by Sharon Shinn
“Well, I know what to do with Rappengrass,” Ariane grumbled, and then she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right about Darryn. I keep thinking, what if we ride to war and Darryn falls? What if my last words to him were cruel?
What if I die, and for the rest of his life what he remembers is that I could not forgive him? Tomorrow morning I will meet this—this—”
“Sosie.”
“This Sosie. I don’t know that I will be able to welcome her, but at least I will not be unkind.”
“Her nephew is a mystic,” Senneth said in an innocent voice.
Ariane glared at her. “And I will still strive to be kind.”
Senneth laughed. “Oh, Ariane, you have such force of will. I am sure you will manage.”
IT was not long after dawn the next morning before the armies were once more on the move. At this rate, Senneth estimated the Nocklyn and Rappengrass forces should be joining the royal soldiers within a day. Romar and Kiernan, she assumed, were already planning how to utilize them to take maximum advantage of the added numbers.
She knew she should hurry back to the battlefield and add her own particular arsenal to the fight against Gisseltess and Fortunalt, but she lingered long enough to observe Ariane make her first overtures to her son. Darryn always wore such an amiable expression; it was hard to tell if he was truly moved by his mother’s sudden concession, and yet Senneth had to assume he was. She watched as he introduced Sosie with every evidence of pride, watched as Sosie tried hard to hide her nervousness and make no clumsy mistakes. Ariane’s expression remained a little stiff, her gestures formal, but Senneth was confident the thaw would soon be complete.
She told Sosie as much once Ariane had taken Darryn away to consult with her captains. “She can be frightening, and she can be fierce, but she would do anything for her children,” Senneth said. “She’ll come around. She can’t stand to be estranged from Darryn.”
“I don’t think I breathed once the whole time she was talking to me,” Sosie said. Indeed, she still sounded like she was gasping for air. “Darryn is so different from her!”
Senneth laughed. “Darryn is certainly less imposing, but Ariane is one of the people I trust most,” Senneth said. “I would choose her over my brothers any day. Be good to Darryn and she will be good to you. And when someone like Ariane Rappengrass is on your side, well, life becomes a little easier.”
Sosie looked doubtful and changed the subject. “Senneth, you remember I introduced you to a mystic named Lara when you were in Carrebos?”
“Yes. She was very strange.”
“She is strange, but she’s traveling with us, and I think you’ll be glad. She has amazing healing powers, and I have to guess that many soldiers are being wounded in this war.”
“Hundreds,” Senneth said. “We will be profoundly grateful for her services. I’d be happy to have her ride with me, but I’m about to head out right now.”
Sosie glanced around, smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know where she is. She might already have ridden for your camp. But if I see her again, I’ll tell her that you need her as soon as she can arrive.”
Senneth nodded and swung back onto her borrowed mount. “Then I will look for her, and I will look for you as well. I know it is a war—but—try to stay safe.”
Sosie waved good-bye as Senneth pulled the horse around. “You, too.”
Senneth grinned. “And good luck with Ariane.” She waved, clucked to the horse, and took off at a steady gallop.
The day was fair, a little chilly, but spring had definitely arrived in this rocky, undulating land that led straight toward the foothills of the Lireth Mountains. As if overnight, the brown winter grass had put on a green coat; the early bushes had already flowered and lost their petals, while the late ones were sprinkled with color. Patches of wildflowers waved their bright heads in the cool air, turning their faces toward the sun. Even the hard earth had softened up. Her horse’s hooves scarcely jarred against the packed ground as they raced along. It was so easy to imagine the frenetic life unfolding just under the topsoil—the busy insects working through clumped dirt, the sleepy moles nosing through their clever tunnels, the clenched roots of trees and bushes uncurling and stretching toward water.
Senneth almost laughed at herself, for she was not in the habit of thinking in such poetic terms. She thought perhaps the mystic Lara had ridden this way just an hour or so before her, leaving a trail of spring magic in her wake. That would account for Senneth’s strange fancies; that would explain her sudden and unjustifiable lift of hope.
