Dreamlander

by K.M. Weiland

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Something’s wrong with the wind.”

  Orias didn’t respond, despite the fact it was practically the first thing Pitch had said for a week.

  “It’s just a storm coming in,” Raz said.

  “No. Doesn’t feel like a storm. Feels . . . wrong.”

  “Just shut your gob before you get us killed. What’s wrong is we’re close enough to the bloody Koraudians to poke ’em in the eye!”

  Orias sat his horse and listened to the faint ripple of voices through the darkness. To his right, river trees rustled their night spells, unaware of the intruders into their peace.

  Mactalde had resurrected. And Orias was the one who had brought him back. For days, that knowledge had been hissing in his brain.

  After the Searcher had rescued the Cherazii prisoners and taken the Gifted away, Orias had headed north. The Gifted was safe. Whatever protection Orias could have given him would have paled and died in comparison to his treachery.

  He could do nothing more to help. Chris would tell the Searcher what Orias had done, and she would have him executed for treason if he ever showed his face. The Cherazii already knew the truth about him, and they wouldn’t wait even for a trial to administer their justice. That was as it should be. He deserved to die for what he had done.

  But what choice had he? What good had protecting the Gifted and honoring the traditions done the Cherazii up to now? The Koraudians slaughtered them for those very actions.

  He had chosen the only path that made sense. He might not have acted with honor. But he had acted with courage. Hadn’t he?

  He already knew the answer. The self-hatred burning in his guts told him all he needed to know.

  After leaving the Gifted, he had turned his horse’s face in the same direction as the retreating Koraudians. At the time, he couldn’t have quite said why, but some sense of fatalism drew him after Mactalde and Rotoss. What would they do now? Where would they go? What crimes would they make him guilty of now that he’d helped bring Mactalde back?

  He had followed them for days. The first night, they had ridden along the edge of the Karilus Wall, the natural barrier that separated Lael’s high lake country from the fertile farmland beneath—and Koraud beyond. There was only one way up and down the Wall, a narrow switchback path controlled by Glen Arden at the top and Calabases City at the bottom. The Koraudians hadn’t bothered with it. They rode right on past and kept on riding for days until they reached the Ballion hills where the Wall tapered into nothing.

  Tonight, they had reached the Northfall River and, on its far side, Koraud. Tonight, Mactalde was home.

  The wind raised gooseflesh on Orias’s skin. For all these days, he had ridden far behind the Koraudians. His keen perceptions, heightened by an occasional plunge into his battle fire, allowed him to follow from so far back they would never be able to see him, much less hear him.

  But now he had caught up, because now he had to decide why he had followed them. He pulled his tricorn down over his forehead and hunched into the protection of his coat’s tall collar.

  Kill Mactalde—that had been his best idea.

  But now, staring upriver at the glow of a hundred campfires, the hope died and rotted. Even if he could have done it without undermining the only reason for everything he’d just sacrificed, he’d waited too long. One Cherazim might have had a fighting chance of dropping into the midst of a Koraudian platoon and killing Mactalde before being killed himself. But perhaps another full battalion had been waiting across the river. The Koraudians would escort their sovereign lord home in style.

  The wind from across the river filled his ears with their midnight celebrations. And why not? Hadn’t their vaunted general come back to them from the dead?

  “I still don’t understand what we’re doing here,” Raz grumbled. “I’m hungry.”

  Pitch shivered. “The wind shouldn’t be this cold.”

  Rievers were worse than useless on a hunt. Their attention span was too short, and they ran out of patience and silence far too soon to be useful. But he couldn’t very well leave them behind. Rievers chose the Cherazii who would care for them, and it was an honored responsibility to make certain they were protected. Of late, he hadn’t done too well at that either.

  His stomach turned over. Only a few weeks ago, he had been one of the Cherazii’s proudest sons. A Tarn. A Keeper of the Orimere. He had spent his entire life pledged to and preparing for the day when he would be called to protect the dreamstone and deliver it into the hands of the Searcher. This was the life the God of all had chosen for him, and it was a life he had embraced.

  When the last Gifted had turned rogue and the Cherazii left Lael in protest against the king’s handling of the situation, Orias had yet clung to hope. The God of all was in control. He had a plan and a purpose, and the worlds could not turn except upon that plan.

