by Spurrier, Jo
‘Won’t it?’ Ardamon replied. ‘All we’ve heard says the Akharians came here to find Vasant’s treasures. The slaves are just the sauce on the meat. The Akharians saw what Sierra can do at Terundel: I doubt they’d risk facing her again. Unless they’re willing to walk away from the prize they came halfway around the world to find, they’ll have to stand and negotiate. This will be settled at the parley table, Cam. If Lord Kell can’t turn the legions back, what hope does our untrained sorcerer have?’
‘You think we should offer the Spire in exchange for the slaves?’
‘It’s speculation,’ Ardamon said with a shrug. ‘I admit, it would be better if Sierra and Rasten could terrorise them into letting the prisoners go.’
Cam closed his eyes with a shake of his head. Now they were back to the inconceivable thought of working with the man who had maimed his brother. ‘We need Issey and Mira here to think about this. This sort of thing is bread and butter to them.’
‘I know,’ Ardamon said. ‘We’d best go and get them, then.’
Every time she blinked, Sierra saw the ghostly shadow of snow-covered trees.
The message reached him, Rasten said. My men assure me, and they wouldn’t dare tell me an untruth.
If you say so, Sierra snapped as she wrapped a sheet of oilcloth over a bundle of blankets.
She felt Rasten sigh as he looked over the icy landscape. Little Crow, are you still angry about those women? There was no saving them. Or do you truly believe I’d lie to you over this? I’ve killed so many already, why wouldn’t I claim them too?
Sierra bit her lip. The fact that he’d never lied to her was the very thing that had won her first grudging trust, but if she did believe him that meant that there was only one person responsible for the deaths. Black Sun forgive me, she said to herself. I never wanted to harm them.
There was a touch on her arm, feather-light, and Sierra jumped. Normally it would have startled loose a burst of power, but Rasten was taking care to keep her reserves drained.
It was Lucia, the other mage’s slave-girl. ‘Are you alright?’ she murmured in Ricalani. They were packing up the tent alone while their masters and the students had been called away. The girl knew who she was — it had shaken Sierra severely, that even a personal slave so far removed from the camps could have heard the whispered tales. She’d thought she’d hidden herself better than that. Not for much longer, now.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured the girl, tying the bundle off and turning to the cot, a construction of canvas over a wooden frame. ‘We’re not going to have to haul all this, are we?’ she asked as Lucia showed her how to pull the contraption apart.
‘Oh, Gods, no. The porters will collect it soon, though, so we’d best have it ready. We’ll just carry a few things Master Harwin and Madame Delphine may want during the journey.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She’d been in Delphine’s possession barely more than a day, but already Sierra could see how Isidro had regained so much condition. For the first time in weeks she wasn’t tormented by hunger. She’d fallen asleep without shivering, and had woken with her hands and feet warm and pink instead of numb from cold. She was clean again, wearing clothes that weren’t heavy with old sweat, and her new mistress had even given her a comb for her hair.
She blinked, and the snow-covered copse flashed across her vision once again. Any sign? she said to Rasten.
No. He paused, staring out into the falling snow. Tell me, Sirri, what’s he like, this Prince Cammarian? Is he like his brother?
For a moment, she was utterly confused. Is he like Isidro?
Rasten snorted inside her head. Not his foster-brother, you fool. I mean the king.
I couldn’t say. I’ve never really met Severian, only seen him in passing.
But he’s reliable?
By the Black Sun, yes. If he doesn’t show, something’s gone very wrong. Sierra bit her lip. What if Dremman had intercepted the message before it could get to Cam’s hands? What if the War-Leader had put Cam in chains to keep him from leaving? What if they’d run into an Akharian patrol on their way to the meeting-point? She drew a deep breath, and willed her tense muscles to relax. There was nothing she could do about it here.
She felt Rasten nod to himself. I suppose he must be unlike the rest of his kin. I can’t imagine Balorica holding out through all he did for someone like Severian, or the queen.
