“Cold,” Idgen Marte breathed, sitting up straighter. “There’s a song in that,” she half whispered.
“There probably would be songs if more folk knew,” Audreyn replied quietly. “The men who do know, like Garth, keep it to themselves. To tell the truth, Idgen Marte, I think if Oyrwyn faced invasion, there are knights who’d die to defend that tower. Not because it guards a trail. Because of what it means to my brother.”
“To guard a grave?” Disbelief was clear in Idgen Marte’s tone, in the twist of her mouth.
Audreyn shrugged. “What can I say? Symbols mean so much to men like that.”
“He does inspire loyalty,” Idgen Marte said. “And yes, those things do mean a great deal to men. What about to you?”
“Women in Oyrwyn are more practical,” Audreyn said. “If someone were to make a ballad out of the story of Allystaire and Dorinne, we would sigh and dab our eyes when it was well sung. But I don’t think I’d die for a grave.”
“Then why let them do it?”
Silence reigned for a moment.
“I can reach out, discreetly, to other Oyrwyn ladies. If Oyrwyn cannot arm itself, and Delondeur cannot march because there is no Baron or Baroness in the Dunes, then who is left to go to war?”
There was another pause, then Audreyn stood. “Before I do this, I have to know what my brother plans to do with the Delondeur claimants. Leaving the seat unoccupied is a recipe for chaos.”
“I don’t know,” Idgen Marte said. “I will tell you as soon as I do.”
CHAPTER 6
The Rules of Battle
Allystaire watched Landen walk off with her Coldbourne guards in tow, then pulled his own cloak tightly about him and ventured back out into the cold of the day. He left the village square and turned up the road towards the Temple, swinging his arms and legs as he went, flexing his fingers inside his studded gloves.
Feels a little like carrying a weapon, he admitted to himself, balling his right hand into a fist and running the other hand over the iron studs sewn into the leather, the rings around each joint. Got to make sure to ask Torvul about getting something fixed up when he has the time, he reminded himself. The thought of one task, or even of one task he needed to ask someone else to perform, was enough to start a list. Must speak to Mol about the Delondeur prisoners. To Idgen Marte about what my sister wants. To Garth? Mayhap. I need to see to the people, see if there are wounded, he thought. Though surely if the wounds were bad Mol would have brought me to them. I must speak with Gideon.
That last thought brought him up short. The boy’s unusual reticence the previous night weighed on Allystaire’s mind. I need to speak to him as soon as I might.
Luck, apparently, was with him, for when he came in sight of the Temple, Gideon and Torvul were busily seeing to the dwarf’s boxy wagon, scrubbing soot off of it with long-handled brushes.
“You are going to need more than dry brushes and arms the likes of yours to get that wagon clean,” Allystaire called out as he approached.
Torvul didn’t stop brushing, merely turned his head and spat. The alchemist once again wore his dark green traveling jerkin, trousers, and hobnailed boots, with no extra fur or wool in evidence, no gloves or muffler or hat to cover his gleaming bald pate.
“As if you’d even know how to clean your own ass,” the dwarf rumbled. “Growing up Lord of Coldbourne, probably had servants for it.”
“In point of fact, my father, and the rest of the men who trained me, were rather severe on points of cleanliness and hygiene,” Allystaire said. “Of course, most of that applied to armor and weapons.”
“Pfah! Typical,” the dwarf said. “Keep all the implements of war bright and shiny.”
“What else is there to do in the winter?” Allystaire had wandered to their side, and cast a glance sidelong at Gideon, who was brushing studiously and ignoring Allystaire.
The surface of the dwarf’s wagon was intricately carved in repeating geometric patterns that Allystaire hadn’t noticed before. As he tried to follow them with his eyes and make sense of them, he slowly found his focus slipping.
“Watch it now, boy,” Torvul said, stepping to Allystaire’s side and giving his sleeve a hard tug. “That won’t do.”
Allystaire shook his head clear and looked down at the dwarf. “What just happened?”