  But what had happened last week—what Orias himself had chosen to do—could not be a part of any plan. The God of all should have struck him dead before such a thing could come to pass. Even better, He should have delivered the Cherazii Himself, so Orias would have had no need to take matters into his own hands.

  But He hadn’t.

  Instead, He had left Orias to pick up the scattered pieces of his faith, his life, and the world. Were they pieces that had any worth in being put back together?

  “Why are we waiting here?” Raz asked. “If we’re gonna ride in there and kill all the blokes, let’s get it over with. If we die, at least we’ll be sainted. Anybody who dies on an empty stomach should be sainted.”

  Pitch’s voice whispered behind Orias’s ear: “Why did you do it?” He had been asking that question ever since Chris had brought Mactalde across.

  This was the first time Orias answered. “I had to.” The words scraped in his throat.

  The wind blew on, and the joy of the Koraudians pummeled his ears.

  Pitch hesitated a long moment. Then he leaned forward, and one little hand patted Orias’s shoulder. “I forgive you.”

  The wrong wasn’t Pitch’s to forgive, but Orias’s heart lurched anyway. If only it were that simple.

  Raz poked his other shoulder. “Well, are we going to kill them?”

  It was tempting: to die a martyr’s death by making right his heinous wrong in one glorious swoop. But he couldn’t.

  So long as Mactalde lived, so did the Cherazii. From now on, there would be no more attacks like the one against the caravan. Rotoss had promised him that, and Orias had no choice but to believe it. The Cherazii no longer had the numbers to defend themselves. If they were ever to become the feared people they once had been, they needed a reprieve long enough to marshal their strength. And he had to believe he had given them that chance.

  He lifted his reins to go. “No. Not tonight.”

  “Wise decision, blue.” From the windswept swirl of the long grass, a Koraudian rose with a rifle propped in both hands. Crouched on the horse’s opposite side, Dougal hissed and spat.

  Orias’s dirk was in his hand before the stranger had finished speaking. How long had this man crouched there listening to Raz’s and Pitch’s babbling? He had to have been there when they rode up, else Orias would have heard his approach.

  “My guess’d be you’re the Tarn, eh?” The Koraudian moved a little closer, though still out of reach of Orias’s sword. “My guess is you’d be hunting for Lord Mactalde. And my guess is he’d be happy to meet you. Not many of us get the pleasure of seeing a humbled Cherazim.” The cloud-streaked moon glinted off his grin. He gestured upstream with his rifle. “Move along. And remember, I’d just as soon bring in a dead blue as a live one.” His glance shifted to Raz and Pitch. “And maybe Lord Mactalde’d like a couple of Rievers to toast on a stick for brekkers.”

  Raz hawked his spit, and Orias nudged the horse forward, out of range. Battle fire churned in the center of his brain. He could leap at the Koraudian, rifle or no rifle, and twist his head from his body. Let him f
ight, let him die. Let it all be over.

  But he didn’t move. He had brought himself this far. What mattered a few more minutes? He kept his horse to a walk. He didn’t sheathe his dirk, and he didn’t soften the proud set of his shoulders.

  The Koraudian trudged through the grass behind him, and the hydraulic system in his rifle purred a constant warning.

  “Orias.” Pitch gave his shoulder a little shake. “What are you doing?”

  Raz muttered, “Does he look like he knows what he’s doing?”

  Orias had to agree.

  They forded the river in a flurry of splashes and clambered onto the far bank, where a hundred golden campfires glinted through the trees. The raucous clanking of the two-handed keysaras, a musical instrument popular in Koraud for bewildering reasons, accompanied the battle songs belted out by a hundred voices. The smell of roast zajele and boiling gasa stew mingled with the smoke and the crisp scent of the hespera trees.

  As they neared the campfires, the sentries jolted to attention and snapped their rifles to their shoulders. Orias’s captor shouted to them, and they backed off. A few glared in suspicion. Most jeered.

  “A new recruit!”

  “A little blue come crawling to beg mercy while he still can!”

  Pitch trembled with pent-up fury. “You cowards! We don’t beg and we don’t crawl!”

  “Hush,” Orias said.

