“Kerensa, I can find a way! Please—” He bucked and kicked as rope went around his wrists and bound them tight. “Please,” he begged.
From where his face was pressed into the mud, he saw her kneel beside him, felt her lay her hand on his cheek. “I love you,” she said. “And not just because you’ve done more for me than anyone else. You have to let me do this. There’s been too much suffering already.”
“Alvor made you think this way,” Evon said, “he made you think it was hopeless but it’s not, Kerensa, I swear it’s not. Just give me time.”
“There’s no more time.” She kissed his cheek, her tears falling onto his face. He struggled more, but Wystylth shoved him harder into the ground and he grunted in pain. “Don’t hurt him,” Kerensa said, her words barely intelligible through her tears.
Evon shouted incoherently, desperately, as more rope went around his ankles and Wystylth heaved him off the ground with no more effort than if he’d been a child. “Don’t fight me,” the man said in his rasping voice, and cuffed Evon so hard across the head that he bit his tongue and his vision went blurry for a moment. When he could see clearly again, he was in one of the empty stalls and Wystylth was tying the long end of the rope binding his ankles around the brace supporting the feeding trough. “I am sorry about this,” Wystylth said, and shoved a piece of cloth into Evon’s mouth. “But we cannot have you rescued too soon.” He came around and tugged on the rope around Evon’s wrists, testing the knots. Then he was gone. Evon heard the sound of horses riding out of the stable yard, and then there was nothing but the horse in the other stall snuffling at the food in its trough. He was alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Evon strained against the ropes binding his hands, twisting and stretching until his wrists felt raw. It was too much to hope that Wystylth didn’t know how to tie a knot. Eventually he sagged, breathing heavily through his nose. Beyond the stable, he heard the sounds of shouting and the occasional scream, all of it too far away. No one was going to find him and free him in time. It was over. He closed his eyes and saw again Kerensa’s face, what little of it had been visible with his own face ground into the mud, remembered the touch of her lips on his cheek, and despair overwhelmed him. Of course this was how it had to end, because the Gods were not done playing with him yet. You’ve barely known her three weeks, a cruel voice inside his head taunted him, in a year you’ll find someone else and she’ll be a sad memory. Had it really only been three days since she’d put her arms around him in that dark, freezing barn? He remembered waking next to her, the look on her face when she’d seen him there, and his heart broke into splinters inside his chest. She’d trusted him, and he’d failed her.
In his memory, Kerensa raised her face to his, her hazel eyes shining, and said, I know you’ll find a way. It was like an electric jolt to the chest. No. He was not giving up yet. Evon dashed away tears he didn’t remember shedding and strained at the ropes for a few seconds before remembering how stupid that was. He needed a different approach. If he could speak, he could cast spells—awkwardly, probably, but if he was the best magician of his generation he had damn well better be able to manage it with his hands tied behind his back.
The cloth Wystylth had stuffed into his mouth had a trailing end; he could feel it brushing his cheek. He began scooting along the muddy ground, folding himself so his nose nearly touched his knees, then began scissoring his legs, trying to catch the loose end of the gag between his knees. He twisted his head, lifting the cloth, trying to flip it over one of his knees, and finally he was able to pincer it and unfold his body, pulling the cloth slowly out of his mouth as he did. He spat out the last of it, coughed, and spat again, trying to moisten his mouth enough to speak. “Fri—” he began, then couldn’t stop coughing. “Frigo,” he said, and gestured at the ropes binding his hands. He hoped.
Nothing happened. He strained at the ropes again, but they gave only a little. He groaned. The ropes weren’t brittle enough for frigo to affect them. “Frigo,” he said again anyway, and again nothing happened. He needed to make them dry enough to snap, and maybe if he’d had a few days he could have invented a spell for that, but as it was he knew nothing that would turn damp rope dry and breakable.
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? There was a spell that would do just what he needed. Evon’s palms went damp with sweat. Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he snapped his fingers and said, “Forva.”
Excruciating pain circled his wrists and sent tongues of fire up the backs of his hands. Evon gritted his teeth, counted a slow three, then ground out, “Desini.” The fire went out—at least, he hoped it had, because while the heat was gone, his wrists still felt as if they were on fire. He shook tears, these of pain, out of his eyes, and said, “Frigo.”