“Discourages thieves. Tell the truth, I thought it’d worn off years ago. Along with many another thing,” he muttered. Then the dwarf held out a spare brush that resided in one of the many pockets of the jerkin that hung down over his thighs. “Make yourself useful.”
Allystaire took the brush with a mild chuckle, briefly examining it. Like all the dwarf’s tools, it was simply but exquisitely made, with stiff bristles that looked like boar to his eye, and a smooth handle his hand fit snugly around. “Torvul, again, it is soot. How is a simple brush—”
Wordlessly smug, Torvul held up a small bottle from another pouch.
“Ah.” Allystaire extended his brush, Torvul dropped some liquid onto it, and Allystaire began scrubbing. Soot vanished beneath the brush with the slightest pressure.
“Once again,” Gideon spoke up, “I could simply wipe the entire thing clean for you.”
“No,” Torvul said. “Firstly, you don’t trivialize your Gifts that way. You don’t see Allystaire here terrorizing some poor gamblers at cards or dice by compelling the truth of them.”
“Actually,” Allystaire began, but Torvul’s deep and powerful voice rumbled right onward.
“Secondly, this wagon is my home, and it does a dwarf’s hands and heart good to interact with it. Thirdly, it does you no harm to engage in a little physical labor out of doors. And last, and really this is the most important bit, this wagon is stuffed so full of my trinkets, potions, elixirs, philtres, gear, and equipment that I am terrified beyond reason of what might happen if you swept your power over it.”
“I have enough control to avoid that,” Gideon protested, though Allystaire was uncertain how much confidence was in the boy’s tone.
“To avoid a cataclysmic explosion, I’ve no doubt. To avoid changing the properties of even a single stored ingredient? What happens if one of my memory stones captures the energy you—” Torvul stopped, his brush hand dropping to his side. “Wait. That is brilliant. Let me go—”
“No experiments, please,” Allystaire said. “At least not until I can get a safe distance away. Besides, I need to speak with you both.”
Torvul grumbled and lifted his brush again, carefully digging its tufts into a corner. “What about, then?”
Allystaire looked sidelong at Gideon again; the boy kept brushing studiously.
“What do the two of you think of Chaddin and Landen?”
“Landen,” Gideon said, “is a product of her class and station.”
“Meaning?”
“Could mean a lot of things,” Torvul said. “Could mean she’s a drooling inbred, a warmonger, a zealot, or a garden variety idiot—”
“Those are independent of class and rank,” Gideon said. “What I mean is, she is educated, she has been held to a set of standards all her life. By those standards she is probably a good person, or a good representative of her class values. By ours? I don’t know. She fought against us, and the Mother.”
“I spoke to her on some of those points. She knows, in the end, that her father had to be destroyed, and the sorcerers with him. She is under no illusions on that score.”
Torvul rumbled contemplatively. “Politics may force her to come seeking revenge.”
“Our victory weakened the Delondeur family,” Gideon noted. “Many of the lords were already wavering in their support because of Chaddin’s coup. Some might seek to widen those fissures and seize more power for themselves.”
“Assess our priorities, Gideon,” Allystaire said. “What do we want out of what comes next for Barony D
elondeur?”
“Peace,” Gideon said, “for the Mother’s folk. The chance for Her Temple to grow, for our message to reach more people. Stability.”
“And an end to the war,” Allystaire added. “I have not forgotten the pledge I made. We have a chance here to begin to see that come within our grasp.”
“We also said we weren’t goin’ t’’play politics,” Torvul pointed out. “Gideon had the right of it then. If we dirty our hands in it once, we are forever stained.”
“I do not mean to play politics, exactly. I am not going to war for the son or daughter of Lionel Delondeur. Yet if they refuse to see sense, neither can force me to release them to take up the seat.”
“You can’t imprison them forever,” Gideon said.
By now, the wagon was mostly clear, with Torvul vigorously scrubbing at some spot of dirt only he could see.
