“I want more specifics about the Naor dragons. It sounds as if they are crafted, living puppets, like Cerai’s horse—powered almost entirely by the will of a pilot.”
“Yes.” Rylin hadn’t thought about Cerai’s disturbingly compliant equine in many hours. He wondered what had happened to the animal. What would the Naor think of it if they found the thing in the stables? He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts. “If you really mean to stay here, killing the rest of the pilots ought to be a primary objective.” Gods, he was starting to sound like her.
“Better to destroy the dragons, in any case. They could find new pilots. I want to hear about the security details around them.”
He sketched in the information for her. As he concluded, Sansyra returned to report that everything was being readied.
Rylin nodded to himself, struck by an almost paralyzing wave of doubt. Suppose he were as blind to the inherent challenges before him as he had been to his own errors yesterday when he hadn’t noticed the detail on the boots of the dead squire. How much could someone change in just a single day?
He wanted to close his eyes and sit against that wall and let everything stop. He wanted someone else to take the responsibility for these lives.
Varama put a hand to his forearm. That in itself was noteworthy. Then she squeezed it and met his eyes.
“Don’t doubt yourself now, Rylin. You can do this.”
“Before, it was just me. Now my scheme is putting more than a thousand at risk.”
“I used to have faith in what you could be,” she said solemnly. “Now I know that it was justified.”
The day he’d been awarded his ring, he had been both exultant to receive it and torn by doubt that he truly deserved it. Now this remarkable woman told him that he had earned his place, and he felt a sense of satisfaction deeper than any he’d ever known.
She released his arm and he smiled, then shook his head. “You realize this whole thing’s probably going to get us killed.”
“Welcome to the ring,” she said simply.
She went upstairs with him, moving a little stiffly still. Those about to depart assembled in the empty temple above. Compared to the overall population of the city, it was a paltry number. Yet the two hundred and sixty nervously watching his every move were a larger command than he’d yet taken. Among them were numerous children, some small enough to still be in the arms of their mothers. Another three were hunched with age and would be slow moving.
The majority, though, were fit enough, and nearly thirty were actual members of the Alantran guard force. And there were five squires, including two fourth rankers.
He stood before the Alantrans and warned them that they had to pretend they were cowed. That they had to fearfully keep eyes away from their captors. That while they could take their weapons with them they had to be careful to conceal them, and not even to reach for them until he gave a signal.
Time, he knew, was passing fast. The thousand Alantrans he’d requested were probably being marched from various holdings under the watchful eyes of Naor guards to the rendezvous he himself had scheduled before the gate. He’d requested intact families, but would such considerations be given high priority? He didn’t know how much authority his assumed identity actually held. Would those orders be questioned? Was there enough energy left in his semblance to speak with any Naor at length while in full disguise?
Alas, with no hearthstones it was impossible to charge one. Some outcomes simply had to be trusted to luck, for instance that the bodies of Talkus and Zhintin would not be found and identified.
At a signal from Varama, he told them to ready themselves and to practice their expressions, and hurried to her side.
The alten looked wan and tired to Rylin, though she held herself erect. Denalia stood at her left with grim resolve. On sudden impulse, he passed over the used semblance. “In case,” he said. He wasn’t sure in case of what. Maybe she could use a little magic to charge it; even a half minute of assumed identity could be life saving. “I couldn’t have survived without it,” he added.
Varama accepted the tool without comment.
He put hand to heart and let flare his ring. “I can never repay you for your counsel. And your example. Someday, I hope to approach your wisdom.”
A rare smile touched her lips. “Let’s neither of us plan for the future, Rylin. Be not sad. If this be our numbered day, let us meet it smiling.”
“Aye,” he said, though his smile had passed, and he had to tear the words from his throat lest he choke upon them. “Hail, Alten.”
“Hail.”
He discovered that Sansyra and a group of squires had joined Denalia in staring at him and Varama. He motioned them over, for they were just as deserving of his regard as his friend. All but one were those he’d called in from outside the citadel tower late in the day. Saved, only for a later death. He soberly clasped arms with several. “Good luck to you,” he said. “And good hunting.”
“Good luck to you, Alten,” the first whispered, and the others either nodded or repeated similar sentiments.
Sansyra and Denalia, he addressed last. Sansyra was more formal than she’d ever been with him, offering her hand in an arm clasp. Denalia, though, looked as if she expected something more, and when he offered his arms for an embrace, she all but threw herself at him, clasping him so tight it surprised him, something he was sure Sansyra caught as she met his eyes over Denalia’s shoulder.
After a moment, he returned the embrace, and then Denalia took his face in both hands, leaned up, and kissed his forehead. “I shall live to see you,” she told him softly.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He forced a grin.
It was long since time to be on the move, and he left Denalia and Sansyra and Varama and the other volunteers with a last salute. A few of the men grinned at him. Young love, he knew they were thinking.
He found it annoying that they thought he could be so distracted. He had much more important things to concern himself with.
As he rode at the head of his small column of refugees, prodded along by what looked to be grim-faced Naor guards, he thought they appeared convincing. It would never have worked in daylight, when it would be rendered very clear that most of the Naor beards were trimmed hair held in place by helmet chinstraps—Varama had already been making preparations for future events. But it wouldn’t have to. It would either work now, or there was no point in trying.
