Three Coins for Confession

by Scott Fitzgerald Gray

  “Calala!” Dargana shouted, but Chriani knew the rangers wouldn’t need the warning. The Ilvani war-band reacted to the failed ambush with a single-minded purpose, pushing their horses back along the treeline in an attempt to draw the Ilmari riders in. Taking cover but not retreating. Looking for the fight the exile war-bands had hoped to avoid.

  Chriani had his bow out, was following the three riders that had fallen back. “Get to the trees for cover,” he called to Kathlan. “Keep Dargana out of sight.”

  Even as he shouted, though, the exile called out. “Three riders fleeing!” Then with a flick of her reins, Dargana turned her horse and charged the side of the bluff, twisting onto a narrow trail through the trees that Chriani hadn’t seen. He cursed as he slewed to a stop, turned his horse to follow her. Kathlan was two strides behind him.

  He hadn’t seen the riders Dargana was following.

  Chriani watched the scrub to all sides, wary. He heard bowshot to the east, steel on steel to the west where the rest of the squad had disappeared. The Ilvani had gone silent again. He lost sight of Dargana at one point, needing to check his horse’s speed on the rough trail. He had given Kathlan specific orders in Rheran to not sit the exile on any steed that would let her run, but the chestnut mare Dargana rode was flying somehow under her light touch, drawing steadily away.

  He rounded a corner where the trail opened up to a broad clearing, the scrub trees there overgrown by a lone limni whose branches reached for the sun. Dargana had her reins loose, was letting her horse crop pale grass between the trees. Waiting for him.

  “Where are your riders?” Chriani said coldly as he reined to a stop.

  “Must have lost them. We need to talk.”

  The unfamiliar urgency in her tone caught Chriani off guard, but he was too angry to care. “Not your decision to make,” he said coldly. “And not at the expense of endangering my squad…”

  “We’re in Aerach by dusk and fallen in with another squad in the morning. Unless you can call down another Calala attack at your whim, we’ll have no other chance but here and now.”

  Before Chriani could respond, he saw Dargana’s dark eyes flash to shadow as Kathlan raced in behind him. She slowed her horse quickly, ignoring Chriani as she stepped past him to stop at Dargana’s side.

  “You ever think to race one of my horses again where it might break a leg, I’ll break both of yours first so you can judge what it feels like.” Kathlan’s voice carried a dark fury that Chriani recognized. To her credit, Dargana didn’t laugh in response.

  “I take my responsibility to a mount as seriously as you do, horse master. But this one is more fleet than she lets you know. She was in no danger.”

  “You’ll walk her back all the same.”

  “As you wish.”

  From the scrubland behind them, they heard a horn. Two short blasts, a call to return. Chriani caught Dargana’s thin smile.

  “The others will be looking for us,” the exile said. “Someone should ride ahead and round them up before they scatter.”

  “Someone should have thought twice about breaking off from the squad in the first place,” Kathlan said coldly. “So what are we going to talk about?”

  She was watching the exile, Chriani understanding that Kathlan had heard what was said even as she rode up. Dargana’s smile grew colder.

  “You don’t need to concern yourself in these matters, girl…”

  Kathlan spat. “I’ll concern myself with what I choose, and take on anything you or your Ilvani can throw at me. You doubt it, try me.”

  “That’s enough.” Chriani had to angle his horse between the two of them where they were pressing, Kathlan the first to back away. Beyond the tangled scrub, the horn sounded out again. “Go,” he said to Kathlan. “Tell them Dargana and I followed outriders and are cooling our horses on the way back.”

  It was as close to an order as he’d ever given her, but there was no hardness in his voice. Kathlan’s green eyes showed a sudden chill, though, flicking once to Dargana as she spurred away.

  Chriani set out ahead of Dargana, holding his horse to a walk. He scanned the trees around them, saw no sign of any movement. “Have your words,” he said. “And quickly.” A report featuring rangers coming under fire while Chriani and the exile were off in the woods would sit well with Ashlund, he knew.

