“What is it?” Nathaliey asked, frowning.
“Come quickly!” Alyssa cried. “We’ve been found!”
Chapter Twenty
Nathaliey’s first surprise on reaching the north gate was that it had become a gate in fact, rather than in name only. It seemed that carpenters from the stables had been hard at work making a single wooden door to shut the opening. What she saw was not particularly impressive.
She’d seen real fortresses before. A good gate was two feet thick, reinforced with iron, flanked by guard towers, and boasted an iron portcullis to fall in place. This gate was flimsy in comparison. It wouldn’t withstand a determined effort to tear it down with ropes and a few mules, let alone a battering ram like the kind Veyrian engineers could build.
The outer wall of the garden was simple brick, thick enough and high enough for privacy, but with little in the way of defensive considerations, at least physically. There was no wall walk above, no parapet behind which to hide. No arrow loops for shooting at enemies. It had none of the features to be found in a stout city wall or the outer curtain of a castle.
A pair of ladders had been thrown against the interior of the wall on either side of the gate, with a wooden platform affixed up top that served a similar purpose to a wall walk. A pair of keepers kept watch up above on the left side of the gate, and Chantmer was on the right. He gestured impatiently for Nathaliey to climb the ladder.
Alyssa was wringing her hands nervously, and Nathaliey put a hand on her shoulder. “Go to the master. He’s in his cottage.”
“Chantmer says the master is asleep. He says—”
“I’m not telling you to wake Memnet. But I think he’s alone, and I can’t have that.”
Alyssa hurried off, and Nathaliey climbed up. Moments later, she was kneeling by Chantmer’s side, looking out over the wall.
“I’m glad you sent off that silly girl,” Chantmer said. “She’s too young and excitable.”
“She’s afraid. That’s understandable.”
“I don’t expect her to amount to much. Eight months in the gardens and she has already been relegated to an acolyte—that indicates some limitations, don’t you think?”
Nathaliey had now had a chance to take in the scene outside the gardens. “What’s this? There’s only one man. You woke me for that? Chantmer, please.”
The intruder was a tall, strong fellow wearing a brown cloak, who staggered down the road from the direction of the bridge over Blossom Creek. He wore a sword, but it wasn’t drawn. His left hand held a shield, which dangled until it nearly dragged on the ground, and the right clenched a cord of leather wrapped around his fist. It was a clear afternoon, with the sun dropping in a blaze of orange and gold in the west, but the man squinted as if stumbling through the darkness.
“Are those reins?” Nathaliey asked. “What happened to his horse?”
“It threw him and chewed through the reins before it ran off. Watch. This is quite interesting.”
The man approached until he was about twenty yards away, struggling more with every step. At last, he stopped, turned around with a look of confusion, and staggered back up the road.
“Interesting,” Chantmer said.
Nathaliey sighed. “I’m sure it is, but I was asleep, and I’m still groggy. It was my turn to rest, and I meant to use every minute of it.”
“He gets closer every time. It’s definitely weakening—the protection that keeps us hidden, I mean. Next time, I imagine he’ll reach the gate.”
“One man,” she repeated. “That doesn’t look so difficult. Surely you could dominate this one fellow. He looks like a common soldier.”
Chantmer’s gaze sharpened. “This isn’t a game, Nathaliey. I wouldn’t have awakened you for one man. There’s an entire company of soldiers out there. Look, here comes another.”
Two were approaching, actually. And a third, coming behind. They came trudging down the road with the look of men who’d marched all night and day. The last man led a horse, who struggled and tried to run back up the road toward the bridge. The three met the first man, but they pushed past in opposite directions without seeming to see each other.
There was still plenty of magic keeping the gardens hidden. Yes, these men had breached the initial defenses at the bridge, but none showed Bronwyn’s ability to brush away incantations as if they were cobwebs.
“Do you suppose Markal was right?” Nathaliey asked as the newcomers faltered at roughly the same spot as their companion. “If we hadn’t weakened our initial defenses, they’d have never got this far.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, yes. Markal was right. These are common soldiers. There is no magic hanging about them. When the sorcerer comes, he will no doubt batter down whatever is left and come straight at us. This is a probing attack, nothing more.” Chantmer glanced at her sideways, his eyes narrowed. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Markal. He’s no wizard.”
“Are you still going on about that? He’s a wizard if the master proclaims him a wizard.”
“Memnet the Great is the head of our order, and when he is healed, he will have more magic than the rest of us standing together. Entire libraries of knowledge reside within his head. But he is not so far above us as to possess the wisdom of the gods. And he cannot raise Markal to wizard-like power simply because he wishes it to be so.”
“Supposing you’re right,” Nathaliey said, “does that change anything? Does it harm us in any way?”
“What if it saps our will when we face the enemy?”
She’d been watching the three soldiers falter on the road, stumbling into each other, before turning around again. Two more were coming up behind them, and several more beyond that. Now she turned away from the scene and laughed.
“Your ego is so fragile that the mere suggestion that you’re less than Markal is enough to weaken you?” When Chantmer shrugged, she added, “Hardly. If anything, your arrogance will only grow.”
