Two weeks into her captivity, the mage Gwynn came to see her in her room, or cell as she called it. She was of course blind at this point. The cell had a window, but only rarely did a bird ever come by and she refused to command any to remain, being a prisoner herself.
The mage sat in the one chair while she sat up on the rope and straw pallet of her bed. He sighed, and she imagined him knitting his fingers together across one knee as he regarded her. The few times she’d seen the mage he’d struck her as curiously old in his dress and mannerisms, as if he were in a hurry to age; or perhaps trying to compensate for his youth.
‘You have not been out for some days now,’ he said.
She ignored him.
‘Sister Lean is offering lessons on the dulcimer. Would you be interested?’
Ullara resolutely continued to stare in the direction she was fairly certain the window lay.
‘Or literacy, perhaps?’ Gwynn asked. ‘I am teaching reading and writing. It is a rare and valuable skill.’
She had to turn her head to him at that. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m blind, you fool.’
‘Ah. About that.’
She heard him rise, heard the door open. Then, instantly, miraculously, she could see. It took her a moment to get the perspective right, but it appeared the man was carrying a small wicker cage within which a tiny bird darted and fluttered. He offered it to her. ‘A chickadee. They overwinter here. A hardy bird. Surprisingly resourceful and resilient for its size – rather like you.’
She clutched the cage to her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, her voice thick.
‘Not at all. Can you read and write?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Our family couldn’t afford the tutors.’
‘Ah. Well, then. Lessons?’ She nodded. ‘Very good. The commons, at noon.’ He clapped his hands to his thighs and rose. ‘Until then.’
Ullara proved an avid student; more than once Gwynn expressed his astonishment at the speed with which she advanced. Soon she was pursuing her own studies and her room became cluttered in scrolls and rare texts. She read with her bird, Tiny, on a hook just over her right shoulder.
A month and a half passed and more and more often, despite the diversion of worlds of written histories Ullara had never even guessed existed, she found herself peering up at the window for long hours. Her appetite faded and it seemed to her that she would never escape this new prison.
Late one night her door opened, waking her, and Gwynn entered holding a dimmed lantern. Ullara sat up, alarmed – twice before a stable-lad and then a hired hand had come pushing their way into her attic room in Heng – but back then she’d had her pets to protect her. Both times she’d had to rescue them.
This time the intruder sat in her one chair and regarded her. She pulled her blankets up her chest, blinking suspiciously. ‘Yes?’
‘They say some birds never take to captivity,’ the mage said. ‘They simply give up the will to live and fade away.’ He tilted his head, regarding her. ‘I fear we are tempting the same fate with you.’
‘Are you going to force me to eat?’
Gwynn just smiled. ‘I’ve decided on a much more radical solution.’ He got up and pulled something into the room. Ullara straightened on her pallet; it was a large backpack. He pulled out two long objects, tall boots of oiled hide. ‘Sheepskin lined,’ he told her. Then he tossed her a bundle of clothes. ‘Woollen trousers, sheepskin jacket and mittens. A fur hat.’
She immediately began dressing, while he averted his head.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked as she dressed.
‘I believe it was wrong of us to interfere with your journey and I am sending you on your way. In the pack you’ll find dried meat and grains. Flint and steel and tinder for fires. Tiny here will be your eyes.’
Once she’d finished dressing he rose and shouldered the pack. ‘This way.’
She lifted Tiny from his hook and followed.
He led her through narrow back passages, almost always downwards. The halls became ever more chill, until hoar frost glittered on them in the golden lantern-light. He stopped at a thick door bearing a layer of ice that he began hammering at with the pommel of his dagger.
After some work he was able to edge the door open a crack wide enough for her to slip out. Frigid winds blew into the corridor. Outside, the deep blue of starlight reflected from snow. He handed her the backpack. ‘Fare thee well, little bird.’
She didn’t know what to say, could only gasp, ‘Thank you, Gwynn.’
‘Please do not think too badly of us,’ he answered. ‘Our commander believed he was doing the right thing.’
‘I understand. Fare well. And thank you again.’
