Rylin was distracted because he’d heard his name mentioned by the group at the duty desk. “It’s fine, Donahla. Squires talk about the higher ranks all the time.”
“No, sir, not like this. I said horrible things. And so did Squire Hamar. Neither of us really meant them. And I know we should always say what we mean, but it’s like our opinions weren’t our own.”
“Synahla spoke with them,” Thelar said to Rylin.
That partly explained the matter. Rylin smiled reassuringly. “Squire, I don’t want you or Hamar to worry. The Exalt Commander used spell work to change a lot of the minds she couldn’t fool—it just means you were wiser than she could handle through honorable means. How long did it take for you and Hamar to come around?”
“Honestly, sir, we didn’t feel fully right about you until yesterday morning, even after all the amazing things you did at the battle. I’m just so embarrassed. I feel terrible. So does Hamar,” she added.
“You’re starting to embarrass me,” Rylin said. “It’d help if we put it behind us, all right?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now if you’ll excuse us, Exalt Thelar and I are apparently going to provide some answers before we can grab a meal.”
“Yes, sir.” Donahla snapped off another sharp salute. “Thank you again, sir.”
Rylin and Thelar returned the salute and faced the duty desk. The three civilians waited expectantly and the third ranker’s eagerness for them to take charge was palpable.
They started forward. “How many more do you think Synahla twisted like that?” Rylin asked Thelar softly.
“I’m not sure. I’d think she would only expend spell energy on the most disruptive.”
“Any chance the ones I fought on the stairs were altered by her?”
“It would make deciding their fate a lot simpler.”
He might have said more, but their conversation died as they reached the duty desk and the oldest of the three men stepped in front of them. “Alten Rylin,” he said, “I’m councilor Brevahn. Do you have a moment?”
“I do. This is Exalt Thelar.”
“Exalt,” Brevahn said with a courteous nod. The councilor quickly introduced the two behind him as candidates running for open council seats. After they presented themselves, Brevahn spoke on. “Word reached us that a small band of survivors had returned, but we’ve heard nothing else.”
Rylin realized the councilor’s agitation arose not just from worry about the troops and the course of the battle, but from the fate of the future queen in whom plans for governance must figure prominently. So he got right to the point. “Elenai was alive, and well, when I last saw her several days ago. We lost some brave warriors, but we partially succeeded and we’re readying to take the battle back to our enemies.”
“I see. I’m sorry to hear about the losses, but I am glad to learn Elenai’s alive. The realms are depending upon her.”
“So are we,” Rylin said, then decided against explaining exactly what she was doing. Who was to say whether Cerai had informants who might somehow be in contact?
“Can you provide us with no more details?” Brevahn asked.
“We’re in the midst of the conflict. I’m afraid other details should wait until it concludes.”
Brevahn sighed. “And I anticipate that you won’t be able to comment upon when that conclusion might be?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Though obviously frustrated, Brevahn bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I understand the need for secrecy. But if Queen Leonara hadn’t erred so far in hiding official actions, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Don’t I know it,” Rylin said, then indicated Thelar. “We both do. You’ll be informed just as soon as the current operations are completed.”
“Thank you, Alten. I can be contacted in my council chambers, or at my home. I’m sure the palace messengers will know how to find me.”
They made their farewells, and then, finally, Rylin and Thelar headed into the dining hall. Legend had it that Altenerai supped in the queen’s banquet hall, but more often they ate in the officers’ quarters, with fourth rankers and up, a rectangular room furnished with long tables and benches. Old landscape tapestries from the Allied Realms hung on the stone walls, and high mullioned windows strained bright sunbeams into the space.
Today one of the tables had been decorated with a blue cloth, weighted down with platters of food, pitchers, and goblets.
Gyldara rose at their entrance. Her Altenerai khalat was sparkling clean. With her bright eyes, golden hair, and refined features, she had always been a natural beauty. She came to attention and formally saluted them.
Rylin and Thelar returned the gesture. Rylin’s ring no longer lit, as Gyldara’s did, and he knew a pang of loss, wondering if his would ever again shine with the sacred light.
“Hail Thelar,” Gyldara said. “Hail, Rylin of the Thousand.”
Rylin smiled sadly. “Hail, Gyldara Dragonsbane.”
“The squires prepared this feast for you heroes of the queen’s battle,” she said. “Varama went straight to her workshops, though. No one’s told me what happened. I was hoping you would.”
