by Dave Smeds
There was no need for talk. She understood the loss he felt. She knew that he would tell her as soon as there was a change. In the meantime, she would nurture him. Of all the people he had known, she was the one who knew when to draw him out, and when to leave him to his private thoughts. It was why he had married her, when he could have had a lady of greater beauty, higher station, or more vivaciousness. They were twinned in ways that he and his sister were not.
"Breakfast will be ready soon," she said. She kissed him and returned to the task.
He groaned as he sat up. "Where's Elenya?"
"Outside."
****
The jays screeched, fighting in the treetops, knocking loose the dew. The drops beat out a cadence against the leaves and the ground as they fell. Alemar stepped onto the porch, head still leaden and painful. He peered through the thinning mist. Elenya was practicing her swordcraft near a flat stump fifty paces away.
She had placed a pumpkin on the stump as a target. The rind showed only one tiny hole, barely wider than the thickness of her rapier. He watched her thrust again and again. Once, the fruit wobbled a little under the impact. She steadied it, frowned, and examined the tip of her blade. She had not missed the mark; there were no additional holes. Alemar decided that she must have thrust deeper, penetrating fresh tissue. She adjusted her stance and resumed her practice.
After another fifty thrusts-and probably a hundred before he had begun to watch-she shifted her rapier to the other hand for the second half of the routine.
In her mid-twenties, Elenya had never moved more efficiently, more confidently, more powerfully. She made no superfluous body movements. Her eyes remained fixed on the pumpkin, her head did not bob. The tension gathered in her ankles and calves. She sprang suddenly, transferring the force straight up to her wrist. The rapier seemed more like an arrow in flight than a blade in hand. When she stopped, it was utter: for a moment she would be a statue, every bit of strength and coordination under complete control.
Alemar counted one hundred fifty jabs. She sheathed her rapier, rotated the pumpkin, and drew both her demonblades. She had begun wearing two from the moment they had left the Eastern Deserts. That, and her frequent choice of white garments, were the obvious reminders that she remembered what it was to be a hai-Zyraii, though she seldom spoke of it.
She threw one knife forehand, the other backhand. They lodged side by side. When she pulled them from the rind and assumed her stance again, Alemar decided she meant to continue drilling.
"That's enough," he called. "You're supposed to be recuperating."
She gave no sign of being startled, but Alemar knew she had been oblivious to his presence until he spoke. He left the porch to join her. She wiped off her steel and tucked it away.
"Too long without exercise," she explained. "I couldn't stay asleep. I was going to stop soon."
"Of course you were."
"I'm slow," she said, rubbing the hand where the gauntlet should have been, still keeping her face averted. "It feels like I'm moving through syrup."
Alemar knew she was simply making conversation. She practiced at least once a week without the gauntlet, just so she didn't become dependent on magical speed. "You're the most difficult patient I've ever treated," he said sternly. "It's still quite possible to strain your system and develop a fever. Come in and have breakfast. We'll talk." He'd returned so late the previous night that they had not had time to confer about what had happened since the ambush.
"I'm not hungry yet."
He tapped her ribs. His fingers encountered firm, unyielding muscle. "Training is one thing. Endangering your health is another. You need some fat."
"I'll borrow some from my brain."
Alemar kept his fingers against her, trying to probe with his powers, trying to see within to judge the speed and degree of her recovery. He saw only a dark veil, heard only echoes of a hollow place inside himself. He shook. He tried to stifle it, but his knees kept wobbling. His hand quivered against her side.
"Please," he said, stricken. "I need for you to look after your body. I can't do it for you anymore."
She looked up suddenly. Tears welled in her eyes. Dried tracks of old weeping led down her cheeks. She'd been crying during her weapons practice. "I know. I'm so sorry," she squeaked, almost too hoarse to get the words out.