‘Thank me by surviving.’
She waved and turned away to the snowy slopes.
Gwynn watched her go until her path took her from his sight, then pushed closed the door. He returned upstairs, and here, in the common room, he found Seth waiting for him at a table next to the low embers in the stone fireplace. He sat at the table and poured himself some wine.
‘You’ve sent the girl to her death,’ Seth said. ‘I’ll have you drummed out of this company. You are no better than a murderer.’
‘We were wrong to interfere.’
‘So you say.’
‘So the cards said.’
Seth scowled. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘The Dragons Deck. I am no talent, formally. But I have some small ability. Every night this last month I have consulted the deck. And every time the connotations have been the same. I’ve tried all the arrangements and permutations I am familiar with. The Southern Arc. The Old and the New House. The Great Circle. Every time it has been clear. The girl has a Fate. A Wyrd. And we were wrong to come between her and it.’
‘Regardless. I will take this to Courian and have you dismissed.’
Gwynn shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Cal-Brinn will support me.’
Seth pushed himself from the table and stood. ‘Damned mages. Consider yourself under house arrest.’ He snapped his fingers and two guardsmen came forward. ‘Take this man to his room and hold him there.’
Pursing his lips, Gwynn slowly swirled his wine in the glass and finished it.
* * *
Orjin had the word spread through the ranks that come the dawn they would be making a break west. He knew he was taking a fearful chance in trusting the word of this agent and normally he would never have done so. Frankly, he would not have done so this time either, save for the support of his Dal Hon shaman Yune.
That night Arkady came to him with a band of hill tribe youths. ‘We will fight with you,’ their spokesman said.
Orjin shook a negative. ‘You shouldn’t. There’ll be retribution against your people.’
The youth laughed. ‘They sneer at us. Push us into poorer and poorer ground. Starve us. What worse can they do?’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Orjin could say. ‘We will be honoured to have you with us.’
This lad inclined his head and the youths withdrew. Arkady remained, peering after them, and, to Orjin’s eyes, appearing troubled. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s the same story among us Wickans,’ Arkady said. ‘And the Seti tribes. Encroachment. You coastal people with your city states creeping over the land.’
‘Surely you Wickans are too strong to be threatened.’
The scout shook his head. ‘It will happen. In time.’
Personally, Orjin didn’t think any force could subdue the Wickan tribes, but perhaps the same had once been said of the Seti. He lifted his shoulders. ‘We shall see.’
The Wickan lad gave him a wintry smile and followed the tribal youths.
This left the thorny matter of a rearguard. Orjin, of course, considered himself part of it. But so too would his lieutenants, and this was a problem as he needed them up front to bull through any strong resistance they might encounter.
So he ordered them all to take the van, while they, in turn, ignored his order.
>
Even as troops were filing out of camp he was still arguing the point. ‘I mean it,’ he told them. ‘Get going.’
‘You must take the van,’ Orhan answered.
‘No – I’ll take the rear, make certain everyone gets out.’
‘This time rearguard’s mine,’ Terath said. She motioned Orhan forward. ‘Guard him.’
The huge fellow nodded. ‘Very good. Orjin and I shall lead the charge.’
Orjin gave the Untan ex-officer a hard look. ‘You’re certain?’
She waved him off. ‘Get going or the fight’ll be over.’
He let out a hard breath, rolled his shoulders to loosen them. ‘Fine. This time. But next time it’s mine.’
‘Whatever. Go.’
He gave her a nod, then clapped Orhan on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
As Orjin suspected, breaking through the encirclement was the easier job – for now. Of course the Quon Talian troops were expecting a desperate last-minute break for freedom, but not to the west. The west was their stronghold, firmly in their grip, and of course beyond lay the coast. An insurmountable barrier. A dead end.
And they would be right – should no relief arrive from these erstwhile new allies.
In a squall of blowing snow he and Orhan came crashing through an encampment of cookfires and lean-tos of fresh spruce branches over frames, scattering the Quon Talian infantry. While shock and surprise were on their side he paused here to wave his troops through.
