by Vale Aida
“Dead,” said Hiraen shortly. “The Marshal gave orders to leave no one alive. If I hadn’t lain on top of you and held my breath, they would have run you through.”
Emaris looked around. Two great pyres stood smouldering, one on either side of the road. That explained the smell. All hunger having fled, he turned his head away, retched, and threw up most of his breakfast.
“They left two men to take care of the dead,” Hiraen went on. Emaris had never heard his voice like this before, devoid of all inflection. “I stabbed them when they tried to drag me to the pyre. They’re burning now, same as all the others. So now we have their horses. One for me, one for you.”
It was a long time before Emaris stopped throwing up. One thing at a time. One grief at a time. Hiraen was alive. “Savonn? Is he dead too?”
“They took him. By force or otherwise, I have no idea.” Hiraen pushed a waterskin into Emaris’s hands. “Drink. We have a lot to do. You do know we were sold out?”
In his aching delirium, none of it made sense. But then, none of it ever had. He remembered Nikas at Onaressi, showing them how to breach the ringwall. Standing before Celisse, the picture of contrition after the fight he had started. Crouching over Emaris’s pillow to whisper the piece of false news that would lead them into the ambush. It had all been part of the plan, drafted and executed with the care of a master jewel-smith, to lead Savonn into the trap the Saraians had sprung for him.
And Savonn…
Who brought the news? he had asked. And then, having been told, he had gone.
“He knew,” said Emaris. He was too exhausted to feel anything beyond dull disbelief. “Savonn knew Nikas was a mole from the start. He tried to prevent us from coming along—drew their attention when they attacked—”
He picked up the waterskin, held it to his lips, and set it back down before he could start heaving again. “Why didn’t he…”
“Because,” said Hiraen, with a jerkiness that suggested he was trying to speak through a clenched jaw, “he knew Nikas had been planted to lead him to his father’s killer.”
“Daine,” said Emaris in a sudden panic. “We left him at Kimmet with Nikas. Vion and Lomas…”
He had to go. He had to warn them. He was already on his feet and preparing to rise when Hiraen stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Nikas won’t blow his cover yet. There may still be a thing or two the Empath wants him to do. Daine will be all right for now.” He glanced down the road, in the direction the Saraians had gone. “At a guess, the Marshal’s taken Savonn to Onaressi. They may have retaken it. I’ll have to go after them.”
“But you can’t storm Onaressi alone,” said Emaris. “And Daine hasn’t got enough men to force the ringwall again. We’ll need help.”
“From Medrai,” said Hiraen. He had assembled a motley sheaf of undamaged arrows from amid the debris, and was cramming them into his quiver: the orange ones he always used, and the cream ones of his patrol, and the heavy black ones the Saraians had been shooting at them. “It’s a long ride. Can you manage it?”
“Of course,” said Emaris, more out of habit than conviction. He lifted the waterskin and managed to swallow a few drops before his stomach churned again. “You’re not coming with me? You can’t save Savonn alone.”
Hiraen bit his lip, clutching a handful of arrows. For a moment he seemed very young. “It doesn’t matter. I have to try. He—he protected me once.” He clipped the quiver on his belt. It took him a few tries. “Like I said. I owe him a debt. There isn’t a single thing in this world I wouldn’t do for him.”
“I understand.” This time it was quite truthful.
“I wish you didn’t,” said Hiraen. He turned away, as if he could no longer bear to look at Emaris. “Go with haste, but be careful. Get to cover if you hear anyone on the road. Shoot anyone who sees you. And…”
He looked back. “Emaris?”
“Yes?”
His smile was sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About everything.”
* * *
Lucien Safin had reached Medrai, the last place in the world he wanted to be.
He was too old for this. As a rule, he left the adventuring to Hiraen, his pride and joy, and that demon-begotten child Savonn. Or even his thrice-damned daughter Iyone, too smart for her own good and incapable of resisting a challenge. But she was safe at home, busy with whatever nefarious hobby she got up to in her spare time; and the boys had disappeared into the Farfallens, leaving him here to walk the ramparts with his pestilential compatriots.