She winced to hear him speak of it so casually, but Rasten had long ago learned to detach himself from the suffering of the poor souls Kell used to fuel his rituals. She’d done the same, back when she was Kell’s slave. It was only after she’d grown to know and love the man who’d survived those long hours of torture that the memory of what she’d witnessed truly began to haunt her.
What’s happening on the southern front? she asked him, trying to push those old memories from her mind.
With Kell facing the Akharian legions? Why do you care?
They’re keeping Kell off our backs, aren’t they? she said. That’s reason enough to care. Back in the winter, after she’d fled from Kell’s captivity, she’d had the single focus of staying ahead of Rasten as he was sent to chase her down. It had blinded her to the other dangers lurking in the deep snow — first the Slavers had come upon them unawares, and then Dremman had tried to betray them. Sierra had only escaped his trap by the skin of her teeth. I want to know what’s going on around us. I don’t intend to be taken by surprise again.
Rasten considered her words for a moment, and she couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or pleased by her growing awareness.
Severian’s holding his ground, Rasten replied at last, but only thanks to Kell. Severian’s army is holding the pass to the south, and the Akharians can’t break through, and don’t dare march past them to take the long way around, or they’ll risk an attack from behind. The battlefield on the Greenstone is at an impasse, for now.
And Kell’s waiting for you to bring me back? Sierra said.
Rasten chuckled. Do you think the Slavers will take care of him for you? It won’t work, Sirri. They’ve got no hope of killing a mage of Kell’s power. Even if the king falls, Kell will cut his losses and come after us.
Do you think the king will fall?
Rasten shifted his weight, the snow crunching under his boots. No. The Akharians won’t kill him. The Queen might. Severian’s been fighting the bit for years now, and when the invasion came Valeria had little choice but to give him free rein. Even the Mesentreian lords who’ve supported her all along wouldn’t let her direct the battle. They wanted to give Severian a chance to prove himself. He might have done alright, if he hadn’t lost you before they even reached the battlefield, and then let me spend months following you around in the north. The army’s holding the pass, but it’s due to Kell, not the king, and every man there knows it. Severian’s shown that he’s useless. Rumour has it that Valeria will be coming to take charge of it all as soon as it’s warm enough that she can bear to travel.
The last was said with something of a sneer. Rasten might have spent half his life surrounded by foreigners, but he was still Ricalani at heart, and bore scorn for the soft southerners who couldn’t bear the northern cold. Valeria was a woman with two grown sons — for someone not born to the north, and who had spent the better part of her life living pampered within the thick walls of the palace at Lathayan, that made her old enough for winter travel to give her real difficulty.
Do you really think she’ll kill him?
She’s cast off one son, hasn’t she? Why not a second? Duke Osebian is the heir, and there’d be no complaints among the lords if he took the crown. She’s only held back this long because she knows she has no chance of controlling Osebian, whereas after this Severian might well go back to letting her run everything while he concentrates on drinking himself into a stupor and fucking his whores. Does that satisfy you, Sirri? I truly think it makes little difference to us. Which head bears the crown is irrelevant so long as Kell still lives.
I sup
pose you’re right, she said.
Rasten lifted his gaze, staring off into the falling snow, but after a moment he looked away with a shake of his head. I’ll give your prince a few minutes more, then I’ll go looking for them.
Sierra suppressed a sigh, and fought to push down her nerves once more. She had to trust Rasten to bring Cam and his men to Demon’s Spire, just as she had to trust Isidro to lead the Akharians there. That’s what Isidro always says: just focus on the matter at hand. We’ll get there. It’s so close. Just a little further, and all this will be over …
Rasten stretched carefully, but there was barely any need for such caution. His master periodically reached out across these hundreds of miles and forced him to demonstrate that he was still an obedient servant, but it had been months since Kell had bound him to a rack or forced him into some painful and unnatural position that sent his muscles into spasm, and the ever-present ache of abused muscles had receded. Of course, there would be a price to pay when he did return, but for now he could enjoy the peace.