They embraced. The feel of her chin against the crook of his neck, the moisture of her tears on his skin, gave him a kind of solace entirely different from that which he received from Wynneth, though just as necessary. Elenya knew what it meant to be a child of the Blood, a rebel chased league upon league, year upon year, by an enemy who might live another five millennia. Despite their occasional bickering, and even though they were both so battered by circumstances that all they wanted to do was crawl into a crevice and abandon the world, they could not stop their concern or understanding for one another.
"I'll rest, I'll eat, I'll be good," she murmured. "I just need to practice."
"I know," he said. He wished he had something to occupy him the same way, a way to use the conflict to hone his talents, instead of draining them. They walked hand in hand back to the cottage.
"Where did you bury Dushin?" she asked as they crossed the threshold. As soon as they entered, Wynneth cracked blue, speckled eggs over the griddle. Cosufier, awake now, huddled in a fur near the fire, looking closer to his age than usual. The air smelled homey and revitalizing.
"We managed to send the body to his relatives in Yent," Alemar replied.
"And the attackers?"
"We dumped them in a ravine," Wynneth said, more matter-of-factly than Alemar could have managed. She had no problem being cold to anyone who threatened her loved ones. For that matter, it had been she and other members of the rebel band who had taken care of the details while Alemar was occupied first with Elenya's healing, and then with his own exhaustion. "We retrieved the food from the silk farm, and tried to eliminate any trace of your visit."
"We had more time than we expected," Alemar added. "Apparently Enns was not working with Puriel's men. He set up the ambush himself."
"That must be why there were only four. And why they were poorly armored," Elenya said reflectively.
"Yes," her brother answered. "I doubt Puriel knows about the ambush even now. Otherwise guards would be all over the silk farm."
Wynneth nodded. "Still, the place is not safe to use again. We don't know just who Enns contacted."
Alemar shook his head. "When Milec was captured, I suspected treachery. I never suspected Enns was the cause."
"The seed was planted a long time ago," Elenya murmured. "You remember back when we were still posing as Lord Dran's bastards, Enns would complain that we received more attention than we deserved?"
A few flickers of memory came back to Alemar, but he shoved them away. "Enough about him," he snapped.
Elenya stared, as if trying to read his mind, but their amulets were lying on the stool. Alemar almost gave in and fetched them. He and his sister had recovered enough energy by now to restore the jewels to their necks, though they would have to leave the gauntlets off for several more days. But he was not ready to open his thoughts so completely. When he let go of his anger, it would not be in the presence of loved ones.
As if sensing his need for distance, Elenya turned to Cosufier. "Grandfather, didn't you say that Puriel's patrols were searching near Eruth? Why would that be if Enns isn't the cause?"
"It was two days before the soldiers came," Alemar interjected. "After I had cast the healing spell."
"The Dragon's magician…" both the women said simultaneously.
"Yes. That was strong magic. Omril must have detected it and sent troops to the site where I performed it. We needn't worry. This cottage is leagues away, and there isn't enough psychic residue to lead them here. The rythni will warn us of men heading in this direction."
"Speaking of rythni…" Elenya said.
"The one who fetched me was named Cyfee," Alemar said.
"She is a protegee of Queen Hiephora."
Elenya described Cyfee's actions at the silk farm.
Alemar frowned. "That's extraordinary. Rythni have an aversion to human dwellings. You were lucky she was with you, and not another."
"Thank her for me."
"I already have, though I didn't know until now just how much I had to thank her for. For her sake we'd best not let any other rythni know that she committed an act of violence."
Elenya sat down on the bed, near the stool where the talismans lay. "Done. Now tell me the news from the south."
Alemar frowned. "Tamisan has capitulated. The Dragon broke the sultan at Tira."
"And Father?"
"He is in Simorilia. The shah has given his army refuge outside Tazh Tah. There are signs that Gloroc may wait a season to expand westward. The battle at Tira apparently cost him dearly, even though he won."
"Val?"
"Safe. As is Enret."
"How does Father feel about the defeat?"
That had been one of Alemar's first questions to the emissary. "He realizes that he had no real chance of holding Tamisan, not with winter over, and Gloroc so firmly rooted in Mirien. He had hoped Tira would hold out longer, though. That's the city that thwarted the Calinin's best general, back before the days of Alemar Dragonslayer. But Gloroc took to the field again, and the shah's men couldn't hold the walls."