She rode steadily, stopping once to water the horse and eat a quick meal. She estimated she could be back at the royal camp before nightfall—in plenty of time to spray a few sparks across the enemy lines, perhaps even disable a whole regiment. Just the thought caused her blisters to ache, made her hands tighten on the reins.
But fire was what she had to offer the princess, and fire was what she would deliver.
It was about an hour before sunset when she pulled close enough to pick up the muted roar of battle. The terrain was just hilly enough to prevent her from seeing the clash of opposing armies, but she could hear faint sounds of voices shouting and weapons ringing, catch a slight whiff of smoke. Dread settled back over her heart, and fear as well. What terrible events might she have missed in the day and a half that she had been gone? Nothing too awful, of course—Donnal or Kirra would have brought extraordinary news. But that left a whole range of ordinary terrors….
The thought had barely passed through her mind when she saw a rider racing her way, dressed in Brassenthwaite blue. The feeling of dread intensified; she urged her horse to a gallop. The messenger was clearly looking for her. He pulled his horse up in a spray of loose dirt as they intersected.
“What? What is it?” she demanded.
“Serra Kirra,” he panted.
Kirra? If Kirra had been injured, there was no way Donnal would have left her side to find Senneth. But why hadn’t Cammon sent out a frantic cry? Sweet gods, could there be so many other things happening at the battlefront that Cammon didn’t even know? She kicked her horse into a run and called over the hoofbeats, “What happened? How badly is she hurt?” It was inconceivable that Kirra could be dead.
The messenger, pounding along beside her, could scarcely get his breath. “She had—changed shape—lioness. Gisseltess man—got off a lucky shot. Brought her down.”
Senneth’s stomach cramped. “Where is she now?”
The Brassenthwaite man was having a hard time keeping up. Indeed, if she hadn’t wanted the rest of his information, she would have left him behind. “That man of hers—”
“Donnal?”
The messenger nodded. “He was able to—bring her to safety. But her—her wounds are deep. She wasn’t—conscious—”
More and more terrifying. Now Senneth’s lungs were seizing up, while her stomach was still tightly clenched. “Is she with Ellynor?” Has Lara arrived yet? Oh, Bright Mother, bring all the mystics to camp right now to save Kirra….
“I don’t know—who’s with her, serra.” He gasped. “Your brother sent me after you.”
Senneth nodded and leaned lower in the saddle, coaxing more speed from Ariane’s horse. Senneth had a rough-and-ready sort of healing power herself, and it worked well on injuries. If she could get there in time—if she could lay her hands on Kirra’s wound—oh, surely, surely, she could save that bright girl’s precious life—
“This way,” the Brassenthwaite man called as Senneth turned her horse toward the east, following the path that would take her around the worst of the fighting. “There was a skirmish there—this morning. I don’t know—if enemy soldiers are still in place.”
She let him take the lead on a more indirect route, though every nerve in her body was screaming to go faster, cut straight cross-country, never mind the obstacles. She had completely forgotten any fancies about hope and spring. All she could see now were barren hillocks, stripped trees, the unfriendly and stony te
rrain that lay between her and her goal.
They swept around one of those low hills to find a handful of men scattered across their path. Scavengers, Senneth thought first, for they wore no identifying colors from either army. And then, with even more contempt, Traitors. For one of them wheeled his horse right in front of her, pulling a sword to bar her passage. She saw a flash of topaz on his finger. A Storian man.
She lifted her hand to fling fire, to scorch her way through this roadblock, but just then the false Brassenthwaite man crashed his mount against hers, sending them careening off the road. Her horse bucked and skidded; the fight to stay on its back momentarily diverted her from magic. Before she could raise her hand again, one of the other riders swooped close enough to grab her left wrist and practically yank her from the saddle.
She felt all her nerves arc with shock and then go dead.
“Ah, Senneth,” Halchon Gisseltess purred in her ear. “How careless of you to fall into my hands.”
