Trine Rising

by C. K. Donnelly

  She swung her leg over Ashtar’s back, grimacing. Dismounting after days in the saddle was painful. Her boots sank in the mud. She grimaced again. Standing was even more so.

  She wiped the muck and water from her face. Sixthmonth had come, but the spring rains refused to yield to the summer sun. Her mother had set a grueling pace despite the saturated ground. At least they would be at the Ford garrison in just two more days. She paused in untying her saddlebag. Then again, maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, after all.

  Lord Garis removed his helmet and set it down where he would make camp, clawing his fingers through his dark hair. He had no mud on his face. She frowned. Many Fal’kin wore helmets. Her father, however, hated them. He had worn one when he fought as part of the provincial forces, and the moment he became an il’Kin, he never wore one again. He had said it was hard enough to see straight ahead with one on, let alone use peripheral vision. He had said he believed his Aspect and his eyes were more than enough to keep his head on his shoulders.

  Her frowned deepened. She’d know soon enough if he was right.

  She unpacked a goatskin tent and shook it out. It had taken her days to figure out how to erect the sad little thing. It was more mud than leather by now, and it had a few extra holes in it from misplaced anchor spikes. Still, it was better than sleeping in the rain. Maybe.

  She glanced at the Trine. How in Kinderra would he fit within such a small shelter like hers when she could barely stretch out her own legs?

  “Mirana, your horse,” Lord Garis directed her as he removed the packs from his own mount.

  She frowned and nodded. She let the tent fall into the sludge once more and uncinched Ashtar’s saddle.

  She watched Lord Garis as he finished settling his stallion for the night. He had been strangely quiet for some time. Not quiet, really, but distant, like he wasn’t even there.

  “Idiot,” she muttered, chastising herself. Of course, he was distant. He was under U’Nehíl. He didn’t need to exactly advertise to the Ken’nar warlord that he was approaching. Had she not been riding next to him, she would have never known he was there.

  He had hardly spoken two words since they had set out from Deren. She bit her lip. Was he having second thoughts about taking her as his scholaira? She had quite literally turned away from her duty. She had nearly turned away from everything. Was he having second thoughts about her, period?

  Ashtar’s heavy saddle slipped from her wet hands into the mire, and the Trine gave her a disapproving look. She answered with a wan smile of apology.

  Lightning illuminated the clouds clinging to the backbone of the Dar-Anar Mountains far to the west. The wind picked up in answer, driving the rain into the tents.

  Mirana shook her sopped hair out of her eyes as she fed Ashtar from a small feed bag from her pack. The grain looked more like gruel. Like her own dinner, come to think of it. By the Light, what she wouldn’t do for some of Quartermaster Haarlen’s roast chicken right now.

  Lord Garis solved his shelter problem by spreading his cloak over his horse’s back and securing the ends to the edges of the standard-issue tent with leather ties at the corners. While not exactly roomy, it was adequate for his stature.

  A Kin-Deren red eagle within a gold circle proudly emblazoned the tent. She scowled. What happened to his tent?

  “I gave it to one of my defenders after a campaign. He was dying. We couldn’t take him with us,” he said over his shoulder.

  For some reason, that surprised her. She couldn’t picture the stoic man so caring. “You couldn’t heal him?”

  He paused as he made camp. “Not all can be saved.”

  A cloudburst decided at that moment to empty itself upon her, drenching her and all but submerging her tent in the mud. Would it still be raining this hard when the Ken’nar attacked? Then again, the Ken’nar would have to fight in this deluge, too. Why wasn’t that the least bit comforting?

  As she set up the tent, she pulled deeper inward, where far more fearful concerns than the rain dwelt. Whether five hundred or five thousand Ken’nar ultimately attacked the Fal’kin at Two Rivers Ford, all the visions of the battle carried with them the unmistakable sense of peril. Specific. Hard. Real. Her parents would be stationed in the command tent. It might be located away from the battlefront, but no greater target existed.

  “Do the Ken’nar strike first at the battle seer group or the command tent?” she asked the Trine.

