Tahn pulled deeply and held it, letting out his breath in a long exhale.
“Why did you lie about what Meche did?” the familiar voice asked.
Tahn tried to turn and explain to the man.
“Focus!” the other said. “Keep your aim. Keep your draw.”
Tahn looked back out over the chasm, leveling his eyes.
“You took a second helping of stew on the day of Lile’s third combat test,” the man reminded him. “He went to bed hungry that night.”
“But I thought—”
“Don’t talk,” the man said. “Your draw is the only thing you should care about right now.”
Tahn’s arms began to burn. His chest and shoulder and fingers, too. It was getting hard to hold his bow steady.
And as he stood, trying to breathe calmly and hold a focused draw, the man went on. The ways Tahn had harmed his friends by negligence or small deceits. The unkind words he’d said in anger. And more.
Tahn’s aim began to waver.
“Hold your draw steady,” the man scolded.
“I can’t,” Tahn said.
“You can,” the man insisted. “Think past everything I say, everything I remind you of.”
It went on minute after minute. He could see the canyon rim swaying beyond the line of his bow. He was losing it.
Then the man pointed to the canyon floor. “You missed it. On patrol you lost focus. And Devin—”
Tahn started to scream, drowning out the man’s voice. His aim swayed violently until he could no longer hold his draw and dropped his bow. He fell to his knees beside the weapon, his body aching, still screaming—
* * *
Tahn sat up in his bed, slick with sweat and breathing heavily, images and words fading with the nightmare. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He frantically looked about. Mira was watching him.
She said nothing, but came to his bedside and took hold of his hand. Her touch helped, but dread still pounded in his chest.
The world beyond the window was still dark. But not for long. Slowly, he lay back down and turned his head east, his hand still held in Mira’s. He managed to imagine a sunrise briefly before even that image mattered too little to remain in his mind’s eye. He focused on his breathing and soon regulated the rhythm enough to calm himself.
If only for a while.
Tomorrow they left for Tillinghast.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Leavetaking
It’s remarkable that Far pray, given their assurances beyond this life. Maybe this explains man’s lack of prayer, since he’s been given no such assurance.
—Discussion topic during the Fourth Congress on Faith, an exploration of prayer
Mira knelt at her sister’s tomb in the Hall of Valediction. The dark shale dimly caught the glow of braziers, which lit the names and dates inscribed on the stone.
It pained her to say good-bye.
Saying good-bye to a Far wasn’t supposed to be a sad thing. They went on to a next life where they’d meet family. And Lyra had lived well, ruled well, earning a rare esteem.
But she’d not produced an heir.
All Far shared stewardship over the Covenant Language, but to only a few were the gifts of that tongue given. Mira was the last of her bloodline that could produce such an heir.
And child-bearing years for a Far were short.
It wasn’t law that she take her sister’s place. But if she was honest, it was a fair expectation. More than that, it might prove to be an absolute need.
There was another need, though, one she’d joined herself to many months ago. Meeting Tahn had been a pleasant surprise. He had courage. And she felt comfortable around him.…
It was a dream. She had less than two years to live. She shouldn’t be thinking beyond that.
But over the tomb of her loving sister, she argued with herself. Lyra, what should I do?
As if in response, footsteps sounded on the hard floor. She didn’t need to turn to know their owner.
“Can’t I have an hour to pray for my sister?”
“Prayers aren’t needed, Mira. You know this. And I wouldn’t ordinarily interrupt the respects you pay her. She was my wife. I loved her. But your companions are preparing for the Saeculorum, and I need your answer.”
“Mankind wouldn’t find your proposal terribly tender.” Mira ran her hands over the inscribed name of her sister.
Elan’s voice softened. “We’re not mankind.”
“Better?” Her voice rang with accusation.
True to his nature, Elan replied, “No. But the Far made a promise to keep the Language. And I’m not a year from my own earth.”