“Confidence is the word you are searching for, not arrogance.”
“Very well, confidence. You know you’re stronger than Markal, and you’ll set out to prove it. And so will I,” she admitted. “You and I are alike in that way.”
“Then it will give Markal airs,” Chantmer insisted. “He’ll step forward at the wrong moment, thinking he’s more powerful than he is. That could prove disastrous.”
“Markal won’t get airs, any more than you and I will lose our nerve. If anything, it’s likely to have the opposite effect. He’s no fool. He knows his magic hasn’t suddenly grown because Memnet said so. Markal will call up his power—and there’s plenty of it there, you know there is—only to have his doubts overwhelm him.”
“There you go!” Chantmer said. “It was a terrible idea.”
“You’re grasping for a reason because you don’t like it.”
“And you do, I suppose?”
“I’m confused,” she admitted. “Does this mean Narud and Markal will take their own apprentices? Will they leave the gardens and continue their studies on their own? And what does this mean for you and me? We can’t be far behind.”
“That’s true,” Chantmer said, sounding more hopeful.
She lightened her tone. “We’ll need titles, of course. How does Nathaliey the Clever sound? For you, let’s see. Chantmer the Tall and Relatively Snooty.”
“Ha!”
“Or how about Chantmer the Lofty? It implies tall and snooty—always speaking down at others from a great height.” She grinned at his scowl. “Oh, don’t look so sour. You’re not going to need a title anytime soon. The master is going to make you serve another decade as penance for playing around with his orb.”
“I don’t find that particularly amusing. A decade would be intolerable.” Suddenly, Chantmer stiffened and narrowed his eyes. “There, what do you think of that?”
She didn’t see what he meant at first, but then came a cloud of dust rolling d
own the road from the direction of the bridge. The company seemed to have organized itself and was marching and riding toward them.
“It’s coming now,” Chantmer said. “Let’s win this first battle together.”
Ah, so that was it. Chantmer apparently saw no need for Narud or Markal; the two apprentices could do it alone. Then they would return and calmly tell Memnet what had happened, let the master be impressed. It was a dangerous game.
“There’s more than fifty soldiers,” she decided. A nervous tickle started low in her belly. “No, closer to a hundred. A dozen men on horse, plus footmen. Pikes, spears, swords. Some archers, too.”
“Cast obliviscatur on the rear elements. That will turn them about again. Let, oh, about fifteen through from the front ranks. I’ll order the gate opened, and when they rush in, the acolytes can activate the defensive runes. That will settle matters.”
“Only fifteen? What about the rest of them?” Nathaliey asked. “They’ll find their way back soon enough.”
“When they do, I’ll hit them with my own incantation.”
Chantmer gestured to the acolytes on the opposite platform. One of them descended the ladder to stand behind the gate.
“I don’t know about this, Chantmer. Let’s raise the general alarm.”
“Too late for that.”
“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”
“I suspected. The men were getting closer. It was only a question of when they would figure it out. Now they seem to have done so.”
“I’d be stronger with more rest,” she said. “So would you. We’d be stronger still with Markal and Narud. With more keepers and acolytes. And Memnet should know.”
“No time to argue. Ready yourself.”
Chantmer was right about that much; men were already within ten yards of the gate. Soon, they’d penetrate the final curtain that made the gardens disappear into the landscape. When that happened, they’d spot the outer wall rising above them, and the gate would be revealed. Nathaliey rolled up her sleeves and placed her palms down. She focused her mind, and power came rising slowly from deep within. But she didn’t speak the words. Not yet.
One of the men stumbled out in front of the others—perhaps the captain. A hood concealed his face. He lowered his shoulder and pushed against the open air in front of him. There was nothing there—the barrier was pure illusion—but such was the power of suggestion that even to Nathaliey it seemed as though an invisible membrane was shoving him backward. He groaned and strained, and at last the obstruction gave way. He staggered forward, nearly falling before he regained his balance.
Chantmer signaled the acolyte on the ground, who grabbed the big wooden ring and pulled. The gate swung inward. The intruder stopped, turning his head this way and that, seeming to notice everything for the first time: the open gate, the wall, the lush gardens beyond.
Nathaliey felt a twinge of sorrow for him. This man would be the first to die. The magic welled up within her, and she prepared to call up the incantation.
The man threw back his hood. “Natty! Are you there?”
Her hands fell. It was her father again. Blood of the Path, what was he doing?
“I’m here,” she called down. “What are you doing?”
“We’re not enemies! Tell the wizard not to attack. Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“Stay right there, I’m coming down.”
“Blasted vizier,” Chantmer grumbled. “What could he possibly be thinking? Where are you going? Tell the man to leave before he gets himself killed. He never should have returned.”
Nathaliey was already on the ladder, scrambling down, and she called for Chantmer to hold and for the acolytes to leave the defensive runes dormant.
By the time she reached the open gate, Kandibar Liltige was turning from side to side, a look of confusion on his face, as if he were lost. He may have broken through the barrier keeping him from seeing the gardens, but there was enough magic still in play that a moment of distraction had left him baffled once more.