  Within his tent, he pulled a whetstone from his belt and began sharpening his longsword. The shelter’s opening faced perpendicular to the gale-driven storm. She frowned and reoriented her tent.

  “That is a very good question. What would you do?”

  How could he even ask such a question? Wasn’t the man starving? Wasn’t he even tired? What would she do? Not envision herself as a warlord is what she would do. She threw a saddlebag into her water-logged shelter. Couldn’t he wait until later to fiddle with that ungodly long blade of his? It was an unsettling reminder that she, too, would be using her long knives soon. The last thing she needed was to imagine herself at the head of some marauding army.

  She unfolded her bedroll and plopped down. Water and mud trickled in through a tear in the tent and struck her the face. Irritated by more than the leak, she swiped it away. “I don’t know.”

  “Think, Mirana.”

  She had had her fill of water-logged grain meal. She pulled some hardtack—well, now soft tack—from her saddlebag and took a bite. “I would destroy the battle seer group.”

  “Interesting. Why?”

  She clenched her jaw. She did not want to discuss this.

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “Without the battle seers, you can’t predict enemy troop movements easily. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” she answered, irritation clipping her words.

  “And?”

  And? What did he mean, “and”? “And without those in the command tent, coordination might suffer, but the battle seers can still call the attack directly to the legion commanders.”

  “Very good. Furthermore, if the attacking forces are any good, both targets will be eliminated at the same time.”

  The waybread stuck in her throat as she imagined her parents’ bloody bodies splayed on the ground. At least she hoped it was an imagining.

  She loosened the ties of her belt pouch and touched her pendant. The mica warmed her fingertips. Teague.

  She glanced at Lord Garis. He was examining the cross guard of his sword. She quickly fished out the delicate gift and slipped it over her head, tucking it under her soggy linen shirt.

  “The Ken’nar don’t kill herbsfolk, do they?”

  He drew his sharpening stone down to his sword’s edge and shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  She threw him an angry glance. “You do not always have to be so honest, Lord Trine.”

  He made a sound like a chuckle. She could not hear it fully over the sound of the storm. She didn’t think the Trine was capable of laughing.

  “Your parents have fought in many battles.”

  “My mother hasn’t. Not for a long time.” Her glare turned into an intent plea. ... What if I’m right, Lord Garis? ... What if the Ken’nar Dark Trine attacks with the five thousand I saw? ... How can we fight against that? ...

  ... Maybe fighting isn’t the best strategy in that case ...

  She scowled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  ... Think ... What would you do in the face of such superior numbers? ...

  “I’m sorry I asked.” She turned her back to him and pretended to fuss with her bedroll.

  ... I want an answer from you ...

  She whirled around to face him. “Can we please talk about something else? I should have never brought this up,” she added under her breath.

  He gave a heavy sigh. That, she clearly heard. ... You are a Trine ... Someday, all of Kinderra will look to you for answers ...

  The memory of thousands of Ken’nar cutting down the Fal’kin a
t the Ford flew up in her mind. “If they attack with a force truly that large, we will have to retreat.”

  “Back to Deren.”

  “No. South. Sün-Kasal.”

  He frowned. “You would surrender the Ford and leave Deren defenseless if you went south to Sün-Kasal.”

  She shrugged and returned her half-eaten hardtack to her pack. She no longer had an appetite. “Not for long.”

  “Go on.” He looked down the length of his sword then sheathed it.

  She glared at him and gave him a frustrated sigh of her own. “Our two thousand with Sün-Kasal’s five thousand? It’s the Ken’nar who would be outnumbered. We would return and take back the Ford. We’re not just going to give it up to them forever.”

  He blinked and was silent for a long moment. “There are good retreats and bad retreats. That would be a good one.”

  Surprise from his mind leaked to hers, then disappeared into pride. Pride? He was proud of her? She smiled. “Or a bad one. If you’re a Ken’nar.”

  A series of shouts rose from the camp, startling the horses. In one lightning-fast movement, Lord Garis flew from his tent, grabbed his longsword, and put himself between her and the disturbance. His blade seemed to clear its sheath before the sound of its drawing rang.

  “What? What is it?” Mirana asked as she dashed from her tent to stand behind him.

