weaving within them threads of the deep green, then layering on top of them a concealment shield.
The stone stairway was empty. So, she sensed, was the Table chamber, yet the area was infused with the ugly purpleness of Ifrits and an odd pink glow. She eased her way down the steps, slowly, carefully, and quietly. When she reached the archway at the base of the staircase, she could see that the Table chamber held two Ifrits, again with the same weapon that she had encountered in Dulka and at the pink Table. They wore identical uniforms of green trimmed in purple. They were not on the Table, and they had the weapon aimed at the area right above the Table, as if they expected her to appear there. While one glanced in her direction, he saw nothing, and his brilliant violet eyes quickly returned to the Table.
Mykella remained by the archway, silently extending a Talent probe toward the nearer Ifrit’s life-thread node, this time deftly untwisting it. The Ifrit gave but a single short gasp and staggered, then dropped sideways.
… Ancient one … fieldmaster … here!… somewhere … The remaining weaponeer loosed a series of purple-blue bolts across the top of the Table.
Where?
… [unseen] … [—] dead …
More purple-blue flame-bolts flared against the wall beyond the Table.
Mykella had another Talent probe moving toward the weaponeer.
Spray the corridor … Now!
So fast did the Ifrit swing the weapon that a flurry of fire-missiles smashed into Mykella’s shields, forcing her back several steps before she locked her shields to the stone. She lost momentary control of her Talent probe and had to re-form it, much more slowly against the barrage of flame-bolts that rattled her shields, and sent darts of unseen fire through her shoulders and chest.
Hold it … almost have the scepter ready … Those mental words came from somewhere Mykella could not see, but they had to be from within the hidden wall chambers holding the scepter.
Slowly, against the pressure
of the weapon’s bolts, Mykella forced the Talent probe forward until she could finally reach the life-thread node of the remaining Ifrit weaponeer.
His shriek was piercing and short, as he toppled.
Mykella paused for an instant, unlocking her shields from the stone, still half-astounded to see the figures of the two Ifrits turn purplish gray, then begin to disintegrate.
Without having to fight against the weapon, she moved more quickly, but carefully, into the Table chamber. There she saw an open archway, where there had been none before.
As she turned toward it, waves of pink-purple light flared from that opening, rolling out in eye-searing waves, so bright that, beyond the once-hidden archway, Mykella could see nothing. That did not mean that she could not sense the approach of another Ifrit.
Your concealment avails you nothing. The words rolled at her mind like a boulder rumbling down a slope at her, or an avalanche crashing down the side of a mountain as massive as the Aerlal Plateau.
Behind the words, she felt a probe, one purplish, ugly, and powerful, and she called up more of the greenness from the depths, erecting a barrier.
The Ifrit’s probe recoiled, and Mykella could sense anger of a sort as well as a cold and calculating determination.
A different Ancient are you … a throwback from the distant past? That will only prolong your existence a few moments.
The thought that she could not have power unless she had been a distant ancestor of the soarers … that angered Mykella, and she raised shields of green behind green, pressing them forward toward the swelling purple pinkness trying to force its way toward her.
Because of the shields, or her very will, Mykella could at last make out the figure standing just inside the stone passage that led to where the scepter had been hidden and safeguarded.
To her eyes and senses, the Ifrit towered more than three yards, with legs as big around as the small casks that held fine brandy. His shoulders looked to be a yard and a half across. In his right hand, at waist level, he held the scepter, the source of the brilliant, eye-searing pink-purple light that filled the stone chambers, leaving no traces of shadows.
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