Silence settled in the Hall of Valediction. Elan neither pressed nor departed. Mira continued to kneel, searching.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered over her dead sister’s body.
She stood and turned to Elan. He was a good king, strong, and a better strategist than any single person she’d met in all her travels. He approached gently. He touched her face. His eyes held compassion for her struggle with this choice.
“It’s not so easy,” she said.
“The mantle of leadership never is.” He smiled, a wan look touching his face. Perhaps to sit at his side, produce an heir, would be a happy last chapter to her short life.
“I’m honest and kind,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice. “That’s as true as our need of an heir. In case that helps you.”
Mira looked back at him and gave her own wan smile. “Subtle,” she said.
A confused expression rose on his face.
“Never mind,” she said.
Elan walked her to the stable yard. There in the bright sun, as her companions began to file out of the king’s manor, she kissed his cheek. “I must see this through to the end before anything else.” She looked away toward the Saeculorum. “But I have a request of my king.”
Elan raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“You must take your place at Convocation,” she said firmly. “The regent needs your support.”
Moments passed before Elan answered. “Mira, you’re asking me to leave Naltus without a king or queen.”
“I believe Convocation will fail if you don’t go.” Mira thought of her sister’s tomb. “Our covenant must be to more than our commission. We’re part of this world; our fates are joined with man’s.”
Elan’s brow drew down. He was fair, but he wouldn’t be manipulated. “You aren’t thinking clearly, Mira. Our best help to others is to keep our commission.”
She looked back at him with calm defiance. “Elan, if you won’t go, then I’ll take my place as queen and go myself.”
Mira didn’t want to undermine him. But she wouldn’t let this pass. “Think on it, Elan. But don’t think long. They already assemble at Recityv. Two, maybe three weeks. From Naltus, it should be you who goes.”
Her king smiled softly. “It seems we each have something to consider.”
He then held up Mira’s hand and passed her a small fold of parchment. She knew what it was—her sister’s last message for her. “Read it when your journeys are at an end.”
She nodded and led Vendanj, Tahn, and all the rest from Naltus. Toward the Saeculorum. And Tillinghast.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Rhea-Fol Reprise
Who is fiercest in battle? He with the most to lose, or he with the most to win? Neither; it is he with nothing to lose.
—The Gearworks of Motivation, a field manual for Alon I’tol officers
They rode for eight straight hours, taking only brief breaks to rest their horses.
Late in the day, shale gave way to russet earth broken by an occasional oasis of long green grass around pools of water. Thorny flowers grew across the earth, crawling over the ground in a huge network of interconnected creepers. And stout trees with long thin leaves dotted the land, their shade giving rise to bloodred ferns and yellowed bushes with leaves that rustled together like dim rattles.
; Ahead, the mountains loomed closer, reaching up with suddenness from the basin as though thrust into the sky in a violent quaking of the land.
Behind them, the sun began to set, aureate hues fading to russet and finally to the muted blues of twilight. With the passing of the light, they finally stopped to rest.
Grant perched on a rock, his back to them, watching the southern horizon where stars flickered into view against the spread of dark. Mira set off to scout the surrounding area. Vendanj sat a short distance from them, looking over a book.
Sutter sat gingerly, grimacing against the pain in his thighs and buttocks. Once down, he promptly pulled a hunk of salted meat from his daypack and took a large bite. Around it he said, “No need to stop just yet. I still have feeling in my ass.”
Tahn and Wendra laughed weakly, and found patches of ground on which to lay out their bedrolls. Braethen managed the fire.
“Hey, I know,” Sutter said, “let’s have a story. Penit, give us one of your fancies. I’m paying.” He tossed a rock in the semblance of a coin into the center of the circle they’d formed. “And spare not the wit.”
Penit didn’t stand up this time, as he’d done at the Sedagin feast. But he sat up straighter, as though preparing himself. Tahn looked over at the boy, wondering why Vendanj had allowed him to come.
“Have a story in mind?” Penit asked.