With a crack, the fibers of the rope separated, and Evon’s hands flew apart. Shaking, he brought them around to examine them. If he’d permanently damaged his hands—there were burns like black-red bracelets around his wrists just where the ropes had been, and streaks of red ran up the backs of his hands, but he could flex his fingers, and that was all that mattered. He started prying at the knots binding his feet, feeling sweat prickle his armpits and bead up on his forehead despite the chill. It wasn’t too late. He could still catch them, and—and do what, exactly? Snatch Kerensa off Alvor’s horse and ride very fast with her in the opposite direction? And then four legendary heroes would probably kill him, leave his body behind and take Kerensa off to her doom. He needed a better plan than that.
The knots loosened, then came apart. Evon sat rubbing his ankles and panted from his exertions. The first thing was to catch up to them. He would figure out the rest when the time came. You’re out of time, the cruel voice said. He grabbed at the edge of the feeding trough and hauled himself upright. In the next stall, the horse regarded Evon with a kind of offhanded curiosity. Evon reached out and stroked its nose while he waited for his legs and feet to stop tingling. The sensation reminded him of vertiri and trattuci, of the blue spell-ribbons flowing away from Kerensa and twining themselves around his body. If only he could have made the fire leave her so readily. Something had to make it leave her, if it had passed from host to host over the generations—
That electric jolt struck him again, leaving him breathless. Of course. It was so damned obvious he felt like an idiot for not having seen it before. But—could he save her, was it even possible? Evon headed for the stall door. It might be possible. It would take perfect timing, and he would need every ounce of magical power he possessed, and it still might not work. But it was more of a chance than he’d had before. And he was certain he could convince Alvor to let him try.
The stall door seemed very far away—too far. Evon looked back and saw he’d moved only a foot from where he’d started. He took another step toward the door. It was no closer than before. Evon took a few more long strides, then began running. It felt as if he and the door were both moving, the door always three steps beyond his reach. Dania. He stopped to catch his breath. It was almost a compliment, that they’d assumed they would need more than one deterrent to keep him from following them. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the heat shimmer where the trap was triggered by Evon stepping into it. Evon moved backward—at least Dania’s spell allowed him to do that—and pulled out his quizzing glass, wincing as his burned wrist brushed the edge of his coat. “Epiria,” he said, passing his hand over the lens.
Tiny violet bursts of light shone out on both sides of the stall door, clustering along the hinges and the latch. Evon raised his left hand, began to speak, then shut his mouth hard. He shouldn’t have cast epiria. He could not afford to use any more of his reserves; if they didn’t replenish in time, it could mean he wouldn’t have enough for the sequence of spells his subconscious mind was working out. There had to be another way.
He turned the lens to examine the rest of the stall. The violet lights diminished the farther he went from the door, leaving the back third of th
e stall free from the spell’s effect. Evon dismissed epiria and backed up until he was pressed against the feeding trough. He looked at the horse again. It was a brown mare with a white blaze on her forehead. She nodded at him as if in encouragement. She seemed a good deal more intelligent than his last horse, though that couldn’t have been a very high bar to meet. “If Piercy had set this trap, he would have extended it to cover the stalls on either side of me,” he told her. “Let’s hope Dania isn’t as cunning as Piercy.” He clambered up to balance on the feeding trough, which creaked a little under his weight, got one leg over the side of the stall, then swung his other leg around and dropped heavily to the ground next to the horse. Slowly, feeling a little superstitious that Dania’s spell might notice him and figure out what he was doing, he approached the stall door and let out a deep, relieved breath when it opened easily. Evon turned and eyed the horse again. “Let’s you and I save a life, shall we?” he said.
He saddled the horse quickly and furtively, not sure what he would do if the mare’s owner emerged from the inn. Beat him senseless, probably, with how keyed up he was feeling at the moment. The mare stood patiently as Evon mounted and obediently moved forward when he urged her into the street beyond.