  Dargana followed along the same route, a half-length behind. “I spoke the truth to your prince,” she said, “but not all of it. The rest is for you alone. I fled to Laneldenar and heard factions there talking peace. But it meant nothing to me. I only wanted to kill Calala for what they’d done to Crithnalerean. I had nothing else to care about by that point.”

  “And what changed your mind?”

  “Veassen. That’s a name you need to remember. A seer of the Laneldenari. Blind since birth, they say. He seeks the heir of the exile’s blade. He told me it was you.”

  The words, the title, meant nothing to Chriani. But as Dargana spoke, he felt a chill settle at the back of his neck. He kept his eyes on the scattered groves around them, the shadows glimmering beneath their branches. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “You carried the blade, half-blood. You tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you if you call me that one more time within a league of any Ilmari, I’ll have your tongue.”

  Dargana simply shrugged. “Caradar’s line broke with the Valnirata at the end of the Migration Wars. He invoked the history of a forebear named Daronnon when he claimed power in Crithnalerean and named himself the exile king. But the legends are older than even Daronnon, talking of how a narneth móir called ‘the exile’s blade’ will be key to the final fate of the Ilvani of Muiraìden. When Caradar’s power was rising, many thought he would turn out to be the prophesied heir. But when he fell to Chanist, the legend fell with him. Veassen thinks that’s changing. So do the Calala and their lóechari. That’s why they hunt you.”

  The absurdity of it almost inspired Chriani to laugh. He only shook his head, though. “Whatever superstition the Ilvani chase, it’s got nothing to do with the dagger. It’s a blade no different than yours. And it’s got less to do with me…”

  “Veassen was the one who told me to go to Calalerean and work my way into the war-bands there. He told me to find you and confirm that the blade of Caradar was safe. He didn’t say to find you and the blade. Didn’t say find out if you have it. Because he already knew you weren’t carrying it.”

  “An Ilmari of the prince’s guard not carrying a bloodblade? Give me whatever odds your seer was offering and I’ll take that bet.”

  “Veassen told me I’d find you in Rheran,” Dargana hissed. “He told me when the lóechari would set out in pursuit of you, when they’d arrive in the city. Third day of your High Autumn, he called it. Two days of rain, then the clouds would break by night. He told me the name of the inn where you’d stay. Told me to watch for you on the roof. Told me what to tell your prince when we met. Told me that you’re the key to everything the Calalerean Ilvani want.”

  Chriani felt the exile’s earnestness. The same dark honesty with which she had threatened to kill him a year and a half before. Despite all his best instincts, though, he did laugh this time.

  Dargana’s anger showed as she pushed her horse forward, pressing close. “Veassen sent me to help you against the lóechari. Then I was to bring you to the eastern border of the Greatwood, where the Hunthad crosses into Valnirata lands.”

  “So you show up to save me from one group hunting me, only to deliver me to another? How many others are out there waiting to lay down bids?”

  “You’re a fool, half-blood.”

  Chriani felt the oath grate on him, but he was too weary to warn the exile off speaking it again. “So it’s been said, and by better than you.”

  “If the blade of Caradar is the exile’s blade, it holds power beyond its symbolism,” Dargana said. “You claimed it, half-blood. You brought it back to Valnirata.”

  “This is sotting
children’s stories. Do you mean to tell me this is why you dragged me into…?”

  Chriani’s horse faltered. Its ears pricked up, head pulling to the left in a way that told Chriani it had sensed something in the silence.

  He had his bow out, an arrow drawn and nocked. Guiding the horse with his knees as he let his senses slip out to seek any sound, any movement. The scrubland was breaking around them, the edge of the pine bluff ahead. No real screen of trees to worry about, but the grass could hide vipers or scorpions. Wolves and lions also prowled the exile lands, though they seldom ventured this close to the Wayroad.

  He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Only the sound of hoofbeats rising where Kathlan and one guard were running an outrider pattern toward them.

  “Discard some arrows,” Dargana said quietly. “Anyone who can count will know you haven’t shot today.”