A small victory, but the infantry would reorganize and then it would be a chase. The last unit through was Terath’s; she urged him up the path while arranging her troop behind cover.
‘We’ll hold them up for a while,’ she told him.
‘Unnecessary. Let’s go.’
She pushed him on. ‘Get back to the front, dammit!’
He pointed for emphasis. ‘Do not delay.’
She waved him onward. ‘Yes, yes.’
Orjin jogged off up the path.
The rest of that day was something of a game of hide and seek with the Talian infantry. Orjin’s hill tribe youths scouted ahead, chose routes, and sent them by roundabout paths, cliff-side walks, and down the rocky spillways of frigid mountain streams to avoid strongpoints and ambushes.
Come nightfall, once it was too dark to travel safely, the scouts had them hole up among the bare boulders of a gorge. All day Orjin had seen nothing of Terath and the rearguard, but with night the last units came jogging in, accompanied by Terath on a makeshift stretcher carried by two of her troops.
Orjin knelt next to her, took in the ghostly pale face, the blood soaking her wrapped torso. He clasped her bloodied, cold hand in his. ‘We’ll fix you up.’
She shook her head. ‘Lost too much blood.’
Prevost Jeral appeared and knelt next to the stretcher. ‘She shouldn’t be moved,’ she told Orjin.
Terath shook her head again, and weakly motioned Jeral closer. The prevost lowered her head, and her brows rose in astonishment as Terath planted her mouth on hers. ‘Always loved those … braids,’ Terath whispered, and her head fell back.
Jeral sat on her haunches, seemingly stunned. Orjin pulled his hand down the Untan swordswoman’s face to gently close her eyes.
The next morning they headed onward. Orjin ordered there would be no more rearguard actions; everyone was to keep moving, never engage, always pushing forward. He and Orhan kept moving up and down the lines, ready to act should any group get pinned.
So they wound their way up and down steep valleys, following circuitous routes known only to the locals, always a few bare steps ahead of pursuit, but always returning to angle westward.
Sunrise was a victory by Orjin’s count.
Two days, he kept repeating to himself as he staggered, exhausted, along narrow rocky paths. Just two.
Then, finally, one.
Chapter 20
Surly faced Kellanved and Dancer on board their cargo boat and gestured upriver. ‘I’m told that a few turns through those wooded shores and we should see the walls. So, let me reiterate.’ She raised a finger to Kellanved. ‘If this goes south – if you fail to deliver – I’m ordering a full retreat and I will happily leave you two swinging in the wind. Is that clear?’
The Dal Hon mage waggled a hand to dismiss her concerns. ‘Do not worry yourself, my dear.’
Dancer gave her a nod of understanding.
They tacked upriver further and eventually the walls of the Outer Round of Li Heng hove into view above the treetops. For his part Dancer could hardly look at them – this was the last city of Quon Tali he wished to return to. A crowd of archers manned the walls over the river gate, which was closed, blocking their advance.
Kellanved looked to Hairlock and Calot, then motioned to the walls.
The bald Hairlock raised his hands, gesturing. Above the walls the archers suddenly turned to face one another and began loosing their arrows point-blank. The burly mage chuckled to himself as they fell one after the other. He next made a puppeteer-like motion with his hands, as if pulling unseen strings, and the remaining guards flung themselves off the tall parapets to their deaths.
Dancer winced. He caught Kellanved’s eye, and the dark-hued mage motioned to the grinning Hairlock. ‘That’s quite enough, thank you.’
The squat mage’s frog-like mouth turned down and he lowered his hands. ‘Fine. We’re pretty much done, anyway.’
‘Trouble,’ Calot announced, pointing.
A Dal Hon woman with a huge mane of kinky black hair now stood at the shore; she pointed to their lead boat and the deck beneath Dancer suddenly bucked. But Calot snarled under his breath, gesturing, and the vessel levelled. ‘Damn she’s strong,’ he gasped, straining.
‘Keep her busy,’ Kellanved told him. He motioned ahead to the closed river gate. ‘Nightchill, if you would be so kind?’