He turned to the north, where the peak of Demon’s Spire lay hidden behind cloud. Sierra had pinned all her hopes on the books the tales told of, believing they would be enough to help her master her powers and defeat Kell. Rasten had his doubts, but for her sake — for both their sakes — he wished she could be right.
Rasten tramped down from his vantage-point overlooking a small hollow where a great scar of rubble and earth spread out across the pristine snow. Nearly a hundred years before, men had spent weeks filling in the entrance. Rasten had cleared it in a matter of moments after raising power from one of the soldiers he’d taken prisoner a few days earlier. The spent remains were now cooling in a rough grave scratched into the frozen ground.
Rasten was descending the last stretch when one of the sentries returned at a trot, reporting to the captain of Rasten’s men with a salute. ‘They’re here, sir, coming from the west.’
‘Finally,’ Rasten said, and both men turned to him with a bow. ‘Captain, ensure the men heed my orders. Anyone who raises a weapon to the prince will be next under my knife.’
The captain bowed deeply. ‘Yes, my lord.’
Snow had begun to fall, cutting visibility down to just a few hundred paces. It muffled all sounds, as well, so that Rasten first heard the horses only moments before they came into view, coats stained with sweat frozen to a glittering frost, foam dripping from their mouths.
The man at their head looked over Rasten’s assembled men before sweeping back his hood with one mittened hand, revealing an untidy shock of sandy-blond hair. Cammarian had a streak of blood on his cheek — there was a tiny cut across his cheekbone, beneath his left eye.
‘You’re late,’ Rasten said.
‘We ran across an Akharian patrol,’ the prince replied.
‘No mages?’
‘If there were, we wouldn’t be here.’ He glanced at his men and signalled to them to dismount. ‘Sirri swears blind to me that you’ve never told her a lie,’ Cammarian said. ‘Will you give me your word your men will give mine no trouble?’
‘I’ve ordered them to keep away,’ Rasten said. ‘They know better than to disobey.’
Cammarian was as tense as a bowstring, his jaw clamped like a horse fighting the bit, and his eyes blazing with anger and hatred. They both knew all too well what Rasten had done to earn it, all those months ago when Isidro Balorica had been brought bound and naked into Kell’s tent. He looked back on those hours with no pleasure, only the poisoned satisfaction he always felt when it was his turn to stand over the bound and pleading figure, instead of being the one begging for mercy. At the time, Rasten would never have believed that day would lead to this. The prince was thinking about it, too, as much as he willed himself not to — Rasten could see it in his face, in the barely contained rage written in every line of his body.
Evidently the prince’s companions could see it, too, as one of them wound through the crowd of men to his side. The hooded figure was wrapped in a heavy fur, but so small and slight that Rasten knew at once this was no warrior.
Cammarian saw his gaze shift, and turned to see what had drawn his attention.
‘You brought a woman on this mission?’ Rasten exclaimed as the figure swept back her hood, revealing honey-coloured skin and tawny curls. She coolly returned his gaze, with only a faint hint of fear in the tightening of her eyes. ‘I’m Akharian-born, and a physician,’ she said. ‘I will be of use here.’
‘You’d best keep her close,’ Rasten said. ‘I wouldn’t trust my men around her. Get your men on the move, Prince. We’re wasting time.’
Chapter 4
It was a cold and frozen world beneath the mountain, black as pitch: an alien, unwelcoming place. The lava-tubes through which they trudged were lined with black gobbets of glassy stone, as though the walls were built of molten wax. Strange gnarled clumps jutted from the rock in grotesque, congealed shapes, utterly unlike the pale and graceful columns of Milksprings. Brittle and crumbling ledges clung to the walls, the tide-marks of old lava-flows left for the ages once they cooled to a rocky skin.
There was no exploration today — the scouts had already chosen the route, following the marks left by the long-dead priestess who had cut her way into the mountain’s lifeless veins. Isidro merely trudged behind his masters, his long stride cut frustratingly short behind Delphine and her students, and Harwin as he puffed and wheezed in the cold.