CHAPTER
38
THEY rode for perhaps an hour. Wherever he was taking her, it wasn’t back to his army’s camp. That was about the only coherent thought Senneth could form while Halchon Gisseltess carried her before him on his horse.
He had caught her. He was taking her somewhere. She was powerless against him. He was touching her, and he might well be planning to rape her, and she could do nothing to stop him; and she would rather be dead.
She tried to force herself to take in details, to guess which direction they were headed. West and a little south, she thought. She had a terrible suspicion they were on the way to Ghosenhall. He had always said he wanted to install her as his queen in the royal city. He had to know she would not consent to such a farce—that the minute he released her, she would turn on him with fury and fire. Perhaps he did not intend to release her until she had been well and truly immobilized. Perhaps, while they had been fighting at the tip of Brassenthwaite, a regiment of his soldiers had marched through Ghosenhall and occupied the palace. Perhaps he had already prepared a bed of moonstones to be her bower, had fitted a room for her with shackles and chains. Perhaps, after all, she was doomed to be his lover and his queen.
She had been afraid of him her whole life. From the day she had first met him, his touch had wiped her clean of power, had filled her soul with depression and her mind with utter bleakness. When she was seventeen, she had broken with her father in the most drastic fashion to avoid an arranged marriage with Halchon Gisseltess. She could not bear to think, after all her travels, all her adventures, her life had brought her back to the same desperate point.
One of the accompanying soldiers pressed nearer. “Marlord. The others are just ahead. Will we camp for the night or keep moving?”
Halchon spoke over her head. “Camp, but not just yet. I want to travel as far as we can even after the light fails.”
“Do you expect a pursuit?”
Halchon laughed softly. “I do. But not until her distracted friends realize that she’s missing. They won’t know who’s got her or where. We have some time, I think.”
Speaking in a rather hesitant voice, the Gisseltess man said, “But aren’t they mystics? Her friends?”
Halchon’s own voice dripped with contempt. “She’s a mystic, and she was quickly taken. Don’t be afraid of magic, soldier. It is so easily overcome.”
It’s not, Senneth wanted to cry. Only mine! Only by you! But she did not even have the energy to speak.
In another five minutes they had come upon a group of soldiers stationed along the road. Senneth tried to count—maybe fifty of them—all in Gisseltess black and red. Her despair intensified. Perhaps, if she had been able to free herself from Halchon’s hold, she would have been able to fight off the six or seven men who had helped him handle the ambush, but she could not outmaneuver this many. She had no idea how quickly her magic would return once Halchon released her. Instantly? In five minutes? In an hour? The way she felt now, she might never be able to call fire again.
And there was no guarantee Halchon would ever release her….
After a brief conference, the two groups merged and continued on the westward journey, traveling much more slowly now that it was almost completely dark. There were no jokes between the men, no wasted excursions off the road. This must be the marlord’s most elite and devoted guard, efficient and seasoned.
None of them were likely to be moved to pity by Senneth’s situation.
No one would help her. She could not help herself. She could so easily die.
She would rather die, if the alternative was to take Halchon Gisseltess to her bed.
After about another hour of riding, the lead soldier came trotting back to where Halchon rode in the center of his men. “Marlord, up ahead about a hundred yards is a good place for camping. Under a natural overhang, with water not far. Defensible and out of the wind. Or did you want to keep riding?”
“No, that sounds good. Make it ready.”
The soldier nodded and rode off. Halchon gave Senneth a little squeeze and murmured, “Did you hear that? I’m sure you’re glad to hear we’re about to make camp. You’ve had a long and tiring day and must be longing to lay your head down.”
She did not answer. She wasn’t sure she could. She tried not to shiver, she who was never cold, but a small shudder passed through her, and she was sure he could feel it.
