The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  “The report said Thyrazene weapons—”

  “That old ploy!” Thirbe snorted. “Wouldn’t fool a blind idiot.”

  “But how could they have known we were taking this route?” Hervan asked. “I chose this road on the spur of the moment, and—”

  “And you don’t think that fire supposedly sweeping Brondi was anything but a ruse to turn us onto this road, where we could be caught?”

  Startled, Hervan stared at him hard before dismissing the idea as too fanciful. “I think my scouts can tell the difference between a real fire and one set in trickery.”

  “Why? Fire is fire, ain’t it? If part of the town is burning, does it matter if it was an accident or set? We came wandering this way just the same, and got caught easy as fish in a barrel.”

  Hervan frowned, uncomfortably aware that Thirbe had a point.

  “Just look how we were attacked,” Thirbe continued, “from three sides, guaranteed to send Lady Lea fleeing right across yon fields into a trap. I’m certain it was a legion commander carrying her off. I saw his eagle when I was fighting him.”

  “Legion commander?” Hervan said in disbelief. “That knock in the head has addled your wits. More likely the blackguard stole a legion commander’s breastplate somehow—”

  “Impossible! Now whose wits are addled? I tell you I know eagle rank when I see it and when I fight against it.”

  “No officer of such high rank would stoop to outlawry.”

  “Why not? There were four legions disbanded, officers and soldiers alike, all those who wouldn’t change allegiance. Kalthunda is dead. Which leaves three other commanders, Osthel and—”

  Despite himself, Hervan said, “Osthel is an old man, said to be living on the coast and exiled from his family. They want nothing to do with him.”

  “In combat, it’s odd what you notice and what you don’t,” Thirbe said thoughtfully. “The black Eighth was commanded by a praetinor named Shadrael tu Natalloh.”

  “No praetinor would stoop to this villainy!” Hervan said in outrage. “You cannot seriously accuse him.”

  “Do you know the man?”

  Flushing, Hervan looked away. “No, not—not personally. But he’s not the man.”

  “Well, then, that leaves Maxivim, no, Mavnim. Something like that.”

  “Mardico.”

  “Aye, Mardico Tohn. A Beloth-loving scoundrel if ever there was one. The stories about him would turn your hair white to hear ’em.”

  “I heard he’d bought a farm and was living simply.”

  “False rumor,” Thirbe said. “Gone over to the Madruns, more like. As for Shadrael, he’s Ulinian by birth and—”

  “And of the patrici,” Hervan broke in. “You can’t possibly suspect someone of his noble birth and achievement. His brother is warlord of Ulinia.”

  “Aye, a province that wants to break loose from the empire,” Thirbe said thoughtfully. “Saw Shadrael once, years ago, when he was maybe a cohort leader. A fierce one already, even before the Madrun campaign.”

  “Where he distinguished himself with tremendous honors,” Hervan said. “I saw his triumph when I was a boy. He was a hero, riding through the streets of Imperia to meet Emperor Kostimon. I watched his chariot go by from our window.”

  “But definitely donare,” Thirbe said.

  “Great gods, man, nearly all the very best legion commanders are.”

  Thirbe held up his hands. “Easy, lad. Time you learned that war can make even bad men heroes. Mardico was always bad, through and through, indulging in every vice imaginable. But Shadrael risked the Kiss of Eternity and lived.” Thirbe tapped the side of his nose. “You know what that means.”

  Doubt flooded Hervan before he shoved Thirbe’s gossip away. He’d always admired Lord Shadrael and as a schoolboy he’d studied the man’s battle strategies in the Madrun campaign. Battle strategies…he remembered reading about a tactic similar to what they’d encountered today. A strange feeling sapped his convictions. Maybe—but, no, he still could not believe a man whom he admired so as a boy would commit the infamy of stealing the emperor’s sister.