Leaning against the side, Nightchill raised her eyes to the sky in disgust. ‘I told you – I’m not one of your hirelings.’
‘Just the gate. A mere architectural feature now cleared of any people. This is all I ask.’
‘All?’
‘Yes. All. I swear.’
The woman sighed and straightened. ‘Very well.’ She reached out and clawed at the gate, as if she would draw it towards her.
Dust appeared, bursting from the blocks of the stone arch above the gate, and a high keening screech of tortured metal reached Dancer. Even as he watched, the entire arch, including the gate, came tilting towards them, tumbling, fracturing, to crash down into the river with a gigantic blast of water. Spray showered the boat as it rocked and bucked over the resulting wave.
Kellanved had a handkerchief out and was mopping his face. ‘Thank you so very much, m’lady.’
Nightchill leaned back against the side of the boat, looking away, as if to ignore him.
Kellanved tapped his walking stick in one palm, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, yes, well …’ He turned to Dancer. ‘Now then, you and I have an errand to run.’
Surly stepped up, ‘What’s this? You’re not taking off, are you?’
‘Regrettably, yes. Unavoidable.’ He urged Surly away. ‘Go and establish your foothold here in the Outer Round. We are off to move against the Five.’
‘We don’t have the troops!’ she snarled, but Dancer was no longer listening as the world darkened around him and he recognized a shift through Shadow. The darkness faded and with the slightest half-step he recognized where he now stood – in the catacombs beneath Heng. He even knew where: in the precincts of the mage Ho. ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked Kellanved, keeping his voice low.
The mage was tapping his walking stick to his lips now, squinting at the many cell doors lining the hall. ‘Now, which ones were they … ah! Here we are.’ He rapped on a thick door.
‘Lar!’ came a yell from the cell beyond, startling Dancer. ‘Lar, Lar, Lar!’
Kellanved nodded to himself. ‘Yes. These three here, if you would, Dancer.’
A touch anxi
ous, Dancer unlatched the three doors then stood, hands on weapons, waiting. Three men poked their heads out to peer round, then stepped out, and he was astonished to see three near identical individuals, all clearly brothers to the mage Ho – save that each was even shabbier, in dirty torn clothes.
Kellanved waved them to him. ‘Your freedom, friends,’ he announced, ‘for one small errand.’ The three exchanged eager glances, and Dancer was a touch unnerved by their strange, empty half-smiles and wild eyes. ‘Your brother,’ Kellanved continued. ‘Find him and bring him to me. I would have a word with him.’
The three grinned even more broadly, nudging one another, and tramped off with a lumbering, flat-footed stride. Dancer watched them go, then turned to Kellanved. ‘So, that’s Ho, then?’
The mage nodded. ‘Yes. And my, ah, agents tell me Koroll is no longer in the city.’ Dancer raised a brow – apparently one or more of Kellanved’s young lads and lasses had actually returned to Heng to spy for him. Courageous, that. ‘The rest of the Five alone are not a worry. That leaves Shalmanat.’
Dancer had to steady himself. Ah. This was where things were going to get … difficult. The mage peered round the tunnel and shook his head. ‘No. Not the right place.’ He gestured, and darkness enveloped Dancer once more.
When the shadows dispersed he found himself atop one of the ring-walls of Heng, the Inner Precinct wall surrounding the palace and the tall towering spire itself. He looked to the short hunched mage. ‘You’re getting much better at this.’
Kellanved dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘My thanks.’ Letting out a long hard breath, he tapped his walking stick to the flagstones of the walk and announced, ‘Tem Benasto, Bonecaster of the T’lan Imass! I call you! Come. It is I – occupant of the throne.’
Dancer whipped out his blades, peering round. ‘Don’t compel them!’ he warned Kellanved.
‘I’m not compelling them – I’m just calling them … Ah!’
Dust swirled about the mage as if in a whirlwind. When Dancer’s vision returned there stood not just Tem Benasto in his huge hunting cat headdress, but the other Bonecasters of the Logros clan, along with the sword-bearing Onos T’oolan.
Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Page 33
