Carachel looked up from the wood. “I told you I am accustomed to little sleep. That is not necessary.”
“Little sleep is not the same as no sleep at all, my lord. Do you plan to travel in the same manner as we did last night?”
“Yes, of course. I thought I had made that clear.”
“Then I would most respectfully urge you to sleep, and let me watch until sunup. My reasons are somewhat selfish, I admit; I have never heard that magic is safe, and I can’t say I like the idea of being enchanted by a tired wizard.”
For a moment Carachel stared at Jermain, then he began to laugh. “You are right, of course,” he said at last. “Very well, I will rest.” He rose and walked a little way from the fire. For a moment, he fumbled with the clasp of his cloak; then he wrapped it around himself and lay down while Jermain busied himself with the fire.
When the flames were burning steadily once more, Jermain sat back to consider his situation. The abrupt change from fugitive to nobleman required some adjustment. Carachel’s sorcery made him uncomfortable; still, Jermain reflected, he had served Marreth for years, and Marreth had done many things that made Jermain far more uncomfortable than Carachel’s magic.
Not that he had seriously considered refusing Carachel’s offer. His other alternatives were unpleasant enough to make the wizard’s proposal seem like a gift straight from Arlayne, though Jermain was more likely to attract the attention of the War Goddess Morada than the Lord of Mercy. But even under happier circumstances Jermain suspected that he would have accepted Carachel’s offer, and not merely out of ambition, though serving the Wizard-King of Tar-Alem was undeniably prestigious. I like Carachel, Jermain thought, and that is more important than prestige or magic.
The remainder of the night passed swiftly. Shortly after dawn, Jermain woke Carachel, and as soon as they had eaten they saddled their horses. Jermain noticed that the wizard’s right hand was bare, and he was therefore not greatly surprised when Carachel informed him that they would travel most of the morning without sorcerous assistance.
They rode until noon, when they stopped to eat again and rest their horses. At midafternoon they mounted once more, and this time Carachel worked his spell. Jermain was quick enough to see the serpent ring on Carachel’s upraised hand before he entered the shadow world, and then he was too occupied with Blackflame to notice anything at all.
It was night when they stopped at last, and Jermain felt as if he had been riding for a week without sleep, food, or water. He forced himself to see to Blackflame and swallow a few gulps of water before he slept, but he was too tired to eat. Carachel woke him up after a few hours. The wizard seemed more tired than he had the previous day, and Jermain took the watch without complaint.
The next three days fell into the same pattern. The two men rode slowly during the morning, then stopped to eat and rest. At midafternoon Carachel cast his enchantment, and for endless hours they would travel in the shifting gray world of the spell. By the time they stopped for the night, Jermain and his horse would be exhausted.
The terrain changed rapidly. By the second evening they were in the middle of the North Plains, and on the fourth morning they reached the Morlonian Hills. Jermain was amazed at the effectiveness of Carachel’s sorcery; they had made nearly a month’s journey in four days. He was also glad that the trip was nearly over. Despite Carachel’s assurances, Jermain had never become accustomed to the wizardry that had brought them so far so quickly, and he was looking forward to the time when he would not be utterly weary at the end of the day.
Late in the evening of the fifth day they arrived at the place where Carachel’s army was camped, just inside Tar-Alem on the opposite side of the Morlonian Hills. Carachel had used his traveling spell for only a brief time that afternoon, so Jermain was not as tired as he had been on the preceding days. Still, he was glad to see the flickering dots of the watchfires ahead, signaling the journey’s end.
Carachel answered the sentry’s hail with a flare of light that announced to everyone in the camp precisely who had arrived. The sentry stammered apologies as he bowed and let them past. Ahead, Jermain saw messengers speeding between the rows of tents, shouting that the King had returned. Jermain and Carachel rode slowly on through a steadily increasing confusion.
The center of the camp was occupied by a circle of decorative pavilions, and the two men rode into it and stopped. A boy in black-and-gold livery leaped to take their horses as they dismounted, and, after a moment of irrational reluctance, Jermain let him have Blackflame’s rein. He watched the boy until he vanished among the soldiers, then turned to Carachel.
“Will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner this night, my lord?” Carachel said before Jermain could speak.
A murmur of surprise rippled through those bystanders close enough to hear the exchange, and Jermain knew it would be recounted throughout the army by the following morning. He felt a wave of appreciation for Carachel’s public demonstration of esteem; it would make the task of taking charge of the army much easier. “I am at Your Lordship’s service,” he replied, bowing.
Carachel nodded and turned away. Jermain followed him to the central pavilion, which was painted gold with a black curtain for the door. As they approached, a hand reached out of the curtain and pulled it aside. Jermain stopped in surprise. The figure in the doorway was a woman.
She was tall, and almost too slender to be considered attractive. Once, perhaps, she had been beautiful; now the stubborn pride in her bearing only served to emphasize the faded weariness of her face. She wore a cream-colored gown, and her long blond hair was held in place by a circlet of gold. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said in a low voice.
Carachel bowed to kiss her hand, then drew her forward. “My lady, this is Lord Jermain Trevannon, lately of Sevairn, who has agreed to command our army. Lord Trevannon, this is my wife, Elsane.”