"Was it like before? During a heavy storm?"
"No. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The Dragon was nearly struck down by Father's magicians."
"Strange," Elenya said. "Gloroc's always been more cautious than that. He could have stayed safe in Elandris and let his army do it the hard way. He has plenty of time."
"Tira was a major hurdle. He must have felt it worth the risk to take it quickly."
"Why?"
Alemar shrugged. "Perhaps he's in a hurry. Perhaps he's worried about us-about the talismans."
"The Dragon, afraid of us, what a pleasant fantasy," Elenya said dryly. "Have you heard the one about the demon who was afraid of the mouse?"
"There was that strange prophecy of Treynaf's last winter," Alemar said. "'A dragon dead in a palace beneath the sea.' I'm afraid Gloroc suspects the plans we've made with Struth. Don't you think it's significant that he replaced Puriel's former sorcerer with a wizard of the Ril? Omril is said to be an apprentice of the Dragon himself."
"Any word from Struth?"
"The party had not yet returned from the Wood at the time the message was sent."
Elenya picked up her amulet and dangled it from her fingers. "I find it ironic that Gloroc might be worried about our plans. To be frank, I'll believe Struth's man can succeed only after it's done."
All at once everyone in the room paused in shock. The amulet, now that it was touching Elenya's flesh, awakened. It blazed with the deep green tones that warned of magic being cast nearby.
Alemar spun toward the window. A pigeon sat on a nearby branch, observing them. Abruptly it took flight.
"Grandfather!" Alemar shouted.
Cosufier grabbed his bow and quiver, his speed belying his age. He rushed to the porch, the others at his heels. He dumped the arrows out for easy access and strung the bow. He drew back and aimed. The arrow flew long and straight, as his always did, but fell far short of the mark. The pigeon disappeared over the treetops toward the west.
Cosufier cursed.
"No matter," Alemar said ruefully. "Omril's already seen us. Even if we'd killed it, we could not have undone the damage. I'm sorry, Grandfather. We've ruined one of your sanctuaries."
The old man waved away the apology. "There are others. Let's get moving. The wizard's troops will soon be on their way."
Alemar had misjudged Omril. Given three days and the fact that Elenya, the subject of the magic, had not moved, the wizard did have the power to detect the lingering traces of the healing spell. The tension inside him reached a crescendo. They could not even have a momentary respite. The Dragon would hound them until they dropped. The time had come. If he could no longer be a healer, he would be a warrior.
Someone would pay.
XIV
OMRIL STOOD ON THE balcony of his tower, scanning the clouds to the east. A tiny speck appeared, grew, and resolved into the shape of a pigeon. Omril held up his hand. The bird landed on his glove.
"There, there, Swiftwing," the wizard murmured, stroking his servant's neck. He could feel her staccato pulse against his finger. She was barely able to keep her grip. Omril cupped her gently in his palms, comforted her as he stepped into his chambers, and returned her to her coop.
"Your eyes told me a great deal," he said, double checking to be sure the bird and her three siblings had adequate feed and water. He had worked Swiftwing close to her limit, both physically and in terms of the amount of magic she could channel. Still, even her death would have been worth the result.
The rebels had been gone by the time Swiftwing had guided Puriel's quarter cohort of guards to the cottage, but Omril was content. He had flushed them from cover. It was only a matter of time until he did it again. Sooner or later he would trap them. He regretted only that he could not have heard as well seen the rebels' conversation. However, sending one's eyesight to distant locales was one thing, sending one's ears at the same time was another. Swiftwing had done what she could. The Dragon would be pleased with the news.
Omril unrolled a tiny scroll and dipped his pen. In clear, precise glyphs, he wrote: I have seen the talismans of Setan. He closed the scroll, held it under a dripping candle, pressed his signet ring to the hardening wax, and attached the message to the leg of Swiftwing's brother Windborne. He released the bird and watched as it flew south toward Elandris.