He laughed. “Senneth, Senneth, Senneth. All these years we’ve been friends, and you’re still afraid of me? I’m not going to take you on the cold ground surrounded by a few dozen of my men. I have waited too long to enjoy the pleasures of your body. We will be in Ghosenhall, perhaps, or Gissel Plain—or at least some fine inn with clean sheets and a decent brandy!—before I make you my lover.” His arm tightened again. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek. She felt as if he had laid ice against her skin. “But that day will be very soon, I promise you. I have waited a very long time, and I am not in the mood to be patient much longer.”
There was no need to reply, for they had arrived at the evening’s campsite. Now, Senneth thought, trying to will her muscles to tense, her mind to plan for action. Now, in the chaos of dismounting, in the confusion of many bodies. Break free of him. Set all his men on fire.
But she couldn’t do it.
He didn’t release her, in any case. He freed himself from the stirrups and then leapt lightly to the ground, still holding her clutched against him. For a moment, her feet wouldn’t support her and she swooned against him, feeling dizzy, feeling weak. But then his hold shifted. He kept one hand clamped tightly around her right wrist, but no longer had an arm passed around her waist. She could breathe again, and she took in great windy gusts of air. She almost felt steady, almost believed she could think.
Surreptitiously, she made a fist of her left hand, but her fingers were cold. There was no fire in her. Halchon still had hold of her, and all her magic was in abeyance.
“I need a moment of privacy,” she said to him in a raw voice.
Someone had started a campfire, and so he had just enough light to peer into her face. “She speaks! And asks for impossible things.”
She stared at him steadily, letting him see all her hatred, all her defiance. She didn’t have to put her hopelessness on her face; that he had obviously discerned for himself. “Then I suppose I will wet myself here in the middle of your camp.”
He seemed amused. “We might both attend to our bodily needs a few steps out of the firelight,” he said. “Tricky, yes, but we are modest, resourceful people. We shall each endeavor to turn our eyes away and let the other attend to his or her business.”
Revolting, embarrassing, but unavoidable. She followed him past the overhang, crouched when he did, accomplished her task with the minimum of grace, and followed him back into the firelight. Someone had already laid out a simple meal, and Halchon pulled her down next to him on a blanket before the fire.
“Are you hungry, my dear?” he asked her in a solicitous voic
e.
Not at all. She thought she might choke if she tried to swallow anything, but the gods alone knew what the next few hours, the next few days, held for her. She must try to keep up her strength. Who knew when an opportunity might present itself? “A little.”
“Then here. Some bread, some dried meat. Plain fare, but tasty after a hard day’s riding.”
Both of them ate one-handed, for his fingers were still locked around her wrist. She was clumsy with her left hand, but that forced her to focus on using it, and that meant some of her attention was distracted from her fear and anger and revulsion. When would her friends realize she was missing? Had Cammon, perhaps, sensed her distress, or was Halchon’s antithetical nature preventing the other mystic from picking up any signal from her at all? Tayse would have started worrying by now, particularly if Kirra had reported that Senneth planned to be back by nightfall.
Assuming Kirra herself had made it back.
She forced herself to look at Halchon. “So was it a lie then? About Kirra?”
“Oh, she’s quite healthy, as far as I know,” Halchon said. “Of course, I missed half of the day’s battle, so any number of your friends could have fallen by now.” He took a bite of meat. “Serramarra Kirra Danalustrous. Marlord Kiernan Brassenthwaite. Princess Amalie.” He took another bite. “Your husband.”
“All of them would gladly give their lives,” she said quietly, “if it meant keeping you from the throne of Gillengaria.”
“Well, once they realize I’ve got you, I think some of the fight might go out of them,” he said.
“Do you think to ransom me? Use me to convince them to lay down their arms?” She shook her head. “The regent would never advise the princess to make such a disastrous trade. Neither would my brother. Not very sentimental men.”
“No, and I quite applaud their hard-heartedness. But I think, when they see how easily I have captured you, they will reassess their chances of success against me. They will say, ‘Ah, that clever Halchon. We cannot win against him. We will cut our losses—we will surrender while we can.’”