As the only councillor who had troubled to come in person, he was ostensibly in charge. He had already quarreled thrice with that stonehead Bonner Efren, ginger-haired and lantern-jawed, who started every sentence with My father would, and seemed to be planning nothing more than a mass evacuation of the town. When Lucien dissented, Daron—the spitting image of his aunt, except more polite—pointed out that they had no idea where the Betronett company was, and would it not be better to wait for more news?
Zarin, the freedman, was ready to march to Onaressi and see if Savonn was still there, but no one paid him any attention. It was improper, Lucien felt, and more than a little cruel, sending a soldier to face his own countrymen in battle.
What they did know was disheartening. They had arrived on a gusty evening to find the town half empty, the people streaming out with overflowing wagons and heavy-laden oxen, leading their children on ponies. Every other house stood deserted, windows boarded up, lawns unkempt and overgrown. Only a few stubborn peasants remained to bring in the harvest. They were received in the mansion belonging to the Lord of Medrai by an extremely pregnant young woman called Rozane Cassus, the niece of his lordship, who had long fled to the lowlands with all his household. “And you have no wish to flee?” asked Daron admiringly, as she brought them to her parlour. “Surely there are carriages that could take you?”
Rozane, reclining in an armchair packed with cushions, waved a fleshy wrist in a snippy gesture. “And go into labour in some stinking fleabed inn? No, thank you. If you have help, we could use it. If not, I suppose you chose a good time to come sightseeing. All the finest houses are empty.”
“The Council received a strange letter from your uncle,” said Bonner. “He said that the Marshal of Sarei himself had shown up with a few hundred men and… some kind of sorcerer?”
They had heard as much from the fleeing peasants they interviewed on the road. No two of them had agreed on the nature of this fellow’s powers, or even whether he was man or beast or hellish entity, but all confirmed he was red-haired and red-cloaked and red-handed, like Death itself made flesh. “I don’t know anything about a sorcerer, but the Marshal’s probably at Onaressi,” said Rozane. Misinterpreting their confused looks, she gestured at the map of the Farfallens on the wall behind her. “Big fort in the mountains, a few days from here. Built at the intersection of—”
“We know,” said Lucien. He was pacing, too anxious to sit. “We thought the Betronett force was occupying it.”
“Oh,” said Rozane. “The Silvertongue took it at Midsummer, but the Saraians wrested it back a week ago. We had the news from a raggle of Betronett boys who got away from the battle. Died of their wounds before you arrived. The rest of the garrison’s been taken.”
“Dear gods,” said Lucien involuntarily.
“And Lord Silvertongue?” asked Zarin. He had said nothing so far, standing motionless by the window. “No news of him?”
“Who knows?” asked Rozane. “Pissed off somewhere with the rest of his troop, no doubt.” She saw their expressions, and shrugged. “Pardon. But it’s hard to get news out of the Farfallens at the best of times. He left garrisons up and down Forech’s Pass, and then fell off the edge of the world. Last we heard, he’d got himself thrown out of Astorre for brawling.”
Lucien sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Bonner said, “That sounds just like him.”
“I suppose,” said Zarin, changing the subject with admirable deftness, “we sha
ll have to retake this Onaressi?”
Rozane shook her head. “You don’t have enough men to force the gate or breach the ringwall. It’s fallen twice by trickery now; that won’t happen again. If you ask me, you’d do better to blockade the passes and starve them out. They won’t last through the winter.”
“And neither will we,” said Bonner dryly.
They took their leave of Rozane with nothing decided; and later that night, walking the ramparts together, they received more unpleasant news. A returning scout announced that another host of riders had arrived at Onaressi. Worse, there was smoke in the mountains, near the southern end of Ilsa’s Pass. Like a signalling beacon, or a pyre.
Zarin glanced at Lucien. Bonner and Daron had gone to question the scout themselves, leaving them alone on the wall. “The Saraians burn their dead, my lord,” he said. “And those of their enemies.”
