by T. A. Miles
Whether or not Imris felt that strain, she dismissed herself with a simple yet dutiful, “Sir.”
Oshand let her go, not too many steps away where she sat on the rim of the skiff near another soldier who’d assisted in the loading of the sacks onto the skiffs. With it clear that they had nothing more to take care of here, Oshand set about clearing others from the skiffs by signaling with a wave. The signal was passed down the line and eventually was observed by those manning the boat meant to recover personnel.
There was still more for all of them to do. The patrol ships were going to have to be better armed and fortified against the coming onslaught. He trusted that Gairel had a solid handle on the preparations on land. Neither of them had had to contend with much more than a skirmish from incoming vessels resisting inspection, or minor riots directed at the governor over local matters. They were not battle-tested, as such, but the suddenness of the wave had forced them to swift action. Casualties had been few. At times, Oshand felt optimistic about what was to come, and that only reminded him that he had too little experience in war. With an acting governor who had too little experience in leadership, optimism seemed almost foolish.
The collecting vessel arrived at Oshand’s and he waited for the two others who had assisted him to board before stepping to the far end of the skiff and accepting a hand up to the taller boat. “Let’s align the scout ship as quickly as possible,” he said to one of his own soldiers. “Armed with no less than a dozen bowmen. I want them doing nothing but watching for the enemy and studying their marks.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said while the boat was steered along a path toward the harbor. Oshand’s mind moved quickly toward what else could be done, dodging anxiety over what couldn’t be done, what they didn’t have the time for and more importantly, what they didn’t have the experience or resources for. The task ahead of them would be anything but easy.
After hearing Vlas’ theory of an accomplice to Konlan, it seemed to Cayri that the most viable source of information regarding political intrigue would be the lady of the house. She had known many of the officers for years, since Deitir was yet a child. If there was one among them with a suspicious nature, or perhaps even a grievance against the governor or the governing of Indhovan, Cayri felt certain that Ilayna would know about it, or at least have significant insight.
In seeking Ilayna out, Cayri’s path took her from the sitting room, to the bedroom where the governor yet lay asleep. He appeared peaceful within the semi-darkened space, beneath light layers of bedding. The guard at his door consisted of a single soldier, who admitted Cayri with scarcely a glance. Of course, Cayri held the role of attendant, along with the house physician, Emalrik. Neither of them would be questioned, nor would the governor’s family. She considered how many others might gain access to Raiss Tahrsel during his vulnerable period.
Fersmyn, perhaps. She had not witnessed the officer frequenting the room, though, nor any of the others, for that matter. Considering the manner in which some were previously braced for a bout of poor health from the elder, Cayri wondered if assassination would affect the atmosphere significantly? Many seemed ready to transition into Deitir’s time as the head of the city. The abrupt removal of one so young, who demonstrated such promise would surely be more crippling to Indhovan than the already anticipated death of the elder Tahrsel.
The reality of the threat became more tangible during the moments Cayri applied Vlas’ theories to her own. Deitir’s inexperience may have been an advantage for the enemy, but anyone present to witness would recognize how swiftly the acting governor was overcoming his lack of experience. Deitir looked to Cayri for support often, but it was for support, not for direction. His instincts were true and his intuition strong. He had given no one cause to doubt him beyond his youth, which was not so young as to insist upon immaturity or youthful incompetence. He had been raised well, if slightly dependent on his family.
Cayri forgave that, understanding that being the only child of an important household, some sheltering was to be expected. Now was his time to learn, to utilize what his parents had given him with their shelter and their guidance. Deitir accepted guidance and at times sought it from others, but he was not incapacitated without it. He demonstrated many of the traits of a strong and lasting leader. Assassination was a very real danger in such a sensitive climate as the approach of war.
The thought carried Cayri from the doorway of Raiss Tahrsel’s room, through the corridors of the substantial manor to the governor’s study. There she found Deitir in conference with his mother, who stood with carefully collected ease at the window nearest the desk. Fersmyn was also present, along with Firard Mortannis. Cayri’s gaze settled upon the latter to the point that he took notice and glanced in her direction, though he did not interrupt his conversation with Deitir.
“We knew very little about the coven or the agenda of its leader,” the man was saying.
His words held a mildly peculiar aspect to them, nothing that was overly strange to a priest who was accustomed to existing alongside people from all over Edrinor, but the sounds of his speech did stand out noticeably from others in Indhovan. It was different, even from those who held the heritage of the Islands. Probably the nearest tonal quality to it was demonstrated by Ilayna. Cayri had also heard it recently from Korsten. So, the three of them were likely from the same area. She recalled that the city of Ilayna’s origin was Cenily, another coastal town, smaller than Indhovan and further south.
“The wave struck us completely unaware,” Firard continued. “Simultaneously, it struck a Morennish ship, presumably an advance scout. That, of course, means that the attack is imminent, but as you were already informed…”
While he made a conceding, possibly condescending sweep of his arm toward Deitir, Cayri continued to study him. The man felt of frustration and of impatience, and not of the collectedness and control she anticipated from a potential spy. Of course, if such an individual were less confident in their role, they might have been more furtive or anxious. Firard was neither. His emotional presence spoke of stability.