  “What, and you’re not thinking the same thing?” Raz demanded.

  Orias crawled. Orias begged. He had no defense.

  They emerged into the riot of light and laughter that was the camp headquarters. He reined to a stop. At each campfire, one by one, the conversations and songs ceased. Men turned to stare at him, most of them slack-jawed, more than a few tight with sudden fear.

  In the middle of the opening, at a campfire next to Glelarn Rotoss, one man rose.

  Orias had been not quite thirteen years old when he had stood in the palace courtyard in Glen Arden and watched Mactalde bow his head to the axeman’s block. He had seen a thin, handsome young man, barely into his twenties then, kneel and brace himself against the block. He had seen the axe fall, and he had believed in his child’s heart he would never again see this man. The invaders had been defeated; the war had been won. But somehow, peace had escaped Lael.

  And now Orias again faced Faolan Mactalde.

  The sovereign of Koraud was older now, thicker through the chest and shoulders. His face glowed with a health he had never enjoyed in this world. But the laughing, lying, bewitching smile hadn’t changed. It was the kind of smile you saw from a man before he stabbed you in the back.

  “Well, well.” His clipped accent carried across the camp. “We weren’t expecting such exalted visitors this evening. Join us, Master Tarn.”

  The Koraudian who had found Orias raised his rifle. “Drop your weapons.”

  Orias kept his gaze on Mactalde. “No.” He had surrendered his weapons, his dignity, and his pride once before—to the worm Glelarn Rotoss. He would not do it again.

  The rifle snapped to the Koraudian’s shoulder, but Mactalde raised a hand. “It’s all right, soldier. Master Tarn may join us tonight as a friend. Come forward please.”

  The Koraudian didn’t lower the rifle. “Put the dirk away.”

  That Orias did. He withered the Koraudian with a glance, then kneed his horse forward. The men stared at him, silent, their hands on their weapons. Most of them had probably never seen a Cherazim they hadn’t been commanded to kill.

  Beside Mactalde’s neat beard and clean leather doublet, Rotoss, in his feathered hat and rumpled tabard, looked a scraggly crow next to a hunting kelter. Like a crow, his eyes glittered, black and cunning.

  Orias quivered. It was all he could do to restrain himself from whipping his dirk free once more and leaping from his horse to plunge the blade into Rotoss’s chest. So die all worms, he would whisper in the man’s face as he slumped to the ground.

  But not tonight.

  Mactalde turned to his army and gestured to Orias with a gloved hand. “We find ourselves with a strange guest in our midst. An enemy, at first glance. A Cherazim, who like all Cherazii stands opposed to our quest for conquest and freedom.”

  A rumble passed through the men.

  “But when I introduce to you Orias Tarn, Keeper of the Orimere, I tell you I am introducing an ally. So, for tonight, let us put aside our prejudices and welcome someone without whom I would not have been able to return to you.” He reached behind him, and an orderly handed him a silver goblet stamped in black with the Koraudian eagle. “I toast him.” He raised the glass.

  Orias stiffened. So this was how Mactalde twisted the knife?

  Mactalde’s laughing eyes met Orias’s as he addressed his men. “Will you toast him with me?”

  They could not refuse him. Wasn’t he their beloved leader, Mactalde the Resurrected? What cared they if he asked them to toast a hated Cherazim? Tonight, they would do anything for their lord.

  They clambered to their feet in a great clatter of arms and armor and raised their glasses. “To the Cherazim!”

  Orias could hardly breathe. He had colluded with his enemies. Now they hailed him for it. Wasn’t it a reward he deserved?

  Mactalde tossed back a swallow and turned to Orias. “Share our fire, Master Tarn? The night is cold for the season.” He glanced at the orderly. “Get him some venison. And a beaker of cranok.”

  “We don’t want any of your rotten food,” Pitch said.

  “And some for his charming companions as well.”

  Orias dismounted, the Rievers clinging to his back, and he waited as they jumped to the ground. Pitch filled his little fist with a handful of Orias’s long coat. Raz stomped along behind.

  At the fire, Orias squatted, a Riever on either side and his lion at his back. The tip of the broadsword strapped across his shoulders bumped the ground. Oh, to be able to free it from its baldric and lay waste to the whole blood-sodden camp! How many Cherazii had died at the hands of these men? How many of Lael’s soldiers would die in the weeks to come? Maybe even the Gifted and the Searcher.