“No,” the dwarf offered, squinting for a moment at a spot on a wheel’s hub. “But if they think we mean to…”
“I cannot lie to them, Torvul,” Allystaire reminded him. “I cannot even bluff.”
“Which is why you should let me do the talking, among other reasons too numerous to list,” the dwarf shot back.
“I will not imprison them forever, nor will I play hangman with those who do not deserve it because it would be expedient. However, if I were to let them go, on their own, released from my protection, Garth would never let either of them get farther than out of sight of the village.”
“You would not turn them over to their enemy,” Gideon protested. “That’s choosing sides, taking part.”
“No, it is not,” Allystaire said. “If Garth wanted to seize them now we could not stop him. That he has not done so is, well, it is for complicated reasons. But if I were to simply wash my hands of them, he will snatch them up, and from where he sits he would be right to do it. The opportunity is too great. He could put himself on the Baronial seat, or offer Delondeur up on a platter to Gilrayan Oyrwyn,” Allystaire said, his mouth wrinkling distastefully at the name.
“And how would that bring peace?” Gideon asked.
“A stable Barony is a stable Barony,” Torvul said faintly. “Doesn’t matter to us whose ass is in the seat. Within boundaries, of course.”
“You have it right. I care nothing for the fate or the future of the Delondeur family. I do care what becomes of the people of the Barony. One way or another, I will have peace.”
“How would allowing Oyrwyn to conquer the Barony bring peace,” Gideon asked.
“It would not have to be a conquest if they had the two most likely heirs in their hands. And Cold, Delondeur is in such a weak position now, Garth could probably conquer them a month after the thaw, if he wished.”
“What’s to stop Oyrwyn from rolling over us, then? What’s to stop Garth from just seizing Landen and Chaddin anyway?”
“I am. Not because I can fight off all the men he brought, but—”
“Because of who you are t’them,” Torvul finished. “This Garth really put himself and hundreds of men and the balance of power all at risk because of how he admires you.”
“Do not,” Allystaire said, “discount my sister’s role in their coming south. Or her ability to restrain him. If it came to it, though, he is as much a product of his class and station as Landen Delondeur. He will act like an Oyrwn knight and lord.”
“That’s what you taught him to be,” Gideon said.
Allystaire frowned. “I was a product of it all, too, Gideon. Yes, Garth will act as I taught him to. He already tried, once. Before we found either of you, Garth offered me the Barony. Said the men would rise for me. I have no intention of asking them to, but Baron Oyrwyn does not know that, and he must fear it. Assassins we may need to fear, but not an open fight.”
“Stones Above, you have thought this out,” Torvul said. “I’m almost impressed.”
Allystaire held his brush out to the dwarf. “It is past time to get indoors by a fire,” he said.
“And outside of something warm, red, and spiced,” the dwarf agreed, taking the brush and drying it off against the frozen grass. “So what is it that you do intend?”
“We will discuss that with Mol and Idgen Marte,” Allystaire said. “Oh, I need—”
“Your hammer.” Torvul looked up at Allystaire, frowned. “It’s lost, Allystaire. You didn’t just shatter the haft; you split the head. I can use the steel to make something new out of it, but I can’t simply give you the old one back. It’ll take some time.”
Allystaire absorbed the knowledge with his head bowed, jaw set firmly. “It was only a tool,” he said. “See to Idgen Marte’s sword first, if you could. She has been without much longer.”
The dwarf grinned. “It’s ready. I mean to make a gift of it to her when the moment’s right.”
“And burial parties?”
Gideon cleared his throat. “I have preserved the bodies and we have them resting in a shed. The folk wanted you to say words.”
“And I will,” Allystaire said, “as soon as I can find them. Tomorrow morning.”
“Graves are gonna be a chore to dig,” Torvul said. “We could wait for the thaw.”
“I will dig them myself,” Allystaire said. “I will not shy away from a task because it is difficult.”
“Well, that’s why Her Ladyship named you the Arm,” Torvul said. “Let me fetch some things from the wagon. You two go ahead. You’ve things to speak on, and y’know it.”