“We were informed,” Deitir said to the man, demonstrating only mild peevishness at his manner; which seemed that of someone who felt more thwarted by himself than by the very young man of authority before him. “But that does not mean your recent experience holds no value. You said neither you nor any of your companions witnessed the fate of the Morennish crew.”
“No,” Firard responded. “It was all we could do to keep track of our own.”
“And you saw no other vessels nearby,” Fersmyn added.
Firard shook his head tautly. “None.”
Fersmyn and Deitir exchanged brief glances while Ilayna took visible note of Cayri’s presence in the doorway. Her gaze did not linger, and soon it went to Firard. She inhaled deeply and quietly let go a sigh of stress. “Well, upset as you may be about it, Firard, I’m not upset by the fact that you didn’t make it further north.”
Firard had been looking at the floor, but in that moment, he lifted his gaze to Ilayna. There was some familiarity between them, hence no one seemed to be delivering or taking offense when Firard quipped with some impatience, “I realize that.”
Even Deitir kept his defensiveness over his mother reined in while he tolerated whatever the nature of their relationship may have been.
“Master Mortannis,” Cayri inserted, drawing the attention of all parties. “Were you well acquainted with Konlan Ossai?”
Firard considered the name, then shook his head. “I scarcely knew the man beyond hearing him speak at gatherings.”
The answer came neither too soon nor too late, and with an air of dutifulness that marked him a soldier, accustomed to succinct questions and succinct answers, performed with diligence and efficiency, under circumstances where order had to dominate over all else. That air seemed to extend primarily to strangers he held in a professional light, or at least to those not quite so familiar as Ilayna and her relations may have been. He was not
a young man and though he had not yet arrived at the same tier of agedness as Ilayna and her husband, it was not impossible for a relationship to have occurred near thirty years ago. It was quite possible, in fact, but there was something about the pair that suggested something else. Cayri concluded that Firard Mortannis was not Deitir’s father and also that he was not Konlan’s accomplice.
“Can it matter much now?” Deitir asked in regard to the topic of Master Ossai. “We know that Konlan betrayed all of us, but is it important to investigate beyond that at this time?”
Cayri looked at him, and said, “We should be wary of any allies he may have had among his fellow activists, and any accomplices he may have had among your father’s subordinates.”
“Are you suggesting a traitor?” Fersmyn blurted, and it was just quickly enough to ring true of alarm and frustration, thus absolving him of any suspicion as well.
“I am,” Cayri replied.
The deputy governor cast his eyes briefly to the ceiling and seemed to be deliberately withholding an outburst.
“Our strategy could be at risk,” Deitir said, and Fersmyn blustered a sigh that denoted strong agreement.
“Yes,” Cayri said. “And so might you be.”
“Now it’s an assassin,” Fersmyn complained. When Deitir’s glance called for silence, the elder threw an arm into the air and took a few slow steps from the others.
Cayri watched him begin to pace, then met Deitir’s gaze. “I will allow no harm to come to you,” she promised.
She expected relief and a sensation of reassurance to come to the young man’s features, but instead he continued to surely meet her eyes.
He said with confidence, “I know.” Perhaps it was for his mother’s benefit that he added, “I’m not afraid.”
Eight
“I’M TO BE THE ONE to go with you?” Irslan asked, as if he were roundly shocked by the announcement.
Vlas gave a glance about the room, making a deliberate demonstration of the fact that there was no one else present in the library. “Why are you so surprised?” He turned the book nearest him on the table about and skimmed its open pages. To alleviate further confusion, he added, “Yes, you are.”
Irslan’s confusion accepted no assistance. “But I…well, there’s…not that I’m unwilling…”
“Enough,” Vlas interrupted abruptly. His patience had certainly run its course. The battle for Irslan’s very home was at his doorstep. He should have been prepared to depart already, having anticipated Vlas’ plan. “What an absurd man.” Though the words were muttered with their direction very plain, Vlas did wonder if it was in some way directed at himself as well.
A small silence settled between them, something more for Irslan to fidget with. “Well…” he began, looking over the books spread on the tabletop before him. He seemed wedged between his prior task and the one Vlas had just delivered him.
It was more than Vlas could manage. “We’ve no time for this delay, Irslan,” he said, flipping closed the books between them. “Collect yourself and whatever you may need for a near journey. We’ve very little time to sort a great deal.”
“But….” Irslan began to stand, which at least was a firmer step forward than remaining in his seat and floundering for words. “But what if the battle comes before we return?”
“What of it?” Vlas replied with a suppressed groan. “You’re not a soldier, are you?”
“No.” Irslan said, matter-of-factly, and with a note of reminder that he had no desire to change that.
Vlas nodded. “Right, and neither am I. I have no intention of participating in the battling itself. I’m of much better use away from it, and so are you.”
“I feel abducted,” Irslan mumbled, pushing his chair back and rising fully to his feet.
“Consider it so, if it rests easier on your mind,” Vlas said with a calmer air about him now that Irslan had stopped delaying. He reconsidered the possibility of anyone else in the house who may have inspired such hesitation from Irslan and gave another look about the library. “By the way, where might your cousin be?”