  Had the Ken’nar already begun their attack? From their location in the middle of the camp, she could not see what had happened, nor had she sensed anything. Lord Garis did not answer her immediately. He held out his free hand, protective of her, while he watched and listened.

  He made a low noise of disapproval and shoved his sword back into its scabbard. “One of the horses was not pleased about something.” He turned to her. “Get some rest. Your mother will not keep us here long.”

  She searched the camp for the disturbance once more but sensed nothing other than a slight warming of Teague’s pendant against her skin. She crawled back into the tent. The Trine had pulled a corner of his shelter down and had slipped behind U’Nehíl once more. She shook her head and huddled, shivering, in her saddle blanket. She sat within a camp of two thousand men and women, and never felt so alone.

  Lord Garis was right about their stay.

  Mirana closed her eyes on the murky, rain-soaked night until he awakened her far too soon to another murky, rain-soaked dawn. She wasn’t sure she had slept at all. Moments later, they and the Fal’kin army were off.

  The gray day deepened into an even grayer evening when she finally heard the rushing of rivers rising above the drumming hoofbeats. It was a comforting and thoroughly incongruous sound to the noise of the fighting that would soon take place.

  Somewhere in the gloom the swift Garnath River and the wide Anarath River flowed out of the Dar-Anar Mountains. They bisected the apex of the landmass that made up Kin-Deren province’s far western border like a wedge of Quartermaster Haarlen’s meat pie. Her stomach growled at the thought.

  The stone bridges of Two Rivers Ford itself were barely visible in the dank evening, but what she could see made her jaw drop. No image passed to her from seers did them justice. An enormous span arched across each river, upheld by massive buttresses sunk deep into the rock walls of the river gorges. One to the north over the Garnath River connected Varn-Erdal to Kin-Deren. The other, to the south, stood over the Anarath River, linking Kin-Deren to Sün-Kasal.

  Her primary lessons said bridges were ancient, built before the Sundering, before there even were Fal’kin and Ken’nar. Were they too old? She bit her lip. When was the last time they had supported this many riders at once? A warning drifted through her mind, soft like the sound of running water, though it was not at all soothing. Was it one of her Aspects whispering to her, or just plain anxiety? She shook her head. She had been riding for too long.

  Farther in the distance, she spied pinpoints of light. The Ford garrison. It was only a collection of sod and wooden buildings and semi-permanent tents to house the troops that guarded the Ford, but she nearly wept with relief. To bed down in a bunkhouse after unending days in a leaky tent would be like sleeping in the arms of the Aspects Above themselves.

  Mirana followed Lord Garis, letting Ashtar pick his way down into the shallow valley of the Ford, to what she assumed was the command tent. Its wide canvas walls and pitched oilcloth roof were lit by tall torches at its entrance—and indistinguishable from any of the other tents. She smiled tightly. That was probably the idea.

  Horses were already tethered outside. Her parents and some of the other senior Fal’kin must have arrived ahead of them. She hissed as she clambered off her horse and grabbed a stirrup to steady herself.

  Seeing her grimace, Lord Garis asked, “When was the last time you rode a horse?”

  “I ride all the time, my lord. Just never this far. Or this fast.” She stretched painfully. “Or on such a gigantic beast.”

  His mouth thinned with a frown. “Help me see to the horses.” He hefted the saddlebags from Ashtar’s back and gave them to her. “Your horse must always come ahead of your own comfort. It is more than just a means of transportation; it is your companion, your defender, and ai, even your food or shelter.”

  “Food and shelt—” Mirana sucked in a breath as the Trine called to her mind a bleak notion of a snow-swept plain filled with wounded fighters, some staying alive by the only means possible. She eyed Ashtar, his ruddy coat glistening in the garrison torchlight, wet with flecks of foamy sweat from the demanding ride. She would rather starve before killing such a magnificent animal.

  The tall Dar-Azûlan took the bags from his horse and draped them over her shoulder. She took a step toward the tent when she stumbled in the mud under all the weight. Then the mud disappeared.