  Once again in his mind’s eye, Hervan saw Commander Shadrael tu Natalloh ride by in a processional triumph, wearing full armor, but carrying no weapons, his helmet tucked under his arm to show his submission to the emperor. His profile had been one of arrogant self-assurance, the face of a man who has achieved great things, and will accomplish even more—oh yes, seeing him that day, Hervan had vowed that one day he, too, would achieve military honors and be awarded a triumph by his grateful emperor. He would follow family tradition and enter the cavalry, of course, but he would rise as high in distinction as Lord Shadrael, or higher. For of course he was Itierian, not Ulinian, and born superior in every way.

  “What a triumph he was given!” Hervan said. “An extraordinary sight I’ve never forgotten. That was the day he was named to the ranks of praetinor. My father told me there were wagers laid on how quickly he’d make general.”

  Thirbe grunted. “Instead, he’s an exile, stripped of honor and rank, discharged without pension. Why defend a man like that?”

  “In those days, Protector, everyone was shadow sworn. It meant little.”

  “Don’t talk to me about the old days, whelp. I lived through them. You didn’t. Officer or foot soldier, you couldn’t serve your legion without swearing oaths to Faure and—and the others.”

  “That’s what I just said. Why do you judge Lord Shadrael so harshly? Did you serve under him?”

  “Not me,” Thirbe said emphatically. “But there were things we had no choice about, Gault help us, things we were forced to do. And then there were choices. Shadrael chose to risk his soul committing shul-drakshera on a wager.”

  “I’ve heard of that!” Hervan said. “The Kiss of Eternity.”

  “It ain’t nothing to get excited about,” Thirbe said.

  “Only the most courageous—”

  “Ain’t courage playing games like that. Just stupidity. No one made him. Not even the rites of Alcua went that far. And to my mind, he’s the one we want.”

  “It could be him,” Hervan admitted reluctantly. Thirbe, he thought, was like most old men who disapproved of drakshera, forgetting how important it was to prove your bravery. Hervan supposed that becoming elderly meant losing heart and courage. What a pity. “If so, Lord Shadrael would be the most ruthless renegade of all.”

  Thirbe nodded. “Whether it’s Mardico or Shadrael, we’ve got our good lady taken for a pawn in whatever plot’s afoot.”

  “Ransom?”

  “Maybe. Or the stakes could be higher.”

  Hervan blinked at that. He hadn’t expected Thirbe to be so astute about political matters.

  Thirbe drove a fist into his palm. “Damn! I hate being helpless like this. Her, so dainty and young, so innocent and kind and good, held by some band of evil swinegullets. The idea of it twists my guts until I can’t think. I should have protected her better, instead of getting walloped off my horse like a green boy.”

  The raw emotion betrayed in his voice caught Hervan’s sympathy. “Thirbe—”

  The protector gestured. “Ah, don’t mind me. My head feels like a split melon, that’s all. And I’m about dead with shame at that fiend letting me live.”

  “What?”

  “He could have killed me in the first exchange of blows, and didn’t,” Thirbe said fiercely. “As soon as my shield went to pieces, I was done for. Toying with me, insulting me, when he could have snapped my life at any time.”

  Hervan stared at him, amazed he would admit such a thing. “You should be grateful you’re alive, not insulted.”

  “Grateful! I spit on him. If he’s hurt her…if he’s touched her…ah, shadows smite me.” Thirbe passed his hand across his eyes and fell silent.

  Hervan cast about for some way to offer comfort and couldn’t think of anything. “Come dawn, we’ll be tracking her—”

  “Where? Are you daft? They’ve gone—whoosh�
�into thin air.”

  “And the priest said they can’t travel the Hidden Ways. When they come out, I shall be waiting for them,” Hervan said grimly.

  “What if that itty-witted priest is wrong?”

  “What he said made sense.”

  “To you, maybe. Not to me. I don’t think Poulso’s ever gone into the shadow world. It ain’t for the fainthearted.”

  Hervan drew a deep breath, trying to find patience. “We’ll attack as soon as they emerge.”

  Thirbe grunted skeptically. “Have you sent to Brondi yet for reinforcements?”

  “I don’t need reinforcements,” Hervan said. “My men are valiant and well trained.”

  Thirbe scowled. “You’ve lost half of them.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Aye, by all means, let’s quibble over the tally. Today, you were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and outflanked by someone a lot smarter than you. Might as well admit it, and get on with sending word to the emperor immediately for instructions and reinforcements.”