“Your Majesty,” Jermain said, bowing low. He was surprised to find her with the army instead of in Tar-Alem’s capital; as he remembered, she had no reputation as a warrior. In fact, she had very little reputation for anything. Only child of the old King of Tar-Alem, she had married the younger son of the King of Vircheta thirteen years ago. On her father’s death a few years later, she had immediately handed the kingdom over to her husband, and since then had played no real part in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. Except, of course, to provide an heir to the throne; if Jermain’s memory served him correctly, the child was now nearly three.
“Welcome, Lord Trevannon. I am glad my husband’s errand prospered,” said the lady, without any particular pleasure.
“Has there been any trouble while I was gone?” Carachel asked.
“No, my lord,” she said in the same neutral tone. Jermain had a sudden memory of his first conversation with Carachel, and abruptly he understood. If the wizards of the Guild of Mages were trying to stop Carachel, they might well attack his wife and son. No wonder he kept Elsane with the army! Jermain was surprised that Carachel had left her long enough to find him and bring him here.
“I am glad,” said Carachel. “Now, shall we dine, my lady?”
“Of course, my lord.” She swept a curtsy, and led the way into the pavilion. Jermain thought he saw Carachel’s lips tighten briefly, but the expression vanished so quickly that he was not certain, and the two men followed Elsane in.
Dinner was as formal a function as could be expected in a temporary camp. Jermain thought it strange that Carachel had not even taken time to brush the dust of travel from his clothes, but he had little chance to speculate on Carachel’s reasons. Carachel was apparently accustomed to dining with his captains and chief advisers, and his first action was to introduce Jermain to all of them.
Elsane took little part in the conversation that followed. The talk was mainly of military matters, in which she seemed to have no interest: how many of the newly levied soldiers would have finished training by the end of the month, how many weapons would be needed to supply them, and whether t
he latest levies from the northern part of the kingdom would arrive before the main army began to move.
“I think they will make it,” a gray-haired commander said. “Kird is a good captain; he knows when to force his men.”
“I don’t disagree, but he isn’t dealing with trained soldiers, remember,” said a short, brown-haired woman who had been introduced to Jermain as one of Carachel’s advisers. “Even Kird can’t do much with raw peasants.”
“If we have another week of good weather, he’ll be here,” the commander said stubbornly.
“I am afraid you are wrong, Suris,” Carachel said, looking up from his own conversation with a stiff little man in red. “Kird and his men will not reach us in time.”
“What?” Commander Suris jerked his head in Carachel’s direction.
“Kird will not reach us before we begin to move,” Carachel repeated.
“Why not, my lord?”
“Because I cannot wait any longer. We march south tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 7
Marreth’s face grew even darker. “New information? Ridiculous! You weren’t even here when Trevannon was exiled.”
“Pity about that; I might have been able to keep you from getting into this mess,” Vandaris said. “Not that you’d ever listen to me.”
“Trevannon was plotting against me!”
Eltiron opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Vandaris must have some reason for baiting Marreth so deliberately, and he doubted that an outburst from him would help any. At the edge of his vision, he saw Terrel moving toward the argument, and he shifted position slightly so he could watch Terrel without being too noticeable.
Marreth was still bellowing at Vandaris in a voice that shook the crystal goblets on the tables behind him. “. . . a traitor, and he’s been exiled, and that’s the end of it!”
“Not if you’re wrong, lard brain.”
Marreth stopped short and stared at Vandaris through narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”
Eltiron saw a startled expression cross Terrel’s face, and then Vandaris said, “You really want to talk about it here?”
Marreth shook his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And you’d better be able to explain, or I’ll send you after Trevannon!”
“I can think of worse things that could happen. Getting fat and out of shape, for instance.”
“I’ve had enough of your insults! You’ve had your say; now leave.”
“Did I say anything about you? I didn’t think I had. Let’s see.” Vandaris looked Marreth over critically and shook her head. “Now that you mention it, you don’t look particularly well. You really ought to do something about yourself, Marreth, or you’ll collapse in the middle of a Council someday, the way old Carawn did. Darinhal is a better physician than the one Carawn had, but there are limits.”
“Out! Get out of this room at once! Now!”
“And miss dinner? Of course not! I don’t have to worry about eating too much.”
“Vandaris! . . .”
Vandaris smiled and sketched a bow. “Until tomorrow, then.” Without even glancing at Marreth’s outraged face, she turned and strolled toward the tables. Eltiron nearly followed her, but prudence kept him standing where he was. Following Vandaris would only irritate Marreth further, and besides, there would be little likelihood of talking to her privately until the dinner was over.
Eltiron’s reflections were interrupted by Marreth, demanding that the steward have dinner served at once. The castle servitors responded quickly, and soon the long tables were full of rich food and nervous courtiers. Marreth spent most of the meal glowering down the length of the table at his sister; he barely noticed the ornamental woman who had joined him at the head of the table. Terrel, for once, did not make Eltiron the object of his barbed comments. He, too, was watching Vandaris, with an odd, speculative look that Eltiron disliked intensely.