“Anything,” Wendra said. “Something stirring. Something familiar, perhaps. Oh, you choose.”
“How about The Great Defense of Layosah. It’s one of my favorites.” Penit nodded. “Layosah it is,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Wendra looked eager with anticipation of the tale. Vendanj sat back, his features thoughtful. Braethen nodded appreciatively, seeming to remember the story.
“And so it goes,” Penit said.
With a tilt of his head, and various turns and expressions, he told the story of a woman receiving news of yet another of her sons dying in the war of the First Promise. She’d lost several other sons, and her husband besides.
Something had to be done. Things had to change.
Layosah had gone to the general of the army. But got no satisfaction.
She’d gone to a Sheason. Still no help.
So, in desperation, she’d mounted the steps of Solath Mahnus, carrying her newborn child. There she railed for three days, calling on the king to do something.
“Don’t you see what’s happening,” Penit said as Layosah. “The Quiet are making refugees of the people, and they flood every safe town and city, seeking refuge. Granaries are ravaged, the food runs out and the people starve. City arbors reek of the unbathed. The streets are filled with low men and every unsavory practice. Children are forced into whore dens. All to survive while you send unprepared armies to die!”
Penit looked rueful in the firelight, gesturing and pacing, pointing and covering his heart with his hands.
“And now the largest legions out of the Bourne march into the east.” Penit’s voice was soft, but filled with worry and anger. “And so I ascend these stairs of the great Halls of Solath Mahnus in the free city of Recityv, as one of King Baellor’s Wombs of War—whose grandmother’s sons, and mother’s sons have gone to fight this enemy … and fallen.
“And I stand here,” Penit said, resolute, “on these chiseled steps with my babe.” He raised his hands high as though holding aloft a small child. “I stand here, denied an audience by King Sechen Baellor the Swift. Denied an audience, though my family’s blood has purchased this city’s freedoms. I lift my child here and call upon our king to form a council to represent all the people of the east. Send word. Bring every king here. Build an army to end this fight.”
Penit’s voice grew thin, tremulous. “Or else I would rather dash my babe on this stone stair and snuff his life, than see him grow and send another generation to war.”
Tahn watched in amazement, holding his breath as Penit stood poised with his hands held aloft.
Silence stretched, as they waited to see what would happen. The fire burned in the quiet between them.
Penit took a long breath and lowered his arms, ending his tale. A kind of self-reflection rested in his face. These were clearly more than sketches for the boy. Something of the valor and integrity in them seemed to mean something to him. Or maybe it was this one story.
He gathered himself and sat again next to Wendra.
“Any particular reason for this one?” Braethen asked.
The boy looked up, appearing old beyond his years. “The willingness to sacrifice a child. Seems almost unbelievable,” he said, and gave a sad smile.
“You tell it well, Penit.” Braethen’s voice was soft, reverential. “Layosah’s speech brought about the Convocation of Seats that ended the First War of Promise. She was a remarkable woman.”
Wendra seemed not to hear them. Perhaps the subject was too raw for her. Tahn’s heart ached seeing her in pain.
Vendanj looked away into the hills behind them, his brow a tangle of deep furrows over dark eyes.
A moment later, the sound of rushing air rolled toward them. Grant jumped to his feet and took a step into the night, his sword a flash in his hand. In an instant, Mira sprinted out of the darkness toward them. Over her head streaked arrows, humming past her and flashing through the air above their circle.
“On your feet!” she yelled, drawing to a quick stop beside Grant and turning to face the way she’d come.
Tahn jumped up, nocking an arrow and pulling a deep draw in one fluid motion. But he pointed the tip aimlessly toward the darkness beyond the fire, unsure of a target.
Out of the night more arrows slipped swiftly by them.
Sutter and Braethen took positions a few strides behind Mira, and Wendra placed herself between the arrows and Penit. Vendanj walked to stand beside Grant.
Grant spoke with a loud, calm voice, never looking away from the south. “They won’t have moved this quickly with an entire collough. It’s an advance squad.”