They walked throughout the day and into the night, or as near as Isidro could tell when a mountain stood between himself and the sky, stopping only infrequently for rest and food, halting in the line where they were, for there was no room in the cramped passages to gather and no niches or chambers in which to secrete themselves or spread out.
It was well past midnight and Isidro was chilled to the bone when the narrow passage opened without warning into a vast cavern, so huge that the gleam of the lanterns barely reached the walls. The floor rose in a series of terraces towards the rear, where the highest level stood as a bastion to overlook the cavernous space. The encircling wall rippled with shadow, but here and there were patches of total darkness: other tunnels through the mountain. Somewhere in that frozen darkness, Cam and Rasten were waiting, probably every bit as cold and weary as he.
While the expedition gathered, awaiting orders to pitch camp, Isidro found himself staring at the high ledge, thinking what a commanding view it would have. Somewhere nearby he heard a waterfall feeding a stream that cut through the chamber, a dimly glinting ribbon of ice and water.
When orders finally came, they were brief — set up the tents, and get some rest. Exploration would begin in the morning.
Isidro helped as best he could as the poles were tied into frames and covered with hides, all the while willing himself to stay awake until the others were asleep so he could make contact with Rasten, or perhaps Sierra, but the resolution failed him — he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
A lance of pain through the sigil scored into his back woke Isidro with a choking gasp.
Ye Gods, you’re a sound sleeper, Rasten said.
Isidro pressed his face into the pillow to muffle his shuddering breath. He had no idea how long he’d slept. It felt like only a handful of minutes but must have been more. It’s been a long day, he said, fumbling for the warding-stone, hanging like a leaden weight around his neck. Delphine had replaced it once already, the first one turning grey and ashen after Rasten’s contact had overwhelmed the enchantment. At a touch Isidro sensed the new one was decaying, too, and allowed himself a flicker of hope — by the time it died, he might be free.
That’s true for every wretched soul in this Gods-forsaken mountain, Rasten said.
You’re in position?
Through the connection Isidro saw a shadowy vision of men bundled in furs, spread in a straggling line through a tunnel. He couldn’t pick Cam’s shape from among them. Close enough, Rasten said. What are we facing here?
He’d tried to take stock
of the Akharian numbers when the expedition assembled in the courtyard of the fallen temple. Two hundred or so soldiers and forty mages, including the academics. A hundred slaves, or thereabouts.
How is the camp laid out?
Isidro squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. A few short hours of sleep had barely taken the edge off his weariness. I don’t know, I’ve had no chance to look it over. How are you and Sierra off for power?
I’ve been draining her excess all day. We have enough to begin, and the rest will come soon enough.
How many men do you have?
Cammarian has twenty besides himself, the lordling and his physician. Mine remained on the surface, except for two who will stay out of the fighting unless it gets desperate.
Isidro stifled a groan. Twenty men against the Akharians’ two hundred and forty. He couldn’t count the slaves — even if they were in a state to fight, unarmed and untrained they’d be more a liability than anything else. The odds would be pitiful if it weren’t for Sierra and Rasten. Sierra had faced Akharian mages before, but on a very different battleground. Still, he could trust Rasten to keep her alive. What’s the plan of attack?
Don’t know yet. I’ll tell the others what you’ve learnt. That was a good sign. Isidro had worried Rasten would lead the assault himself, and he doubted he’d ever fought this kind of scrap. Cam, on the other hand, had been outnumbered, overmatched and desperate more often than not.
On the far side of the curtain, Isidro heard a rustle of leather and fur as someone struggled out of their blankets. He held himself very still. Is it Sirri?
No, she’s sleeping like the dead, Rasten said as a figure ducked under the curtain, holding a lantern-stone in one hand with light streaming through her fingers. ‘Aleksar?’ Delphine hissed. ‘Are you awake?’
Isidro lifted his head, and raised his good hand to shield his eyes. ‘Is something wrong, madame?’
