by Mark Anthony
Despite her trepidation, Aryn found herself smiling as well. “And who could sleep with all these trumpets blowing, Your Majesty? You’re making quite a racket.”
“It’s all part of our plan, my lady. We’ll make ourselves appear so fearsome the servants of the Pale King will take one look at us and run all the way back to Imbrifale.”
Aryn laughed. “That’s an awful plan.”
The king shrugged broad shoulders. “We’ll refine it as we go along.”
Aryn started to speak again, only her laughter had somehow turned to tears. The king climbed down from his horse and encircled her in strong arms. For a moment, she felt like a small girl again.
“I wish I could come with you, Your Majesty,” she managed to say between sobs.
“I wish it were so as well, my lady,” he said, his voice gruff. “Your presence would gladden my heart. But it is a dark road we must travel, to a dark place, and should I never return, there must be someone here to keep the light of hope burning.”
Aryn clutched him more tightly. “No, Your Majesty. Do not speak of such a thing. You will return to us, and with Lady Grace at your side.”
However, all he said was, “There, child.” Then he kissed her brow and gently pushed her away. He climbed back onto his horse. “You’ll take good care of her,” he said, gazing at Lirith and Sareth.
“With all our might,” Sareth said.
One of the knights guided his horse close to the king’s. “Any sign of the prince yet?”
Aryn’s sorrow receded in the wake of new fear. So they had not seen Teravian either. What did it mean? Before she could wonder more, the sound of trumpets shattered the brittle air. At the same moment, the sun crested the horizon, and the clouds changed from copper to fiery crimson.
“There,” the king said, pointing across the field to the east. “Here he comes now, along with Petryen and Ajhir. They were keeping track of him.”
The knight grinned. “Perhaps he was a bit groggy this morning after his adventures last night.”
Lirith’s cheeks darkened, and she turned away. Sareth cast a puzzled look at her. Aryn started to reach for the witch, then murmured oaths rose from the men all around.
“By Vathris,” Boreas growled, “what’s that they’re carrying?”
Something was wrong, but Aryn couldn’t see for all the horsemen. She spied a squire holding a horse, probably for a lord who had gone to use the privy trench one last time. Ignoring the boy’s protest, she grabbed the saddle and pulled herself up.
The light of the dawning sun tinged countless shields and spears with the color of blood. Aryn shaded her eyes with her left hand and saw three riders approaching from the east. Two of the men rode dark horses; she recognized them as Duke Petryen and Sai’el Ajhir. Between them, on a white horse, rode Teravian. The prince was clad in a red cloak over black armor. A sword was belted at his side, and resting on his brow was a circlet wrought of silver.
Ajhir carried a banner, staff braced in his stirrup, and a breeze caught the cloth, unfurling it. It was a mirror to the banner of Calavan—a crown over crossed swords—only rather than silver on blue, it was gold on green. Petryen carried a second banner, red on white: the shape of a charging bull.
“What does he mean by this?” Boreas roared. “By all the Seven, he had better have a good explanation, or I will have him thrown in the dungeon, prince though he is.”
The army fell silent as the prince and the two men rode closer. The air behind them seemed to shimmer with ruby light; the clouds blazed in the sky. The three riders came to a halt, opposite the king and his captains, thirty paces away.
“Hear us, men of Vathris!” Ajhir called out. “Hear us, true followers of the Bullslayer!” His words rang out over the field, impossibly loud, so that every man could easily hear them. Aryn cast a startled glance at Lirith.
It’s a spell, Lirith mouthed the words, weaving her fingers together.
With a jolt, Aryn understood. In a way it was like the enchantment that allowed them to speak across the Weirding. Only this magic made it so anyone could hear Ajhir’s words. But where were the witches who were casting the spell?
“You have been betrayed, men of Vathris!” Ajhir called out. “You have been lied to by the very man who you now follow—by King Boreas himself.”