The approach of feet came louder—labored, heavy steps, but not clumsy or careless. The sounds bore down on them from the dark.
Then in the distance, a glint of light reflected from two orbs bobbing in the darkness. A second set of eyes appeared, catching the light. Behind these first two Quiet, came two more. Then all four Bar’dyn emerged from the night at a full run, their stout legs carrying their considerable forms at impossible speeds. No crazed look of ambush or bloodlust lit their faces, as maces and swords were raised to meet Grant and Mira.
Arrows continued to streak through the air around them, but they seemed more an attempt at confusion than attack.
And just as the Bar’dyn came within three strides of Mira, the sound of footfalls fairly shook the ground behind them.
Surrounded!
Tahn pulled his draw around, but still saw nothing. Wendra shuffled her feet, trying to decide which direction to shield the boy from.
Then, out of the dark, two Bar’dyn came barreling in from the north. Wendra shot Tahn a worried look. She stepped forward to meet the flank attack, and Tahn aimed at the first Bar’dyn coming in from behind.
He thought the old phrase in an instant, and let his arrow fly.
His arrow struck the lead creature in the arm. Without slowing, the Bar’dyn plucked it away and let it fall beneath his feet. As Tahn drew again he heard weapons and bodies clash behind him. He thought he heard Sutter cry out, but had no time to check on Nails. He released again, aiming for the Bar’dyn’s head. The arrow caught the creature just below the eye. It pulled this arrow out as it had the first. Never a sound.
The second Bar’dyn raced past his wounded fellow and surged into their camp, closing on Wendra and Penit. Tahn raised a draw on this one. Before he could release, Wendra sang a quick set of rough sounds. Sharp, dissonant. The air shimmered, looking like a horizon baking in heat. Her voice grew louder and more angered. The camp swirled. Blood began to flow from the Bar’dyn’s eyes and nose and ears. But it pushed on as though
fighting a river current, moving with deadly intent toward Wendra. A moment later it grasped her around the throat.
Her song abruptly stopped. The shimmer in the air stopped. And the Bar’dyn’s sluggishness ended. Wendra struggled against the beast’s grip. Tahn fired and hit the creature in the neck, blood oozing out as though he’d hit a vein.
The Bar’dyn threw Wendra to the ground on top of Penit and turned. Tahn tried to retreat a few steps. But the two Bar’dyn slipped behind him and began to drive him away from the firelight. Tahn began to fire his arrows in a blur. Some deflected off the Bar’dyn’s tough skin. Others found home, sticking in the creatures, who now simply ignored the arrows.
These Bar’dyn held their swords low, not rushing or threatening. Just advancing on him slow.
They’re isolating me from the others.
And he was out of arrows.
Tahn looked over at Wendra. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Had the Bar’dyn crushed her throat? Penit struggled to free himself from beneath her. Behind the Quiet herding him, Mira and Grant descended on a Bar’dyn simultaneously, swords flashing in the weak light; it dropped in a heap. At their side, Sutter swung his longsword in a huge sweeping figure eight. His arms worked with intensity as he drove one Bar’dyn back several paces, this one also with its sword held low.
Braethen fought beside Vendanj. Four Bar’dyn had formed a rough circle around them. They were far from the fire. Hard to see. But one by one the creatures were falling.
Mira and Grant parted and drew the advance of two more Quiet. The whistle of steel sliced toward the Far. One sword went up, deflecting the blow, the other came directly after, catching the Bar’dyn in the neck. A gout of blood splashed Mira across the face.
A second, more cautious creature waited on Grant’s attack. It held a menacing ax, ready to swing. Grant outlasted the Bar’dyn’s patience, his sword held dangling at his side. The creature bolted, its great ax descending like a judgment. Grant anticipated the move and leapt close to the Bar’dyn’s wide chest. In a furious thrust, Grant swung his sword up through the underside of the creature’s chin. The creature’s body went immediately limp.
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