Lucien said nothing. The rampart commanded a hawk’s view of the narrow road into the Farfallens, twisting its way between stands of trees in their fiery autumn raiments and the terraced cornfields golden with the harvest. The sight brought back memories, disjointed and painful, of the last time he had passed this way with Kedris. The rattle of pebbles before the rockfall. The hiss of a bowstring, a sound Lucien had hitherto associated only with his son, laughing and flamboyant in the training yard. Kedris’s last words—Draw the spear…
Lucien liked to think he had been friends with the Lord Governor. Everyone did. Kedris was an easy man to like, after all, dashing and handsome and full of charm. Hiraen, just thirteen, had joined the Betronett company at his suggestion. Even Iyone had admired him in that aloof kittenish way of hers, always eager to show him some book she was reading, or ply him with a new riddle she had learned. Savonn’s animosity towards Kedris had been inexplicable. He either hated his father, or longed to be him; Lucien had never worked out which.
Zarin was still talking. “The smoke means there must have been a recent battle,” he said. “If we hurry, there may still be tracks from the pyre we could follow.”
Lucien was not paying attention. A lone horseman was winding his way down the road toward the town gate. So had he come, the day after Kedris died, to bring the news to the people of Medrai. Vaguely, he said, “Perhaps.”
“There may be other ways to take Onaressi,” said Zarin, more insistently now. “If Lord Silvertongue infiltrated it once before—”
Lucien was too disquieted to speak of war. “Lord Silvertongue is no longer there,” he said, much more brusquely than he intended. “Neither is my son. They may be dead, or captured, or…”
He lost his thought. A guard was questioning the rider through one of the arrow slits in the wall. “The gate is not to be opened after nightfall. What is your business here?”
The newcomer cursed faintly. He was listing sideways in the saddle, as if wounded or very drunk. “They will not open it,” said Zarin. “Lady Rozane said Onaressi fell to a trick just like this.”
Someone called, summoning the lieutenant of the watch. A window opened in the guardhouse, flooding the road with yellow light. The rider flung up an arm to shield his eyes from the sudden glare, but not before Lucien glimpsed his face.
He caught his breath. He knew those pretty features. He had last seen them in his own house months ago, the night before Hiraen and Savonn left home. The dishevelled blond boy on the horse looked thin and wan and considerably older now, dressed in rags streaked with grime and blood, but the face was unmistakeable. The youth banged hard on the gate with the hilt of his sword. “There’s no time! Open in the name of Betronett!”
“Let him in!” Lucien yelled. His stomach broiled with fear. “That’s Savonn Silvertongue’s squire!”
Pandemonium erupted. The guards stared up at Lucien, then put their heads together to confer, all talking at the top of their lungs. It seemed an eternity before the lieutenant barked a sharp order, and the gate began to crank open. Lucien found the nearest stairwell and hurried down, taking the steps three at a time with Zarin on his heels. The boy had ridden through the gate onto the grassy lawn, surrounded by guards, the flanks of his decrepit horse steaming in the brisk night. He swung one leg over and sat side-saddle on its bony back for a moment, gazing at the spectators in confusion. “I’m not his squire,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Then he loosened his other foot from the stirrup, and fell off.
Lucien caught him before he hit the ground. The boy sat down on the grass, rubbing his eyes with a peevish, set-upon scowl. “Are they coming?” asked the lieutenant, who had pushed his way to the front of the gathered crowd. “Should we warn the missus? Stand to arms?”
“Stand back,” said Lucien. “Let him breathe.”
The boy—Emaris, that was his name—stared at him. He must have been on the road for days. His face was windburnt, his lips grey with cold, his jaw furred to the ears with dirty golden stubble. “They took him,” he said. “They ambushed us and killed the whole patrol and they took him.”
Lucien said the first thing that came to mind. “Hiraen?”
“He’s gone too.” Emaris’s eyes had a fixed, glazy cast to them. “He lay on me so they wouldn’t kill me. Then he went after him alone.”
“Went after whom?”