“Over here,” she said. She took his arm and turned him to look at her.
“Oh, there you are. I heard your voice, but . . .”
“Father, what are you doing, and who are these men?”
“Is this it? This is Memnet’s garden? It looks . . . it doesn’t seem real.”
“You’ve been here before, remember? The archivist sent you.”
“Oh, yes. Why, so I was. How did I forget it?”
He reached out his hand as if trying to touch a tapestry. He was still caught up in the illusion. Chantmer called a warning down to Nathaliey, and she glanced over her father’s shoulder to see the other men struggling forward, the first of them now pressing against the same invisible barrier that her father had broken through.
“Listen to me!” Nathaliey grabbed her father by the shoulders. “You led these men here, now tell me what you want. Quickly. If they keep coming, they’ll be destroyed, do you hear me? They’ll all be killed.”
He stared at her, blinking. The sleep seemed to fall away from his eyes. “No, don’t harm them. They’re the palace guard, from Syrmarria.”
“What do you mean? There must be a hundred men out there.”
“Ninety-three. Every last man-at-arms who serves the khalif. We escaped the city. They’re here to defend the garden, not attack it.” Kandibar peered inward. “Where is Memnet the Great? I must speak with him.”
“He is not here,” Chantmer said. He had descended, and now approached with eyebrows raised. “Tell your men to hold. They shall not enter. Indeed, let me suggest—”
“You must let us in,” Kandibar said.
“You are an army,” Chantmer said. “Uninvited and unwanted. To what purpose would we allow you to enter and destroy? To violate the sanctity of this place? Our defenses are made to keep people like you out, not let them in.”
“Is that why you think we’ve come? I’m the khalif’s vizier. Do you think he would have sent me to attack you?”
“I don’t know,” Chantmer said. “Your master bows to the high king.”
Kandibar gave a bitter laugh. “When Pasha Malik learns what the khalif has done, he will have Omar tortured and murdered, his head on a pike.”
“Pasha Malik is dead,” Chantmer said. “He was an enemy, and we had him killed.”
Nathaliey gave him a sharp look. That was certainly an interesting take on events.
Kandibar seemed taken aback by this, but only for a moment. “Then one of the other pashas. We are under King Toth’s boot now, and our rebellion will cost us dearly.”
“Father, what is this all about?” Nathaliey asked. “Why are you here?”
“Your wizard in the libraries sent me—sent us.”
“Jethro?” Chantmer asked. “The archivist?”
“You need defenders. Jethro insisted on it. You think this is a threat, these palace guards of mine? Wait until you see the army of Veyrians marching down the road.”
Chapter Twenty-One
By midmorning on the day following the arrival of the palace guard, a trio of advance Veyrian scouts reached the far side of Blossom Creek. Markal stood at the height of the gracefully curving stone bridge and watched as they wandered the riverbank while their horses grazed. The men walked past him several times, unable to find either the bridge or the road leading to it.
It wouldn’t take much to turn them. A few whispered words and they’d be gone. Even Markal could manage, and he was tempted.
Doubts swirled in him, and for once they weren’t about his magical abilities. It was his plan that left the gardens exposed to discovery, that would have the Veyrian army assaulting their sanctuary. Why not stay hidden instead, and hope the high king forgot about them? Let Toth build his great highway, let him have power and control over cities and kingdoms. If the order didn’t prove a threat, they’d be left alone, wouldn’t they?
No, that wouldn’t do. There was no staying neutral and aloof. Not when sorcery burne
d through the heart of the Sacred Forest, when gray marauders murdered kings and wizards on both sides of the mountains. Bronwyn had given her life in the fight against King Toth, and Markal was ashamed of the cowardice that made him want to hide.
The Veyrian scouts were not so determined as Kandibar Liltige and his Syrmarrians, and they rounded up their horses a few minutes later and rode off. But the wall of secrecy had been weakened at the river—Markal could feel it shuddering—and the scouts seemed to know they had found something. They rode directly back up the road, before cutting left across fields and disappearing over the rolling hills.
Markal returned to the gardens, where he found Memnet the Great leading several keepers and acolytes through the grounds. The master used the tip of his staff to scratch at the ground and reveal long-buried stone paths, or to gesture at old brick walls.
“A strangling ward,” he told one of the keepers, pointing to the exposed roots of an oak tree. “It’s in the roots themselves. Here is how to activate it—”
“Master,” Markal interrupted, approaching. “You were right. Three scouts east of the creek.”
“Did they cross the bridge?”
Markal shook his head. “They stopped just short. But they rode off in a hurry.”
“It won’t be long now. Tonight, perhaps, or tomorrow.” Memnet sighed. “Come, we have something to discuss in private, one wizard to another. I need your counsel. The rest of you, carry on. I’ll return with more instructions.”
Memnet led him out of the woods and toward the pavilion. “Where is the sword?”
“Lowered into the well like you suggested. I hope it doesn’t rust.”
“It would save us a lot of trouble,” Memnet said. “But such weapons do not decay.”
“And you think it will stay hidden down there?”
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