  “Who are you to be telling me what to do?” Hervan demanded in a rage. “You’re no officer, and never were.”

  “Nope. I marched for twelve years in my legion, and after my hitch was up, my tailbone pounded leather riding from one end of the empire to the other, guarding tax collectors.”

  “A predlicate,” Hervan said with scorn. “A common guard.”

  “Guard, aye. Common, no. As well you know. I’ve seen plenty of field battle, and more tours of duty than you. I know your regulations, same as I know army ones and most of the others. But say you ignore orders and make a stand, what in Gault’s name do you expect to accomplish if you should meet these devils again? Your men couldn’t handle them today.”

  His bluntness kindled a sullen blaze in Hervan’s chest. “We were surprised, that’s all.”

  “Surprised? Aye. The understatement of the year. And now your men are tired and hurt, less capable than before. Even you’re not fit.”

  “I can still ride,” Hervan said. “I can issue orders, even if I can’t fight.”

  “If all this is to impress the lady—”

  “I know my duty,” Hervan said. “I will not shirk it.”

  “Your duty is to send a courier to the emperor, then retreat and gather reinforcements as needed.”

  “Crimsons do not retreat. We fight to the death.”

  “If you can find the enemy, which you can’t.”

  Hervan fumed for a moment. The last thing he intended to do was inform the emperor of his failure. No, it was imperative that he keep any news of this disaster contained until he could rescue Lea.

  “Lost your nerve, Protector?” he asked at last with a sneer. “A short time ago you were striking the priest because he would not open the Hidden Ways. Now you want to run away for help.”

  Thirbe gripped him by the front of his cloak and pulled him around, seemingly oblivious of Hervan’s bitten-off cry of pain. “Damn your eyes! If Poulso had found us a way to the shadows, I’d be there,” he said hoarsely. “Now you listen to me, you puppy! We’re less than a day’s ride from Brondi. There’s a garrison there, with men enough to supply those you’ve lost, and more!”

  “Foot soldiers,” Hervan said with contempt, trying to pull free of Thirbe’s grip without jarring his collarbone. Barsin approached him, but Hervan waved his adjutant back lest he overhear too much. “A legion camp hardly better than an outpost.”

  “It’s got men, ain’t it? And maybe dragon couriers to send word fast to New Imperia.”

  “And I tell you that we’ll handle this matter ourselves, without interference.”

  “You calling the emperor interference?”

  Hervan swallowed. “No, of course not. But he’s too far away to be of use. Lady Lea needs us now.”

  “Aye, I’ll agree with that. But we send for reinforcements from Brondi, as required.”

  “No. My men were caught unprepared once, but I assure you that in a rematch they’ll more than hold—”

  “Rematch?” Thirbe said with scorn. “This is battle, not a game of terlio.”

  “I know that. But you do not command this force, Protector. I do. And my decisions stand.”

  “You’ll get the girl killed, if she ain’t dead already.”

  “Her safety was entrusted to me. If she’s alive, and I can reach her, I’ll do everything in my power to save her,” Hervan said. “Everything. I’m sworn to this duty, and the Crimsons do not fail.”

  “Seems to me the Crimsons already have.”

  Furious, Hervan stood nearly nose to nose with the protector. “Hear this,” he said in a quiet, rigidly controlled voice. “As soon as we’re done, as soon as the lady is safe, and my shoulder is mended, I’ll see you eat that remark. Name the day. Name your weapon. Am I clear?”

  Thirbe stepped back from him and stood in silence before shaking his head. “You pathetic little…don’t you know reality from games, boy? Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do!”

  But Thirbe shook his head again, and limped away, leaving Hervan’s challenge unanswered.

  Chapter 11

  Slowly Lea regained her wits, blinking open her eyes to find herself still trapped in a nightmare. Dark, pervasive gloom surrounded her, illuminated by a sickly gray light that made her think of the pale underbellies of fungus found in woods. The icy cold and snow did not intrude here. No wind blew. The air carried a tang of stone and soil and cold ashes. And everywhere could she feel evil’s oppressive breath.