The crowds had gone from frightened to panicked in the time Evon had taken to free himself. Wagons stood crosswise in the center of the street, their owners shouting at other wagoners trying to go the other way. Nervous animals made the air fragrant with the stench of their bowels. Children clutched at their parents and screamed or sobbed. In one place, the traffic jam was caused by a fully loaded wagon that had been abandoned in the center of the road whose owners had decided that fleeing was harder when they had all their possessions with them. The wagon’s shafts rested empty on the ground, and three large men were trying to shift the heavy load without the help of horses. It felt to Evon as if the crowd were trying to sweep him away backwards out of the town, as if the refugees were stepping into his path on purpose, just to slow him further. A few of the men and women who approached him looked as if they were considering separating him from the horse, but the occasional forceful application of his boot saw him clear of the town and out on the open road heading south and east.
Here, on the great plains below the mountains, snow had not fallen so heavily and the road was clear, if still frozen. Hard as it must be on the horse’s hooves, at least it wasn’t mud churned to soup by the passage of thousands of refugees. Evon held on to the reins and prodded the horse into a gallop. He had no way of knowing how close the Despot was, couldn’t even tell how far Kerensa had gotten, had nothing but the scent of smoke in his nostrils and a terrible burning anxiety in his chest. She only had to come close to the Despot and the weapon would do the rest. Having met Alvor, Evon had no doubt the man would be able to get Kerensa as close as she needed. Then it would be over.
A few miles down the road, the way forked, but Evon discovered that Alvor and Kerensa had struck out across country, into the hills. He guided his mount the same way. It was both intelligent and docile, not a combination he expected to find in a horse, and he felt a momentary guilt at having robbed someone of what must be a rather valuable animal. Call it assisting in the war effort.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the road behind, he felt as if he must be the only man left alive in the world, the plains were that empty. He looked north, wondering if Dalanine’s army was close enough to see, but a long, low arm of the mountains hemming in the plains northward obscured his vision. He ought to be hoping for Alvor’s success today; it would spare thousands of lives. Thousands of lives saved at the cost of the only life that mattered to Evon. He definitely wasn’t a hero. He gritted his teeth and urged the mare to run faster, following Kerensa’s trail as if it were penciled across the landscape.
Low gray clouds massed overhead, and more billowed thickly across the horizon. Evon looked again and realized those clouds were smoke. His heart pounded faster for a few beats before he remembered that the weapon would likely not make that much smoke, or any smoke at all, and that he was not too late, he couldn’t be too late now that he’d figured it out. He could feel the horse straining beneath him; she was already running as fast as she could, and forcing her to greater effort would only kill her and leave him stranded in the middle of these wide plains. He glanced up. Would it be rain, or snow, that fell from those clouds? Either would be the kind of delay he could not afford.
Thunder cracked, high and sharp, nearby, and something passed his ear with a whining hum. He turned around and saw another mounted figure coming up fast behind him. The rider’s hood was pulled well forward over his face against the cold, but his red beard was easily visible even in the dim light. Valantis. Where in the hell had he come from? He waved something that gleamed in the dim light at Evon—a gun?—and kicked his horse’s sides. Now Evon could hear him shouting, and although the words were unintelligible, there was no mistaking the fury in the man’s voice. Evon leaned forward over the horse’s neck and wished he knew a spell that would make it move faster. He wouldn’t have dared use it even if he did. He glanced over his shoulder. Valantis was gaining on him. He could smell Kerensa’s trail preparing to turn left to avoid—nothing, there was nothing there, no reason for the path to change, but he didn’t have time to wonder about it. There was nowhere to hide on this barren plain, nothing to save him, but all Evon could think was I’m not going to make it in time. He had no way to fight Valantis, neither weapon nor spell, and his horse was tiring, and—Evon felt despair rising in him again and kicked it back into the dark corner of his mind it had come from. It wasn’t over until…he refused to finish that thought.
“Stop or I’ll shoot you dead, Lorantis,” Valantis shouted over the noise of both their horses’ hooves. He was only yards away. Evon pulled up and turned to face Valantis, whose hood was still pulled low over his face.
“It’s too late,” he said. “Kerensa is near the Despot’s army now. If you ride after her, you’ll only be killed.”