  The orderly brought the trencher of venison and a beaker dripping red with cranok. Orias transferred the trencher to the ground in front of Raz. He tilted the cranok to his face and downed half the potent liquor in two swallows. It tasted like lemons and iron filings, and its bitter heat burned all the way to his empty stomach.

  He lowered the cup and met first Rotoss’s smirking gaze, then Mactalde’s knowing one. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the remainder of the cranok into the fire. The flames leapt, showering sparks all around.

  Both men recoiled from the heat, and Rotoss swore. Orias didn’t move, even as the sparks bit into his face and hands. Likely, neither Mactalde nor Rotoss would know the gesture signified eternal enmity.

  Rotoss slapped at his already soiled red tabard. “What’s the matter, blue? Our cranok isn’t to your liking?”

  “Nay. And neither is your company.”

  “You prefer skinny rodents, no doubt?”

  Raz spoke through a mouthful. “Better than fat murderers. A murderer is a bad enough blighter, but a fat one . . . bah!”

  Mactalde looked at Orias. “I have always wondered why the Cherazii should ally themselves so disproportionately.” The tilt of his chin indicated the Rievers.

  “It is a custom of old. And the Cherazii do not go back on their covenants.”

  “Indeed not. Are you implying I do?”

  Ah, here it was. This was why he had come then—to make certain the bargain for which he had sacrificed so much would be honored by Mactalde as well as Rotoss.

  “I imply only that it would surprise me not.”

  Mactalde still smiled, but he watched Orias like a lion would watch its prey, judging, calculating, taunting, waiting. “You forget, Master Tarn, I have made no covenants with you.”

  Could it be as simple as that? As blatant as that? The muscles in his arms tightened. He pushed to his
feet, and his hand fell to the dirk. Pitch and Raz snatched their stilettos from their belts and stood at the ready.

  Behind him, men scrambled away from their fires and drew their weapons. The buzz of firearms filled the clearing.

  Rotoss drew his sword. “You filthy fool. I should have killed you back in Lael.”

  Only Mactalde remained sitting, a hand propped on either booted knee. “You’re short-tempered, my friend. And you wonder why the Cherazii have earned so many enemies? Sit down.” He pulled at Rotoss’s elbow. “All of you.”

  Orias didn’t move.

  Mactalde sipped from his goblet. “I have made no covenants with you.” He paused, his silence pregnant. “But I understand Rotoss has.”

  Orias’s heartbeat thudded against his ribcage with—what? hope?

  “I will respect his decision.” Mactalde smiled. “So you may be at ease.”

  Orias stared down at him. His breath came too fast. This was all he could ask for. If he could walk away from here with such a promise, then at least he could believe he had accomplished some good.

  “Then you promise peace to the Cherazii?”

  “Indeed.”

  Relief flooded his veins, like the first cool torrent of rain. All was not in vain, then. Thank the God of all, his sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.

  He lowered his head in a nod. It was the closest he would allow himself to come in gratitude to this man. He snapped his fingers at Dougal and turned back to his horse. He would leave, he would ride. He would be a stranger from his people henceforth. But he would find some measure of peace after tonight.

  “Where are you going?” Mactalde’s words were as sweet and smooth as overripe dassberries.

  Orias turned to see the glimmer in Mactalde’s eye. The flicker of hope in his heart sputtered. He didn’t answer the question. He just waited.

  At Mactalde’s side, Rotoss snorted a laugh.

  “You see—” Mactalde sat on his velvet campstool like a king on his throne, “—there is one more condition I must place on this pact of ours. You must stay with me.” His smile deepened. “And you must fight with me. A Cherazim at my side—that thought pleases me.”

  The world turned to silence around Orias. And so there was no hope after all. Not for him. Not in this life. Not in any life.

  Not after what he’d done.

  Pitch tugged at Orias’s coat. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

  Mactalde set his goblet on a nearby table and rose. The fire lit his face from the bottom up. “You’ve come so far on your quest to save your people. I don’t think you can abandon them now.”

  And the gut-wrenching truth was . . . he couldn’t.