  She was right. A faint anger twisted through Chriani as he let six arrows drop unseen behind him before he spurred ahead.

  When they had drawn close enough, the ranger hailed him. Walaric, Chriani remembered.

  “Well met, lord. We were worried when we lost you on the road.”

  “Three riders fleeing,” Chriani said. “No way to catch them in the scrub, but we made sure they didn’t circle back.”

  “Understood, lord. Our concern was more for the status of the Ilvani envoy.”

  Chriani felt the challenge left hanging in the words. Knew the best way to deal with them. He rounded on the ranger, summoning up a rendering of Ashlund from any number of his own memories. “Dargana rode out into fire, same as you, Walaric. If I ever need your assessment of the loyalty or effectiveness of anyone in this squad, you’ll know it first. Is that clear?”

  The guard stared coldly for a moment. “Wilric, lord. Walaric waits for us at the Wayroad.”

  Chriani sat his horse in silence a moment. Then he spurred past. Wilric took up a position to his left, Dargana and Kathlan on his right. As they rode, from the corner of his eye, he saw Dargana smile.

  They passed from the Clearwater Way just after dusk, a haze of faint light ahead marking the transition from the exile lands. The Wayroad ended in Werrancross, the great fortress city that marked the start of the defended western frontier of Aerach, and whose place at the mouth of the Hunthad River made it a gateway for ship trade to Brandishear and Elalantar beyond.

  The cloud gathering over the past two days had turned to a haze of cold rain well before sunset, behind which the lights of Werrancross were veiled. The city wasn’t their destination, though. Among the few clear details of Chriani’s orders were the need to maintain a low profile in Aerach while they met up with a squad of rangers out of the capital at Aleran, arranged by the Prince High Chanist’s magical messaging. Even with their Aerach escort, they would be traveling as a group of most unofficial emissaries, making their way into the Greatwood quietly. Any contact with the Ilvani would be made with no direct connection to either crown.

  Against that secrecy, they would at least be able to travel more openly in Aerach. All four nations of the Ilmar had their share of Ilvani, many of them generations removed from the Valnirata and the Migration Wars that had pushed the most warlike of their people back to the forest that had been their greatest domain. As such, for Dargana to be seen riding with the rangers would raise fewer glances along the trade roads than it would have among the patrols of the Clearwater Way.

  At a tumbled series of stone cairns that marked the edge of the first of Werrancross’s many outskirts villages, Chriani called a halt. The rangers were all hunched under their cloaks, the lead and rear riders bearing lanterns that set a rippling light around them, the road a meandering slick of mud that vanished before and after them into shadow.

  “Time to find shelter for the night,” Chriani called. “Head out by twos for the nearest lights, two groups east, one north. I’ll take the south. Try to find a roadhouse that can hold us all, then return here. We’ll compare notes and choose if there’s a surplus, but I doubt there’ll be many empty rooms in this weather.”

  The rangers nodded their understanding but kept a sullen silence as they lit more lanterns. The looks and tone of their whispered conversations had been darker than usual over the last of the journey, Chriani’s inability to remember Wilric’s name still burning in his mind. Hopefully, they would find accommodation with ale on tap so he could make amends. Or at least drink himself to the point where he no longer had to dwell on what the others thought.

  “You’ll ride with master Kathlan and I,” he said to Dargana. His voice was louder than he liked, but he felt the need to create at least the illusion of authority over the exile. “Stay close.” She was the only one of them riding uncovered, soaked to the skin and dark hair streaming behind her, but showing no sign of discomfort or care. She raised her hand in a bad mockery of the full salute. The last of the guards watched darkly as they spurred away.

  Chriani had spotted a circle of distant firelight to the south, almost from the moment they’d crested the last of the hills that marked the transition from scrubland to the broad fields and terraced slopes of Aerach’s northwest frontier. He hadn’t called it out to the others because he worried about whether only his eyes had pulled the flicker of flame out of the darkness. He judged it as the closest possible stopping place, though, hoping to be back to the meeting point before the others if he could. Not wanting to give them time alone, standing in the rain, to grow even more dissatisfied with his leadership.