  Malevolent jaiethquai pervaded stone, mist, and shadow. She felt swallowed by it, suffocated, and remembered that her abductor had taken her necklace of gli-emeralds away, as though he’d known exactly what they were. Without their protective shield of magic, she felt vulnerable indeed. But not helpless, she reminded herself.

  She was still on horseback, riding sitting up and propped against her captor’s breastplate. Her elbow was pinched uncomfortably between his armored body and the saddle, for he held her close. A portion of his black cloak had been pulled forward to cover her. Even with its protection, she felt cold, as though she’d gone and lain in a wintry stream. Her mouth started to tremble, but she compressed her lips very hard and forced her quai to be strong. At the moment she might be a mouse pinned by a predator’s paw, but she would remain still and silent in order to gain opportunity. It was not weakness, she assured herself, to be prudent.

  Obviously they were between, inside what the shadow folk called the Hidden Ways. Lea had gone between a few times in her life, escorted by the earth spirits and later by the Choven mystic Moah, but those had been experiences of shining, ethereal light and a mist as soft and refreshing as spring water. This passage—this reality—between the physical and spiritual worlds was like something broken and perverse. Everything about it was so very wrong.

  Tears pricked her eyes, but she held them back. Stay strong, she thought. Breathe normally and have faith in the teachings.

  They moved at a slow, steady, almost cautious pace. She wondered if the men had any sense of time passing, if they realized how long they’d trudged through what seemed to be a cave passage.

  It was not, of course. Lea—if she squinted—could see the illusion of stone and dirt walls fade. In their stead she saw jutting fingers of rock, and dead trees split into jagged stumps. They passed through the shadow of forest. She suspected these might be the woods she’d aimed for in the small valley before her capture. Or perhaps not. If her captor was strong enough to move quickly through the Hidden Ways, they might have left the valley far behind, be well beyond the hills, or even farther. She did not know how long she’d been unconscious.

  An eerie quiet surrounded them, unnatural and unsettling. The men did not talk among themselves as they marched behind the commander’s horse, following where he led. Even the cadenced tramp of their feet seemed muted. They had been trained, she supposed, to stay silent and not distract his concentration.

  For it was not easy, Lea knew, to t
raverse the ways of between. Landmarks were illusory and what seemed to be real might not exist at all. Distance was the most difficult element of all to gauge. Perhaps this warrior was counting, as some did, or perhaps he was heeding a guiding force. But let him falter or stray, and they could become lost forever.

  Although tempted to interfere, she did not. She did not want to be lost with him and his small army. Wait, she told herself. Wait.

  At last her abductor raised his hand, and they halted. In the sudden stillness, punctuated here and there by a cough or the scrape of a boot sole on stones, she heard a faint trickle of running water.

  Thirst assailed her, and her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. Suddenly she felt so parched she could barely swallow, yet she knew to drink here would be an illusion. Shadow water would not sustain her.

  He shoved her slightly forward. “Sit up, and stop pretending to sleep.”

  Startled, she sat very still while he swung out of the saddle with a creak of leather and reached up for her. Instinctively she shrank back, but he gripped her slim waist and set her on the ground effortlessly, as though she weighed little more than a feather.

  “Walk. Stretch,” he said. His voice was gritty and rough with strain. “You can’t escape, but don’t wander far.”

  The light was too dim for her to see him clearly. Tall though he was, in his black armor he became almost invisible in the gloom. Now and then he moved in such a way that the pallid light glimmered on the medal at his throat. His posture, even his quiet gestures showed him plainly to be no ordinary soldier, no common ruffian. His armor fit him too well to have been stolen, and his gear was neither cheap nor ordinary. His helmet visor remained down, concealing most of his face, but she saw that his eyes no longer glowed red the way they had before. She did not walk in severance, yet in this place she could see the threads of life, as ugly and sometimes as frayed as worn ropes, floating up from the heads and shoulders of the men. Only, there were none visible around her captor. It frightened her. If he was casna—demon spawn—then she had no chance of escaping him.