  The garrison at Two Rivers Ford. The undulating mass of the Dar-Anars looms in the distance, darker than the night. Shapes move in the blackness. Lightning flashes. A feral cry sounds in the gloom, gibbering yelps from mouths searching for blood. Grynwen. The sound of hoofbeats drums above the thunder. Lightning flares, revealing Ken’nar. They disappear in the darkness. The pounding of steeds remains. The Fal’kin charge to meet the Ken’nar. Men and women fall to the gnashing teeth. Amulets fire. The stench of burned flesh rises in the air, heedless of the storm. Swords clash. Cries of agony split the night. Terrified horses scream. The Fal’kin are pushed toward the southern stone bridge of the Ford. Defenders from both armies fall shrieking into the raging waters a hundred feet below.

  Her legs gave out and she collapsed in the muck, the saddlebags spilling some of their contents.

  Lord Garis hauled her to her feet. He shook his head angrily. “If you cannot even bear a ride, how do you expect to fight someday?”

  He stood over her, glowering down at her. Was he the tallest man in Kinderra?

  “My lord, I think—” She staggered back and dropped down again into the sodden earth. Teague’s pendant lay hot against her skin.

  Fighting spills onto the fields near the southern bridge egress. Grynwen snap at each other, fighting for the flesh of fallen Fal’kin who have yet to die. Lightning. Blood coats their muzzles. Blood soaks armor. Blood sprays skin, faces. The sickening, coppery, sweet taste.

  “Mirana?”

  An eerie keening sings above the howls of the grynwen. Peculiar whistles shriek overhead.

  “Mirana? Have you seen something?” the Trine asked as he crouched down. “Answer me.”

  “The Ford will—”

  The Fal’kin fighters in the rear guard of the forces turn their heads southward. And die.

  Her breaths came in pants. What she was seeing? When was she seeing? Arrows? From the south? That couldn’t be right. Every vision—hers and the other seers, even Tetric Garis’s—had always shown the Ken’nar attacking the Ford from the north. What had just happened?

  The Trine’s presence permeated her mind, cutting her off from her Seeing Aspect. ... Mirana, come back to me ... “What did you see?”

 
“The Ford. I saw the Ford again,” she gasped. “Only, this time, I saw arrows. From behind us.”

  The command tent entrance flew open. “Mirana?” Her father rushed over to her, followed by her mother. Together they helped her up.

  Her father laid his hand on Lord Garis’s forearm and stared at him intently, apparently calling something private.

  “She refuses to leave.” He pulled his arm out from under her father’s hand. “It appears she has quite a will of her own. I wonder from whom she gets it?”

  “What happened?” her mother asked. “Is she all right?”

  Mirana took a slow breath to calm her racing heart, ignoring the question. “Has our intelligence changed at all?” she asked instead.

  “I thought we had an agreement, Garis,” her father said.

  She wiped some of the mud from her face. Agreement? What agreement? “Father?”

  The Trine held his hands out at his sides. “What would you have me do?”

  “The Ken’nar battle plan remains unchanged, although we see our troops shifting locations,” her mother answered Mirana, but her eyes remained on the men.

  “She cannot remain here.” Her father’s voice held less acid but remained just as emphatic.

  “Kaarl, I don’t like it any more than you do, but I need her. I need her insight,” her mother said.

  He gave the Trine a piercing glare.

  Lord Garis’s gaze was just as pointed. “I have not betrayed your trust. What must be done will be done.”

  Her father’s jaw tightened, and he nodded brusquely.

  “I need to speak with you and Mother,” she said. “Now. I saw arrows.”

  Her mother nodded. “As have we.”

  “From the south.”

  Her parents and Lord Garis grew quiet.

  “I saw something. Just now. The vision proceeds as we have seen it these past sevendays. Five hundred come from the north. But then a hail of arrows comes from the south. Many arrows. And grynwen.” She held her mother’s hand and called to her mind the images.

  After a moment, Desde squeezed her hand and nodded. “I was hoping to stop them from advancing off the Garnath bridge, but now we might have two fronts to worry about.” She covered her mouth, then her hand slipped to tug at her lower lip. “Forces from Varn-Erdal are expected tonight as well. Could the arrows be theirs?”