He halted his procession at the entrance to the cleared market space before the west gate, astounded by the number of dejected Alantran citizens sitting under guard. Dozens of armed Naor paced back and forth around the seated crowd, and a stern-looking man sat his horse beside a lantern at the immense wooden gate that barred their exit from the city. Its three spearlengths of metal-sheathed planks had never looked so formidable before, or so far away. Rylin activated his semblance, silently praying that it would hold out for just a few moments longer.
Rylin had selected one of the fourth rankers as his second in command. He spoke in a hurried whisper to him as he started forward.
“Wait here, Donnis.”
Rylin set Rurudan circling around the larger group of sad-eyed prisoners, most of whom didn’t bother to look his way. Many were able-bodied women and men, with children sprinkled in among them, but a number looked elderly or infirm in some way. He hoped they’d be able to make the journey he planned this night.
There was no sign of the tubby officer of prisoners, whom Rylin had expected to deal with. Instead he faced a mounted and scowling Naor officer who offered only an abbreviated salute as Rylin drew to a halt. Having seen several other officers using the gesture—a hand lifted upright to the helm—he copied it himself.
“There they all are,” the officer said with an encompassing wave of his hand. His face proved pinched and sour, his beard thick and curling. The officer’s dark eyes burned with skepticism. “What do you want with so many good workers? And then you want children, too?”
&nb
sp; Rylin spoke with dismissive arrogance. “I need them to gather sorcerous energy to heal a dragon.”
The man’s frown deepened. “Then why do you need any of them related? You just need life force, don’t you? Given those you brought, shouldn’t we keep the good ones back here for better use?”
Rather than justify, Rylin thought it best to go on the attack. He set his mouth in a prim line and was pleased by the whining, superior tone his imitated voice created. “Are you an expert?” He threw his head high and spoke imperiously. “There’s a magical nexus located a mile east of here, and if you had the sorcerous talent of a toad you’d already have sensed it. Between it and the special olech I’m about to perform, I’ll get enough of the right energy. But that’s really none of your concern, is it?”
The officer actually growled. “You need to watch your tone.”
Rylin had little idea whether he outranked the Naor, whose helm featured two yellow feathers, or if the fellow outranked him. “The lord general himself ordered me do this, as I saw fit, with as many as I needed for my olech. You’ve no right to question me.”
The Naor officer’s mouth worked silently for a long moment. Too long, Rylin thought, watching him.
“I will take this up with the High Warlord Zhintin,” he said finally.
That would be hard, since Zhintin’s blood-soaked body was lying in a home near the dragon landing field. Rylin felt an arrogant smirk rising and let it, thinking it played well with his role. “You go right ahead, but if you keep me waiting you’ll have to answer to the general. He wants this done as soon as possible, to please the god king. And he’s not particularly interested in excuses.”
Rylin turned his back as he guided Rurudan past the man, pointed to the trio of soldiers beside the gate, and made a rising motion with his hand. To his surprise, they rushed to open the way to a dark track of road and grasses beyond.
The officer rode close to Rylin and leaned in, his voice cold. “I don’t care who your father is, Talkus, when you’re through with this olech I’m challenging you. We’ll see how a scrawny rump rutter like yourself holds up against a real man.” He turned the horse smartly and left.
Rylin felt his semblance fade. He shouted out to the guards about the prisoners and pitched his voice high, trying to talk through his nose as Talkus had done. “Up, up! We’re driving the prisoners west. Quickly now!”
He had the snap right. He thought he sounded a little too much like a caricature, but the soldiers guarding the Alantran prisoners didn’t seem to notice. Some of the Alantrans helped others to their feet. Rylin led the way through the open gate, his neck hairs erect, for he half expected someone to see through his disguise and call him out or simply hurl a spear into his back. He kept waiting for further Naor objections as he rode under the gate, but none came. Maybe in the dim light they couldn’t see that his beard had vanished.
Rylin kept himself well ahead of the group and didn’t look back until he was a hundred yards from the city itself. Plumes of smoke from burning buildings rose serpentlike to blot the stars. Behind him a mass of mostly slump-shouldered humanity was leaving the dirt road after them, shouted along by almost a hundred Naor guards, most of whom were on foot. A handful of them were his impostors and he carefully marked their positions in his mind. Some of the Alantran prisoners sobbed, thinking they were being marched to their execution. Well, with luck they wouldn’t be tearful long. Some were looking around warily as if hoping for opportunity to attack or escape and he prayed they’d hold off until the time was right.
He wished there were a good excuse to send the real Naor guards away. Men and women were going to die when the time finally came to fight them, but if he ordered the soldiers off it would raise one question too many. Depending upon how successful that sour-faced officer with the yellow feathers was in expressing his displeasure, there could be trouble following them at any moment.
It was all he could do to keep from turning his head again to see whether units were being dispatched from the city. Surely that lone Naor wouldn’t be the only one who thought it strange he was conducting the olech outside Alantris and far from the dragon he was supposed to heal.