Murmurs of anger and dismay rose from the army. Men cast shocked looks at the king. Boreas’s visage went white, and Aryn knew it was from rage rather than fear. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Petryen moved his horse forward; his voice rang out like Ajhir’s. “He has told you it was the witch Ivalaine who tried to murder Prince Teravian. What he did not tell you was that it was he himself who convinced her to do the deed, using spells to twist her mind—dark magics no true man of Vathris would have dealings with. It was Boreas who did this, so that he might usurp his son’s place in prophecy. For it is not King Boreas upon whom Vathris has shone his holy light, but rather upon his son. The prophecies are clear: It is Teravian who is to lead us in the battle against the darkness of the north, not the traitor and coward King Boreas!”
Now shouts rose from the men, some of protest, but others of outrage. Some of the knights around Aryn appeared as angry as the king, but many more cast odd looks at Boreas, their lips curling in disgust.
It’s part of the spell, sister, Lirith’s voice spoke in her mind. The words Ajhir and Petryen speak—they do more than simply pierce the air. They are piercing men’s hearts and minds as well, twisting them. Only I don’t know how they’re doing it. Can you see anything from up there?
Aryn gazed around, but she saw only the great host of warriors, and the empty plain, and the red clouds that boiled in the sky. The air behind Teravian, Petryen, and Ajhir shimmered as though it were hot instead of bitterly cold.
“This is madness!” Boreas called out. He wheeled his horse around, his eyes casting off sparks. “Do not listen to them! I know not why, but they seek to turn us from our purpose, to prevent us from riding against the darkness.”
However, the king’s voice sounded small and weak compared to the stentorian tones of Petryen and Ajhir. His words were drowned out by the angry voices of the warriors, though there were shouts of doubt and protest as well.
How can we know if this is true? many of the men called out, and others took up the cry. How can we know it is the prince who is to lead us? Show us a sign!
A chant rose from the men, quickly growing in strength as it raced across the army like a wave over the ocean.
Show us! Show us!
Teravian guided his white horse forward, and the chanting ceased as a silence fell over the army.
“I will show you a sign,” the prince said, and though his voice was low, every ear heard his words, and every soldier held his breath as he raised his arms over his head.
Aryn clutched the reins of her stolen horse. What was he doing? Then she felt the hum of magic along the threads of the Weirding.
“Show them, Lord Vathris!” Teravian called out, his voice booming like thunder now. He thrust his hands above his head. “Show your followers what they wish to see!”
A new sound rose from the army: cries of fear, and of exultation. Men pointed at the sky, and shouts of “Vathris! Lord Vathris comes!” rang out.
Aryn gazed upward. The molten clouds above the army roiled, then all at once broke apart. Out of the gap emerged a gigantic shape, as large as castle, as ruddy as the dawn. The thing charged across the sky, tossing its gigantic head and snorting fire from its nostrils.
It was a bull, terrifying and beautiful, born of the red clouds of morning.
44.
A deafening cry rose up from the army. Five thousand men surged in a crushing tide. At first Aryn thought the soldiers were fleeing at the sight of the enormous bull floating overhead. Then she heard Teravian’s voice—clear and thunderous—ringing out over the din.
“To me, Warriors of Vathris! To me, Men of the Bull!”
The
soldiers weren’t crying out in dread, but in rapture. They broke from their formations and raced across the field, answering Teravian’s call, gathering around him, swords and spears held aloft to catch the light of the dawn.
In the sky, the bull had wheeled around, and now it halted above the prince. A morning wind sprang up, blowing the clouds to the east, but the bull held its place. It was as large as a mountain now, gleaming red-gold. Wisps of fog curled away from its body like the steam of sweat.
Some of the knights spurred their horses, racing across the field toward Teravian’s banner. Aryn fought to retain control of her horse as it was buffeted from all sides. Where were Lirith and Sareth? They would be trampled.
She caught sight of them not far from the king. He rode beneath his banner, shouting orders, his face as red as the bull in the sky. A tight knot of men on horse and on foot surrounded him, and Lirith and Sareth were among them. Aryn pulled on the reins of her mount, trying to guide it toward the king, but men and horses crashed into them. Her mount’s eyes were wild with terror.