Torvul disappeared into his boxy home, leaving Allystaire and Gideon face to face. Or so they would be, if the boy met his gaze, but still he cast his eyes to the ground.
“Gideon.” Allystaire searched for the words, finally settling on, “Why?”
“Why what? Be specific or I can’t answer you.” The boy’s answer was too fast, too annoyed. Allystaire tried to keep a frown from creeping across his face.
“Why are you being petulant? Why will you not look me in the eye or speak to me?”
Gideon twisted halfway away from Allystaire, wrapping his thin arms around himself somewhat awkwardly. He forced himself into a more relaxed posture, hands at his sides, and finally looked straight at Allystaire’s eyes.
“Because I failed you all,” the boy said, working hard to keep his face blank, stoic. Allystaire could see that he was on the verge of breaking down, with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
Stunned, Allystaire could only manage, “What?”
“I failed you,” Gideon repeated. “You. Renard. Everyone else who died. I could’ve destroyed the Battle-Wights with a wave of a hand. I could have defeated Gethmasanar and Iriphet with a thought. I did, but too late! The damage was done then!” With every word his composure shattered a little more. By the end he was shouting, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “I almost cost us the entire battle because I was prideful and shortsighted and not strong enough…”
Allystaire sighed and walked to the boy’s side, wrapping his arm around his thin shoulders, feeling their sobbing quake. “Walk with me, Gideon.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Allystaire said weakly, then added, “it will be easier to explain to you why you are being foolish as we walk.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Neither does anything you said. Tell me something; when it comes to sorcerous conflict, how many years of experience did the two sorcerers have that you did not?”
Gideon considered the question a moment as he tried to surreptitiously dab at his eyes with the back of a gloved hand. “It could probably be measured in centuries.”
“Experience matters, Gideon. Not just raw power. The strongest or fastest or best armed man does not win every fight,” Allystaire said. “And in the end, you are here. They are not.”
“Neither is Renard,” Gideon said. “Neither are the men who died fighting the Wights, or
the men the Baron had killed to make more of them, or to make his arms.”
“Gideon, stop.” He slid his arm from around the boy’s shoulders, and turned to face him, placing one hand on each shoulder. “Look at me.”
Allystaire waited till the boy’s wet eyes met his own again. “Gerard Oyrwyn once told me that there were two rules to battle that can never be broken. Rules so old, they were made by the gods, not by men. Can you guess at what they are?”
The boy thought a moment. “You don’t mean rules in the conventional sense, about how to position men or how noncombatants should be treated?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t guess,” Gideon admitted.
“The first rule is that in battle, people die. The second is that nothing you do can change the first rule.”
The boy’s face started to wrinkle up in distaste till Allystaire held up a hand. “I do not doubt that you find it foolish on its face. And I have heard many a man say it flippantly, to make light of deaths recently and cruelly dealt. That is not how I intend it. Remember this: even power such as yours cannot change the basic facts of war. People die. People we want to protect, people under our care. We will feel Renard’s loss every day. All of Thornhurst will. Leah and their child, especially. Yet he chose to be where he was, to do what he did. Honor his choice; do not blame yourself. That way lies a pit of grief so wide and deep it will swallow you whole. Trust me.”
Gideon nodded, lowered his eyes for a moment as he considered. “You ought to say that at his funeral. The first bit, at any rate.”
Allystaire sighed. “I will. As soon as I can make a moment to arrange it.” He dropped his hands from Gideon’s shoulders then and the two resumed walking. They were silent a moment
before Allystaire spoke again.
“That the other sorcerers managed to trap you is not something to be ashamed of. You overcame it.”
“To your first point, it is. I should have seen it. I should not have been so arrogant as to assume I could overpower them. Gethmasanar in particular could be subtle. And I didn’t,” Gideon said. “I wasn’t trapped, exactly. I was lost. The spell that Gethmasanar laid upon the Wight I destroyed—it may have been on all in that first wave—it was a swift and powerful thing. Do you remember the trap they laid for you along the road, The Grip of Despair?”
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