“Savonn, who else?” demanded the boy. Then his eyes widened, as if recognition had only just dawned on him. “Gods. Milord Lucien. Beg pardon, I didn’t…”
He collected himself. “Hiraen’s all right. He crossed swords with the Marshal himself, but he’s not hurt. Not badly, anyway. He set out for Onaressi—” He glanced up at the dark sky. “Nearly two days ago. He thinks they took Savonn there. Sir, you must send help.”
“We can’t,” snapped Bonner. He and Daron had come up behind Lucien. “Rozane said we didn’t have the men to retake it. We’d get ourselves killed.”
Emaris cut Lucien off before he could answer. “Don’t be a moron. We took it with five men last summer. Hole in the wall. Over the streambed. Fetch me a fresh horse and I’ll show you.”
He staggered to his feet, as if ready to gallop back into the night right then and there. Bonner’s mouth, Lucien saw with faint satisfaction, was hanging open. “I’ll need a new sword too,” Emaris was saying. “I keep losing mine. Savonn’ll laugh. And some food for the journey. And,” he added, slurring slightly, as Lucien hurried to steady him, “maybe something for the pain.”
He slumped into Lucien’s arms, and was still.
Lucien raised his brows at Bonner. “I think,” he said, “that settles it.”
* * *
The boy was not badly hurt. The guards carried him into Rozane’s house, where her physician diagnosed him with exhaustion, concussion, and a minor rib fracture, and put him to bed. Soon after, Lucien and his force were ready to march.
His colleagues had dissented valiantly. “What are we going to do when we get there?” Bonner demanded. “Storm the fort? Offer a ransom? What if they kill him as soon as they see us coming?”
It was not the worst of the scenarios that had flitted through Lucien’s head. “I don’t know,” he said. He was already mounted and armed, wearing the same cuirass he had worn the day Kedris died. “But my son is there. I have to go. And,” he added, struck by vicious inspiration, “if you don’t come, and I survive, I shall tell your father you were too craven to go into battle.” He rounded on Daron. “And your aunt.”
Bonner looked incensed, Daron mortified. Zarin, who had given Lucien no trouble from beginning to end, was already waiting impatiently on his own horse. He had his orders from Josit, and Josit was a queen to her freedmen, respected unto death, her orders accepted without question.
“Goodbye,” said Lucien, and kicked his horse into a trot.
He did not have to look back to know that they were following. They issued without fanfare out of Medrai and into the Farfallens, four hundred cavalry with their banners fluttering grey over their heads in the starlight: the sunburst of Safin, the eagle of Efren, the porpoise of Sydell. T
he Council of Cassarah, in reluctant agreement for once, going into battle side by side to rescue Savonn Silvertongue. It was a thought as hilarious as it was hair-raising.
22
By mid-morning Emaris was out of bed, dressed, and determined to fight his way out of Medrai if he had to.
“But you have a fractured rib,” his doctor kept pointing out, along with everybody else he encountered from the time he opened his eyes to find Lucien Safin gone without him. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. You shouldn’t even—where do you think you’re going?”
It took him an hour to find his belongings and procure a horse, since the servants were inclined to hinder rather than help him. At length he lost his temper and demanded an audience with the Lady of the house, who was also being fussed over by several physicians, and informed her that he had to go back to his patrol. “Mistress,” he said, “there is a traitor in my company. My commander has been abducted. My friend Hiraen has gone after him alone, with no plan other than to try his damndest to rescue him. If I sat here with my feet up while my betters risk their lives, I ought to be ashamed to show my face again.”
Lady Rozane, who had been pacing up and down the length of her room with one hand clasped around her belly and the other knuckling the small of her back, stopped mid-step to frown at him. “Not your betters, but surely your equals by now,” she said. “How old are you?”
He was impatient to be gone. He knew where the armoury was. He could break in and steal a bow, if nobody gave him one. “Eighteen next week, milady… no.” He counted again. “Tomorrow, in fact.”
“Oh?” said Rozane. She sounded surprised. If he had not been in such a hurry, he might have asked how old she had thought he was. “I’m afraid I can’t spare you as big an escort as you deserve, but will you at least allow me to send a couple of guards with you? And the most repugnant of my doctors.”