  As they spurred toward the light, they found themselves following a track whose mud-filled ruts would have wallowed any wagon on the road this night, but which the horses navigated with ease. As they drew closer, though, Chriani quickly came to understand that the firelight he’d seen wasn’t a village as he hoped but some kind of wagon camp.

  A broad grove of trees was lit up brightly by colored lamps, Chriani catching sight of a dozen or more horses sheltered there. Six traveling wagons were pulled in tight to the edge of the wood, where a hollow marked out a grove alive with the light of a huge bonfire. He could make out at least three dozen figures sitting there, safe from the rain beneath trees or arrangements of colorful sheets of canvas staked out and extended from the wagon roofs. He saw children dancing, mugs passed around the fire. The smell of roast meat and the sound of singing hung on the air.

  Kathlan and Dargana slowed up, Chriani taking the lead as they approached the fire. It wasn’t the shelter he was looking for, but if the search for inns failed, it would make a better fallback than sleeping rough or seeking out other forest shelter in the dark.

  From the shadows at the back of one wagon, a figure dressed in brown and green stepped into the light. An older male, greying hair tied back beneath a broad-brimmed hat, and a peaceful expression on his face as he approached. Chriani slowed to a stop a few strides away, nodded in greeting.

  “Chriani of the Prince’s Guard of Brandishear,” he called. “Traveling with a squad of seven and seeking shelter.”

  “Maron,” the figure replied. He reached out his hand to touch Chriani’s, grasping it in an unfamiliar gesture. Different customs in Aerach, he guessed, but he matched Maron’s firm grip.

  “I have guards checking the local villages for inns, but if we come up empty, we would be grateful to join you here. Shelter our horses in the wood, share your fire. We can pay for…”

  Maron shook his head emphatically. “You and yours are welcome, friend, if you wish. But please, you’re drenched. Come and warm yourselves before you turn back to seek your companions.”

  His accent was odd to Chriani’s ear, but he couldn’t place it. Not an Aerachi dialect, but still familiar. A faint hint of the soft lilt of Ilvani to it somehow. “You are gracious, friend, but we should…”

  Chriani’s voice was cut to silence, his throat closed off by a sudden tightness. He was looking past Maron, idly scanning a trio of children that had pressed close to the edge of the firelight to watch him.

  A figure stepped out from behind t
he children. Chriani recognized her even in first silhouette. The spill of bronze hair caught the gleam of lanterns behind her, the grey that touched that hair turned to an even deeper red by the light of the fire. She stepped toward them, smiling a greeting.

  “Chriani?” It was Kathlan’s voice at his shoulder, wary. Alert. He heard the rattle of steel that was her hand on the hilt of her rapier, Chriani’s own hand shooting up to stop her.

  “It’s all right,” he said, but he made the moonsign in spite of himself.

  Maron laughed to see it. “You won’t need that here, friend. Come. The night’s too cold for waiting.”

  Chriani had wanted to kill the prince high. The memory in his mind now, coming unbidden. Breaking through the shadow, forcing itself up like bile, like water from the lungs of the near drowned. He was bound to kill the prince high. Had ridden back west across the Clearwater Way with no other thought in his mind, knowing it was his fate and the end to everything he was. Knowing he had no reason to turn away from that fate.

  In the end, he had found his reasons. Two of them, turning him from that path. Lauresa’s grief, which he’d felt in three days of her opening herself to him after what seemed a lifetime of yearning. A heart so perfect, so pure in her that she couldn’t hate her father. Not even after knowing what he was. She was Chriani’s first reason.

  The figure who stood within the circle of lamplight, who had pleaded with Chriani for the life of the prince she had loved once, was the second reason. She was watching him now. Irdaign. Mother to Lauresa. Princess precedent of Brandishear. Wife to the Prince High Chanist before she was set aside a dozen years before.

  She beckoned to him now. Then she turned and walked back into shadow.

  “Kathlan. Stay with Dargana and the horses,” Chriani heard himself say.