Somehow, as they marched into the night, his luck held. It seemed an interminable time, with each pace a thousand year advance, but the walls were eventually more than a half mile off. Rylin rode on, back straight, hoping his arrogance and air of command would discourage any sort of challenge.
None came. From time to time, the Naor shouted for a prisoner not to delay, or to firm up their two column lengths, but there were no objections. He could scarce believe it.
A dense cluster of trees loomed between nearby hilltops just another quarter hour away, and he chose this for his objective. Once within, he’d be out of sight from the wall and the trees could be used as cover by the noncombatants.
As he glanced back to check on his charges, he heard the sound of hoofbeats. Another band of riders was charging at them from the darkness behind and to the left. He cursed. Luck had finally run out. But maybe these weren’t Naor. There’d be no talking his way out of this now, so he raised his ring in slim hope and set it alight at the same moment an arrow slammed through his upper arm. It felt like he’d been jabbed with a hot poker. Altenerai armor had spoiled him, he thought regretfully as he struggled to pull his sword.
Rurudan suddenly collapsed under him, with a piercing scream. He rolled away, just managing to free his left foot before a horseman galloped up. The shouts and clangs and screeches of battle sounded in a darkness full of movement.
He blocked a blow from the slashing rider. It was only as another attack crashed into his chest that he recognized its wielder as someone in squire’s gear.
And then he was down and he knew he was dying. The pain in his chest was overwhelmingly sharp and his breath had left him. His heart beat loudly in his ears, drumming out even the sound of the battle, which seemed now to be waged at slowed speed. Rylin fumbled to find the focus to cast a healing spell, even as he heard his name called out by Donnis.
The scent of the grass was very strong. Not a bad scent to die beside, he thought. He felt as though he might pass right through it and sink into whatever lay below.
5
With Clearest Sight
Tesra had always thought the queen’s office a little stark. White shelves sat behind their glass doors, displaying long orderly lines of green and red leatherback books. At head height, the shelf near the queen’s white birch desk displayed a line of glittering memory stones and a slim, elongated emerald, beside a single Altenerai ring. White wood paneling stretched above the shelves, though much of it was hidden beneath landscape paintings of forested scenes and one seascape looking from the Storm Coast out toward the palms upon the Isles of Koradel.
The room had once been orderly. Now stacks of paper were mounded across the table and upon all but one of the chairs in the overstuffed furniture group facing the queen, whose desk was likewise littered with parchment, much of which appeared to be covered with topographical maps showing mountains and rivers. Tesra knew better than to express surprise, but remained quietly perplexed.
Their monarch rose as she and Synahla stopped to bow to her, and this day at least she was a little more like her old self, for she beamed at them. Queen Leonara had thinned over the last year so that her clavicles protruded above her green blouse. Her neck was swanlike and her cheekbones prominent through her pallor.
Leonara hardly acted sick. Her movements were vigorous and her green eyes burned with secret fires. “Ah, Synahla! And Tesra. How good of you to come. Please, be seated. Should I call for refreshments?”
“It is our pleasure,” Synahla said with a lesser bow. “And Tesra and I need nothing.”
“Very good!” Leonara dropped into the chair behind her desk, her elaborately coifed and curled gold hair bouncing a little as she scooted forward.
Synahla immediately took the chair facing her monarch. The companion chair was buried under different-siz
ed and shaded parchment paper scrawled with hand-drawn maps. Tesra glanced at it, then at the queen, then finally to Synahla, but no one seemed to note its condition.
Tesra sat the inkwell on the table behind the chairs and propped the blank papers in her arm over the little plank of wood she carried as a portable desk. She was used to having to record Synahla’s ideas while following her on her rounds, so she was adaptable, if a little disappointed.
“I have decided to forego use of the keystone,” the queen declared. “Let the traitors have it. I’ve spent the last days writing down all that I recall, so that my own impressions are in order.”
“That’s commendable, Majesty,” Synahla said. And nothing more. Weren’t either of them at all concerned that the keystone was needed to commune with the Goddess?
“I think we should begin final preparations,” Leonara said, and smiled.
“That’s lovely to hear, Majesty.” Synahla smiled back. “We stand ready to help.”
“Pardon me,” Tesra said, a little surprised at the sound of her own voice.
Still smiling almost sweetly, the queen’s face turned toward her.
She couldn’t see Synahla’s expression, but her disapproval was a palpable force. Didn’t either of them recall the all-out desperation of their search for the keystone? That the queen had despaired for years that the way might never be clear for the Goddess without it? Did neither remember the queen’s rages when the keystone had been stolen by Rylin and Varama shortly after its recovery?
How to remind them of that without implicating herself in its disappearance? “Earlier, Majesty, you expressed concern that you might not be able to … know the mind of the Goddess without the keystone.”
“It is true that I did,” Leonara acknowledged. “But my faith in my own powers has grown. I have used the hearthstones to aid my recall and reconstruct all that I saw when I studied the keystone myself. And I tell you now that it was like looking through the eyes of the Goddess! I have faith in my power, and in the visions I have witnessed, and I feel the hands of the Goddess upon my shoulders. We have no need to fear.”
Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 9