Irslan seemed lost on the subject for an instant, but then found himself and his words. “Oh, she’s returned to her mother.”
That took a small weight off of Vlas’ mind, and set down a new one that he had no desire to discuss with Irslan at this time. In spite of that, he caught himself murmuring, “The adoptive one, I presume you mean.”
“Yes, of course,” Irslan replied with notable confusion this time. “What else would I have meant?”
“Nothing, of course,” Vlas said, looking at him. “Since you may only construct with the materials provided you.”
“Riddles now.” Irslan arched an eyebrow while finally stepping away from the table and the books that might have held him through even a battle taking place on his doorstep. “I wonder at times who the odder man is, Priest Vlas.”
Vlas was less amused by the comment than Irslan, by considerable degrees, but he had brought it on himself for nearly blurting the true origin of the man’s cousin in his haste to get them on their way to the Islands. Pausing to consider, he felt in an awful rush. He understood that he had a generally ill rapport with patience, but he felt as if…as if something were chasing at his heels.
His memory pulled hard back to the imagery of Serawe’s well, populated with a horde of oddly embodied Vadryn. His mind began to replay Korsten’s struggle with the archdemon as well.
“By the way,” Irslan said. “Your associate’s horse…”
Vlas found the mentioning of Korsten’s Onyx particularly irrelevant, and vexing. “What of it?”
“I might just tend to the animal before we…”
A crash that was as penetrating as a near lightning strike startled both Vlas and Irslan to a moment of perfect stillness.
While a lingering rumble reverberated through the walls and the very air, they both went to the library window. The largest in the room was two stories of glass that continued to vibrate in the aftermath of the disruption, humming within the panes. Vlas and Irslan looked to the source of the clamor, Vlas’ recent memory taking him back to the Islands cave. He suddenly felt as if Irslan’s house were going to come down on them both, and it nearly had him rushing them both to safety via a Release spell, but his eyes convinced his mind that the threat was not as close as it sounded.
Smoke plumed upward from the direction of the docks. Beneath a darkening sky, the fire feeding the black cloud and the setting sun combined to create an orange-gold rim around the edges of it. In the wake of what was clearly the fire trap having gone off, the peal of bells—presumably from the constabulary—pushed rhythmically through air that had settled only briefly, like the steadying breath taken before one lunges forward…into battle. Morenne had arrived.
The enemy had not waited until night, but thankfully sunset had obscured the light enough that the trap was not readily evident for what it was. The first Morennish ship had sailed into range at a speed that suggested the goal was to intimidate by sheer demonstration of their intention. Perhaps they took the skiffs for some form of preparation, certainly nothing lethal or threatening, and meant to crash over a vital element of the city’s defenses. It was vital, yes, and lethal to the invaders.
The magnitude of it was still settling on Oshand’s mind seconds after seeing the point ship kilter with a flaming tear in her side. Two flanking ships were also damaged. One appeared severely crippled and may have been listing into the wake caused by the leader’s sinking. The third had men scrambling to prevent a similar fate.
“Bowmen, fire!” Oshand commanded to the line on the deck. They would take advantage of the wounded ship before the remaining fleet arrived in range to counterattack.
Bolts tipped with flame sailed into the air in arcing steams of smoke and light that streaked the purpling sky of evening. Some smoldered to harmless destinations in the water while others passed through sagging sails, leaving burning holes to grow.
“What’s
that?” someone asked urgently.
Oshand glanced to the soldier beside him on the high deck, then to where the man was pointing. At first, he saw nothing. His gaze panned across the water between them and the enemy and he began to ask what the soldier was referring to when he noticed what appeared to be a shadow on the water. With dimensions comparable to an unfurling bolt of fabric, it was not particularly large or menacing just as it was, though it was fast moving. Still, it was unsettling. It seemed misplaced, especially as Oshand looked skyward for whatever may have been casting it; a projectile of some kind and the trailing smoke, he presumed. Yet, there was nothing flying at them. It certainly couldn’t have been anything under the water.
“What is it?” the man asked again.
“I don’t know,” Oshand replied and moved away from the railing, toward the steps that would take him down to the main deck for a closer look.
He was between decks when a second eruption tore across the sky, sourcing from the approaching second wave of Morennish ships and increasing dramatically when whatever had been launched from it met with the furthest extensions of the harbor, bypassing two of their own vessels that had been converted for battle. Smoke, sparks of flame, and splinters of wood were hurled into the air at a rate that was difficult to fathom, even witnessing it.
Oshand believed that they now had seen how their enemy utilized the fire tactics of the Islands. In that moment, he felt unsure how to respond. He wasn’t even entirely certain just what he had seen. Was that the only such weapon that they had?
The question was answered almost before it had finished forming with a resounding boom from another of the enemy ships. Oshand heard this one sing by them and toward the city. It was intercepted terrifyingly by one of their own ships.
A spray of debris rained over them, setting his own soldiers scattering from harm’s way. Not all of them managed it. Cries of pain and panic joined the ruckus of a sinking ship too close beside them and loads of material being launched through the air by the enemy at swiftly paced intervals.