“It’s not the girl I want,” Valantis said. He pushed his hood back, and Evon’s shock at the man’s appearance transmitted itself to the horse, who took a few sidelong steps until Evon calmed her. Valantis’s red hair and beard were streaked with white, and wrinkles were carved into his face like wind-worn channels. He looked nearer sixty than the forty Evon had guessed his age to be. “I wandered for years in that Godsforsaken place thanks to you.” His voice was still raspy, but weaker than it had been.
“It can’t have been years,” Evon said without thinking, “or your clothes would have fallen apart.”
Fury swept across the big man’s face, and he leveled his gun at Evon’s heart. “Taunt me, will you?” he shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Evon said, not meaning it. He looked furtively around for something that would get him out of this. Kerensa’s scent was strong now; he had to be close to her, and maybe there was still time.
“You’re going to fix it,” Valantis said. “Right now.”
“I don’t know how,” Evon said.
“Figure it out.” Valantis’s hand was trembling with either age or fury, not that it mattered, since either would be enough to make him squeeze the trigger by accident.
“Ah….” Evon looked around again and was startled to see an unexpected shimmer only a few feet away, directly athwart Kerensa’s trail where it made that inexplicable turn. If Valantis hadn’t attacked him, he’d have run right into it. Perhaps Dania had a little of Piercy’s cunning, after all. He certainly hadn’t thought to be looking for more traps. He edged the horse in that direction, then stopped when Valantis waved the gun at him.
“Don’t move,” he said, “and don’t think about running. I’m not so desperate to have this reversed that I won’t enjoy watching your blood water this earth. Do it. Now.”
“Put the gun down first. You don’t want to shoot me before I’ve restored you,” Evon said. The horse moved a few more steps. If he could put the trap between himself and Valantis….
“I said don’t move!” Valantis shouted, and fired the pistol just as Evon kicked his horse in the direction of the trap. The shot went wide, and Valantis swore and yanked on his horse’s reins to bring it around. Evon swerved to avoid the trap, swerved back to put it between himself and Valantis, and prayed to whichever of the Twins was listening that Valantis’s bigger and faster horse was also less agile than Evon’s stolen mount. At that moment he heard something large hit the ground, and turned around in time to see Valantis, caught by desini cucurri in mid-shout, catapult from his fallen horse’s back and land face-down in the frozen turf. The horse had dropped in mid-stride and looked like a toppled statue; Valantis, with his knees bent and his rump in the air, just looked ridiculous. He’s going to come after me again, Evon thought, but that was the only thought he had time for. He shouted at his horse, who plunged into a gallop, and they were off again on Kerensa’s trail. He was beginning to feel as if all he had ever done in his life was follow Kerensa across Dalanine. Well, if he could reach her in time, that would stop. It will stop if you don’t reach her, the cruel voice said. He wished he could make it shut up.
Clouds of smoke continued to gather along the horizon as if the land itself were burning. The Despot must have tens of thousands of soldiers at his command. Tens of thousands of soldiers, and who knew how many of those tens stood between Evon and the Despot. The idea that Alvor, legendary hero or not, might be able to fight his way past them seemed suddenly ridiculous. The Gods only knew how much harder it would be for Evon Lorantis. The horse slowed a little going up a short incline, and when they reached its crest, Evon pulled it up sharply and stared, disbelieving, at the bowl-shaped valley below.
He was too far away to make out individual features; instead, the valley teemed with soldiers the way an ant hill might overflow with tiny, scrambling bodies. They marched in sloppy order, squares and columns distorted into rhombi and curves, but there were so many of them their lack of martial discipline hardly mattered. Blood-red standards bearing the image of a black raven and topped with some object too small for Evon to make out dotted the field, but his eye was drawn to one twice the size of the others. It bore two ravens, each clawing and gouging at the other, neither appearing to have the upper hand, and it was borne by a soldier wearing silvery armor that winked with light even in the gloom. Several horsemen stood near it, but at this distance Evon could not see any distinctions between them that might mark the Despot. He heard no shouts of battle, saw no frenzied movement that would indicate combat, but he also couldn’t see Alvor and the others anywhere. He kicked his horse into a gallop again and plunged down the side of the incline. They had to be here somewhere. He knew he hadn’t gotten ahead of them; Kerensa’s scent led straight—no, it was turning to the right, away from the army—
The Smoke-Scented Girl Page 30