Get out of my way!
Aryn directed the words along the Weirding with the full force of her will. Men and beasts alike staggered aside; a way opened up before her. She urged her horse, and it sprang forward at a gallop.
“To me!” King Boreas was shouting. “Do not be fooled by witchcraft and trickery! To me!”
A few more heeded the king’s call, gathering around him, but they were not many. The shouts of men and the pounding of hooves drowned out his commands, while Teravian’s voice continued to ring out as though it issued from the sky itself.
At last Aryn reached Lirith and Sareth. The two gripped the saddle of her horse to keep from being swept away. Aryn tried to speak, but her voice was lost in the din. She abandoned mundane speech in favor of the Weirding.
What’s happening? Is it really a sign from Vathris?
No, sister, came Lirith’s reply. Can you not feel it? It has its source in the web of the Weirding.
Aryn closed her eyes, trying to shut out the noise and confusion around her. The threads of the Weirding were pulled taught, vibrating like the strings of a lute. Something was drawing a river of magic from the great web. Something or someone.
The bull is a form of illusion, isn’t it? Aryn spoke in her mind.
Yes, but one forged of enormous power. Last summer, in Falanor, Grace, you, and I were able to part the fog that covered the village green. But this bull is far larger than the cloud of mist we affected, and its shape is formed with great skill. I know of no witch who could have conjured such a thing. There was a pause. No female witch, at least.
Aryn clenched the reins of the horse. It’s Teravian. This is why they wanted him to come full into his power last night—so he could do this.
Remember what Mirda told us—he is more powerful than any witch.
Save for one, Aryn thought. However, she did not spin these words over the Weirding.
She opened her eyes. The greater part of the army had abandoned its position and raced across the field, falling in behind Teravian. A chant of “Vathris, Lord Vathris!” rose from the men, as well as, “Teravian, King Teravian!”
No more than a quarter of the army had remained with King Boreas. In a way, Aryn was heartened so many had stayed at all. The bull still snorted and tossed its head in the sky. What man would not follow in answer to the call of his god? But at least some men had put loyalty before faith.
Only they were not nearly enough. It was to be father against son, warrior against warrior, and King Boreas’s side was too small. There was no hope it could win. All the same, the victory over their brothers would exact a terrible toll on the force that had flocked to Teravian. When the battle was over, half the army of Vathris would lie dead on the field, and many of those who remained would be wounded. No more than a small force would be left to march north to Gravenfist Keep—if it marched north at all. Surely that had been Liendra’s plan all along.
But where were Liendra and her witches? Aryn gazed over the field, but all she saw were the men gathered behind Teravian. The prince had ridden forward, so that he was now twenty paces before his army. Duke Petryen and Sai’el Ajhir still rode beside him, the banners they held snapping in the wind. Aryn remembered how solicitous of the prince both had been since the first attempt on his life. The two lords must have been in on this treacherous plot from the beginning.
A silence fell over the battlefield. In the sky, the bull lowered itself on one knee, as if bowing to the prince below.
“Hear me, King Boreas!” Teravian’s voice rang out over the land. “There is yet hope for you. Throw down your sword and surrender yourself, and you will be forgiven your deeds!”
The prince’s words elicited a string of curses from Boreas. The knights gathered around him shook their swords in anger. However, Aryn hardly noticed. A realization came to her, along with a sudden thrill.
Lirith! she said, spinning a thread out to the other witch. Teravian is powerful, there’s no doubt of that. But no matter how powerful he is, he can’t be weaving two spells at once. He can’t be creating the illusion of the bull and magnifying the sound of his voice as well.
Understanding flowed back from Lirith. Someone must be helping him. Someone nearby.
Aryn gazed again at Teravian. The air behind the prince still shimmered, as though heat rose from the ground. However, despite the rising of the sun, the day was bitterly cold.
Again Teravian’s voice boomed out over the field. “What is your answer, Father? Will you obey the will of the sacred bull and surrender yourself to me?”