“It will be our pleasure,” Rylin said.
Rylin and Thelar traded out explaining while they ate. Gyldara’s lovely face registered shock and horror and worry in equal measures. Although news of N’lahr’s condition and Cerai’s betrayals firmed her lips, it was the news of the Goddess that shook her most.
Learning that his friend Mehrdok was nearly recovered from his throat wound, Thelar begged off, saying they didn’t have very long and he wanted a quick word with him. He departed with a platter of food and a wine bottle.
“You two used to hate each other,” Gyldara said once the door had closed behind the exalt. “Now you look sad he’s gone.”
“I think I’m just sad in general. But he’s a good man, and I wish I’d seen it sooner.”
She eyed him over the rim of her goblet. “Remember after the ring ceremony, when Asrahn told us we were too eager?”
“I remember.”
“I tried not to look eager from then on, but I felt it. I had to prove myself.”
“You trained harder than any of us.”
“Yes.” Gyldara wasn’t boasting over a simple matter of fact. None of the Altenerai appointed during Devaven’s tenure had spent as much time on the practice field as she. “But that didn’t help me when the true tests came. I believed everything Denaven said. I fell for the whole rotten conspiracy. If Elenai hadn’t risked her life to spare me, I’d be dead now.”
“I believed Denaven, too,” Rylin said.
“When we start training squires again, we’ll have to do better—somehow keep them from making the same mistakes.”
Rylin agreed. “It’s there in the oath. Heart and Mind. You can’t be too rigid about rules and strictures, but lead only with your heart and you’re too easily swayed by passing emotion, too easily manipulated. Varama was right, as usual. I was lazy with my mind.”
“We’ve both been out of balance. We were letting other people do our thinking for us. It’s a cautionary example to sharpen all who know of it—and I’ll make sure they do.”
Rylin raised his goblet. “A toast to a balance. And a toast to you, to be thinking we’ll live to train new squires.”
She arched one eyebrow as she gently touched the side of her goblet to his own. “You don’t think we will?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I hope we will. But who can say? And I worry you have to survive the front line to really understand. It’s not like Asrahn didn’t drill these lessons repeatedly.”
“Maybe veterans needed to tell squires more what it’s really like. Maybe the truth would’ve sunk in.”
“And maybe we’d have kept on dreaming of brave deeds and glory.”
“We have to do more,” she insisted. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to argue.”
“No offense taken. I always liked how stubborn you were.
You wanted to make a difference. Now you are.”
“So are you! You’ve saved the lives of so many people. Asrahn would be proud. He once groused to me you needed molding he couldn’t provide.”
“He was right. He was a wise man. Maybe a wise woman can follow after him.” He tipped his goblet at her.
“Me, Master of Squires?” She sounded honestly surprised by an idea that appeared obvious and natural. “Shouldn’t that go to a veteran, like Tretton?”
“You’re a veteran, now.”
“Not like him.”
“There’s no one better suited. The older Altenerai never wanted Asrahn’s duties because they know they lack the connection with students, but you always have a following of squires. And you were the only one in our class who wasn’t trying to take advantage of her position. Cargen was Denaven’s understudy. Lasren and I were strutting around soaking up the benefits and pretending we weren’t upset no one was writing songs about us. K’narr–”
“He was all right,” Gyldara said. “I’ve wondered ever since he died if he was really in on it or if Cargen had just tricked him. Like I was tricked. Maybe if he’d just had someone to show him the lay of things, he might be with us today.”
Rylin thought back to the lanky alten and his quiet way with the squires. “He made wrong choices, and sometimes you don’t get a second chance.”
She eyed him through her lashes as she poured another drink. “Do you know, I think this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with you without you trying to get me into bed.”
Rylin’s mouth fell open and he struggled to find a response.
She laughed. “You thought you were so charming. Here’s the funny thing—this is the first time I’ve ever thought that might be fun.”
“Now, when I’m spent and haggard and a little broken?”
“Now, when you’re no longer a boy.” She laughed again. “By the gods. I’ve actually made you blush! I wish Lasren could see this.” She stilled then, her laughter dying on her lips, the glint fading from her eyes.
He lifted his goblet. “To Lasren.”
“To Lasren,” she said solemnly, and they drank.
Rylin coaxed her into describing her role in the battle for Alantris, and she wormed from him the account of his own adventures.