As a result of Terrel’s preoccupation, Eltiron had no need to make conversation during the meal. He was glad to be spared the effort; he was determined to talk to Vandaris privately, and he spent much of dinner planning the best way of doing so. When the meal was over, he watched carefully until he saw Vandaris leave, then quickly made his excuses to the bald nobleman he had been talking to and hurried after her.
He almost ran over her in the hall outside; she was walking more slowly than he’d expected. Eltiron stammered an apology, and Vandaris shook her head.
“If you make a habit of charging through the castle like a dragon in heat, I hope you’re good enough with a sword to win all the duels you’ll get into. It’s a good thing I’m tolerant, not to mention a relative. What’s away?”
“I want to talk to you,” Eltiron said as he fell into step beside her. “Where have you been?”
Vandaris grinned. “Planning for trouble. Which means I’ve been busy, and it will probably get worse. If you want to talk, you’d better do it now.”
“All right. Why didn’t you tell me you knew something more about Jermain?”
“Not here, crack skull! It’s too easy for conversations to be overheard in these halls. This way.”
Vandaris started down a side passage, and Eltiron followed. She proceeded to lead him, by a more circuitous route than he had ever imagined possible in Leshiva Castle, to her chambers. Tarilane was sitting at a table inside, frowning intently at a large, leather-bound book lying open in front of her. She looked up as they entered.
“Vandi! Did it—” She stopped abruptly as she saw Eltiron behind Vandaris.
“Did it work, you mean? Yes and no.” Vandaris dropped into a chair with a sigh, and motioned Eltiron to sit down.
Tarilane looked from Vandaris to Eltiron, closed the book, and stood up. “I suppose I should leave?”
“No, so you can stop getting ready to sulk and sit down. I want to know what luck you’ve been having, among other things, but we’ll get to that in a minute,” Vandaris said.
Tarilane nodded and sat down, her eyes shining with excitement and her back very straight. Vandaris turned to Eltiron. “Now, you wanted to ask me something?”
“What have you found out about Jermain?”
“Nothing at all.”
Eltiron stared. “But you told Father—”
“I lied,” Vandaris said cheerfully.
“Why?”
“I want to know who has a guilty conscience. The easiest way for me to find out is to convince whoever it is that it’s a good idea to worry about me, which I have now done. I hope.”
“Do you really think someone will fall for that old trick?”
“Who cares if it’s an old trick, as long as it works? And even if it doesn’t, I managed to get through one of Marreth’s dinners without being bored, and that’s something.”
“What if someone sends an assassin after you, or a spell, or something?”
“I’ve taken care of assassins before, and I don’t expect anyone to use magic in Sevairn,” Vandaris said uncommunicatively.
“Someone already has,” Eltiron said, remembering the red thing they had found on the tower.
“Really?” Tarilane looked at Vandaris. “You didn’t tell me.”
“There are lots of things I don’t tell you, sponge brain. You’re too nosy, and you talk too much.”
“I do not!”
“You’re talking too much right now,” Vandaris said pointedly.
Tarilane subsided.
Eltiron looked at Vandaris. “Are you sure—”
“Would I be risking my neck if I weren’t? Quit worrying; it’s too late to do anything about it anyway, and I have quite a few tricks you don’t know about.”
Eltiron shook his head. “As long as you’re sure it’s all right. But if you don’t really know anything about Jermain, what are you going to tell Father tomorrow?”
“That Mournwal’s arming. That’ll make him forget about Jermain in a hurry, believe me.”
“But Father doesn’t believe the Hoven-Thalar are coming north; why would he beli
eve Mournwal’s getting ready for them?”
“He doesn’t have to. As long as he thinks the King of Mournwal is planning to invade Sevairn, he’ll call up the army and start it moving south, and that’s all we really want him to do.”
“You’re going to tell him Mournwal is planning to invade Sevairn?”
“I won’t have to; he’ll jump on the idea himself as soon as I mention armies in Mournwal.” Vandaris grinned. “By the time the Hoven-Thalar get to the border, he’ll think he planned the whole thing right from the beginning. I can handle Marreth.”
“I hope so,” Eltiron said. “But he can be awfully irritable.”
“I’ll admit his mood’s gotten worse since I was here last. How long has he been like that?”
“Like what?”
“The way he was tonight, lead skull. He’s always had a lousy temper, but I didn’t expect him to explode before I even said anything. He acted worse than a dreamsmoke addict.”
“He’s not a dreamsmoker!” Eltiron said, shocked. “He can’t be! He isn’t—I mean, he doesn’t—I mean, he has too many . . .”
“Women? I know, and you’re right; he couldn’t keep any of them happy if he were a dreamsmoker.” Vandaris grinned maliciously. “Though I’d like to point out that I never said he was.”
Eltiron felt himself turning red, and said hastily, “Then what did you mean?”
“His temper, for one thing. And he’s lost what little sense he had, not to mention being even more suspicious than he used to be. Furthermore, when he’s in a rage he looks as if he were going to die of apoplexy any minute. How long has this been going on?”
The Seven Towers Page 8