“I will give him an answer,” Boreas roared, drawing his sword. “I placed my trust in him, and he has betrayed me. He is no son of mine. Prepare to charge, true men of Vathris. We will not let our minds be clouded by spells and deceit.”
Shouts of approval rose up around the king. Orders were given; the men fell into quick formation. Knights held their lances ready; foot soldiers gripped spears and shields. Their faces were stern, but they were far too few. It would be a bloodbath.
“We’d better get out of the way,” Sareth said, looking up at Aryn with wide eyes. “I don’t think they’re going to stop for anything once they charge.”
The cold seemed to crystallize Aryn’s mind, and despite the pounding of her heart a resolve filled her. It couldn’t be courage, not when she was so deathly afraid. Rather it was a kind of knowledge; she had seen this in a vision, had she not? This was the way it was to be.
A small round shield and scabbard were strapped to the horse’s saddle. Aryn looped the shield’s strap around her shoulder, so that it covered her withered arm. Then she unbuckled the scabbard and unsheathed the sword, holding it aloft.
Lirith’s frightened voice came from below her. “Sister, what are you doing?”
“What it is my purpose to do,” Aryn said, and with a thought she urged the horse forward.
She heard Lirith and Sareth cry out behind her, followed by an angry shout she recognized as King Boreas’s, but the horse was already cantering across the field. Aryn rode with ease, sitting tall and straight in the saddle, gripping her mount with only her knees. She knew if she could look back at herself, she would see a scene she had glimpsed before: a proud woman all in blue riding away from a castle with seven towers, a shield on her shoulder, a sword in her hand. A queen riding to war.
It was Ivalaine who had first revealed the image to her, in the waters of a ewer, what seemed an age ago. Then she had seen it again, in the card she drew from the T’hot deck of Sareth’s al-Mama. Both times, Aryn had failed to understand. How could she be riding to war at all, let alone from a castle with seven towers when Calavere had nine? However, two of Calavere’s towers were gone now, and so was Aryn’s uncertainty. She knew she was not yet a queen; all the same, she would be obeyed.
Aryn brought the horse to a halt before Teravian. Petryen and Ajhir treated her to suspicious glares, hands on the hilts of their swords, but the prince�
�s gray eyes were curious beneath his thick eyebrows.
“Go back to your father, Aryn,” he said. His voice was quiet, for her only.
She was aware of Petryen’s and Ajhir’s angry looks, and of the three thousand men gathered not far behind the prince. All the same, she thrust her shoulders back. “Boreas is my warden, not my father. My place is with you, Your Highness. Am I not your betrothed?”
He blinked, and it was clear her words had startled him. “We can talk about that later. Right now you have to get out of here. There’s going to be a battle. I can’t stop it.”
“Can’t you?” Even as she spoke, Aryn probed along the Weirding, tracing the threads of the power.
His visage grew hard. “No, as a matter of fact I can’t.”
Aryn was still searching. She needed more time. “Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’d never understand.”
“I might.”
The wind blew the prince’s dark hair from his face. He looked older than before, stronger and more serious. His shoulders were no longer hunched. The awkward and uncertain boy she had always known was gone; in his place was a young man.
“I did it because I love him,” he said so only she could hear, gazing across the field at the banner of King Boreas.
He was right. Aryn didn’t understand. However, there was one thing she did know—the weaving was subtle, skillfully done, but at last she had detected it, hanging like a shimmering curtain behind the prince.
“I will leave you then, Your Majesty,” she said. “But first you must let me give you a gift—something to remind you of your wife to be.”
Petryen frowned, and Ajhir started to protest, but Teravian waved their words away. “What is it?”
“Only this, my lord.” She sheathed the sword, and from her cloak she drew out the embroidered scarf. “It is a small thing, a token I made for you. I ask only that you place it around your neck before you ride into battle.”
Teravian hesitated, then reached out and took the scarf. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. Carefully, he unfolded it, then wound it around his neck. “Now go, Aryn. Be safe.” His words were so gentle she almost lost her resolve.