XV
ABOVE THE PASS, the snowy peaks sparkled with alpenglow. "Isn't it beautiful?" Deena asked.
Toren kept drawing breath, but the thin mountain air refused to fill his chest. The sun beat fiercely, drying and cracking his lips, but declined to warm the atmosphere. His thighs ached murderously. He vowed silently never to come near a saddle once the journey was over.
They lingered at the crest of the pass. To the right and left rose steep slopes, cloaked in white. Behind them lay the range that separated Irigion from Serthe. Hard leagues. The rough terrain had lamed their pack oeikani, forcing them to transfer its load to the animal once owned by the late Ril wizard. Geim kept saying that they were lucky. The thaw had begun ahead of time, opening the pass early in the season. Even now thick banks of snow were heaped beside the trail in shady spots, eroded and ugly. The oeikani trod on cold mud.
"It is not the place for a Vanihr," he replied. The Wood was a lowland. To him, snow was a light dust on the ground every second or third winter that melted in hours, or at most a few days. He glanced at the peaks; no trees grew that high. He gestured at Geim, who was in the lead, staring at the timbered slopes below them as if searching for something. "I don't know how he has stood it, years without a home, travelling through lands like these."
"Why don't you ask him?" Deena asked.
The elegance of the suggestion hit him by surprise. He took her advice.
When Geim heard the question, he sighed. "It is better now. I serve Struth. Before that, when I simply wandered…" He shrugged, and in the gesture Toren suddenly knew a great deal about the course of Geim's adult life.
"It's good to live for something," Geim concluded. Then, changing the subject, he pointed toward what he had discovered.
Far below, they saw the spur of a river valley. Where it opened out onto the plain, the sun sparkled on glass and white-washed structures.
"The city of Headwater," Geim said. "Our destination."
****
They continued to descend for two days, passing several riders and small caravans heading the other way-not, according to Geim, as many as there should have been. The reports from the war had made merchants wary. Then they stood before the city gates.
The older part of Headwater was tucked into a gorge wher
e the Slip River spilled out of the mountains in a phantasmagorical waterfall. Bridges, many of them elaborate, ancient constructions, spanned the stream, connecting the two halves of the community. Downstream the houses and shops fanned out onto the valley floor, most of them contained by the fifth and outermost of the city walls, though new buildings poked up outside the gates.
"We are now inside the old boundaries of the Calinin Empire," Geim said as they made their way down the streets. "In fact, Serthe is still part of the commonwealth, tied by treaty to Xais. Headwater was one of the ten great cities of the empire. Alemar Dragonslayer was raised here."
The commentary washed right over Toren. The concept of a dozen large, civilized nations and an equal number of protectorates, all under one centralized government for a period of centuries, staggered him. The only times Vanihr tribes had united were for the campaigns against the Shagas and the Alahihr, and these alliances had lasted only for the duration of raids and sorties. The lands of the Fhali, which had seemed so vast, now seemed like a tiny hunting range.
They passed beggars in rags; guardsmen in fine, polished armor; merchants in loose, wraparound robes; and hordes of vendors. Blacksmith shops belched smoke, bakeries taunted them with the aroma of fresh loaves being drawn from the ovens, jugglers and musicians provided entertainment in the larger squares and plazas. By comparison, Talitha had been only a sleepy river town. Few people stared at Toren and Geim now. Their appearance seemed mild compared to the bright orange braids and immense breasts of the Cotani slave girls washing clothes at the public fountains, or to the short, stocky dark men-"Drelbs," Geim called them-pushing their wheelbarrows down an alley. They even saw another Vanihr, partaking of wine and cheese in an open air cafe.
At length they came to a less crowded, cleaner section of the city, where they boarded their oeikani in a stable. They continued down a street lined with great edifices of marble and granite. Toren heard chants filter out of one temple, and through the portal of another saw men kneel and touch their foreheads to the tiles while a eunuch beat on a large brass gong.