Their whole career they had walked parallel paths, overlapping experiences with many of the same people, and in the last weeks they had realized the solitude and weight of the role they’d labored for. Of all others immediately before and after in the ranks, few were left alive, and none of them remained within the corps.
As a callow youth, he’d marveled over her athleticism, her determination, and her physical beauty. Gyldara had never been blind to the effect her appearance had upon others, and had adopted a cool reserve lest any think her friendship something more. She and Rylin had frequently been rivals, first as squires striving always to stand out, then as Altenerai, desperate to prove themselves worthy of the ring they’d been awarded in peacetime.
In hindsight, their past jealousies were laughable. Before him now was no distant comrade, but someone warm and wise and sad, and all the more lovely now that her soul was open to him. He regretted the wasted years when he wasn’t the kind of person in whom such trust could be invested.
They were in the midst of conversation when the opening of the door interrupted and a dignified, familiar figure entered. It was Tretton, immaculate in his well-ordered khalat, the white of his beard and mustache standing out starkly against his black skin. He pressed a hand over his chest in salute, lighting his ring at the same moment. Rylin and Gyldara returned the gesture, and once more Rylin looked down at his flickering sapphire.
“Hail, Altenerai,” Tretton said, and walked toward their table even as Rylin and Gyldara greeted him in turn.
“Do you want to join us?” Rylin couldn’t recall a time when Tretton had shown any interest in doing so, but gestured at the bench across from him.
The older man shook his head. “I just wanted a quick word.” His eyes shifted to Gyldara, who started to rise.
“No, stay.” Tretton raised a scarred palm. He faced Rylin. “Varama seldom hands out compliments, but when I spoke with her this afternoon she had a number for you. You must truly have impressed her. That’s not an easy thing. I doubt she’ll ever tell you, herself, so I thought you should know she holds you in high esteem. She says you’ve grown into a clever, dedicated, and quick-thinking officer.”
He’d seen that Varama was fond of him, but the specific words were immensely gratifying. “Thank you for telling me, Tretton.” It was strange to address the older man by name. He was so removed from the rest of them it still felt improper to leave off his rank. “She’s one of my favorite people.”
“As well she should be.” The veteran turned his gaze upon them both. “Asrahn worried his recent teaching had been diluted by Denaven, but it seems like he won out. You’ve both proven yourselves a credit to the corps. There may be hope for the next generation after all.”
“All two of us,” Gyldara said.
Tretton acknowledged this sentiment with a sharp nod. “The empty chairs at the table, the empty rooms in the hall—those are like piercing blades. Your lot fell faster, but that happens when the unseasoned meet the front line.”
“Some of the unseasoned met Kyrkenall,” Gyldara said.
“Some of the unseasoned were traitors,” Tretton said. “Surely you don’t blame him for striking them down.”
“No,” Gyldara replied. “But I did, because he killed my sister. Then I learned that she, too, was a traitor.”
Tretton waggled his finger toward an empty goblet. Rylin filled it and passed it over.
The whitebeard drank, nodded his thanks, and set the vessel on the table edge. “It’s easy to lose your way. You have to remember your oath. It’s not just a recitation.” He smiled thinly. “Ah, you two don’t need me to lecture you. You know what you’re about.”
“I hope we do,” Gyldara said.
He nodded and was all business once more. “Varama wants us to ride to the Naor camp. We’ll have to use blood magic to contact Elenai.” He frowned in distaste. “Much as I hate the idea, I don’t have a better one, and I suppose it’s necessary.”
“How soon does she want us?”
“We’re to meet at the stables in a quarter hour.” He took another drink, then returned the goblet. “I’ll see you there.”
With that, and a respectful nod, Tretton departed.
Rylin and Gyldara were silent until the door closed behind him.
“That was remarkable,” she confessed. “Did you ever think that old man would treat us like equals?”
“I can’t say that I did. Are there any left alive from his day, apart from him?”
“I think Falnas is still living happily ever after in Ekhem.”
“Not too many of us live to retire, do they.”
“Not lately. I suppose we’d better get to the stables.”
“I suppose so.” He wanted to tell her that he hoped their conversation would continue soon, then realized, with a surety, that it would.
Before long, they were inside the Naor camp beside one of the giant dray animals and a complex diagram drawn in the dirt. A large canvas wall closed them off from the rest of the forces.
Tretton remained beyond that wall, not wishing to watch a ceremony he looked upon with distaste, and Gyldara, presumably not wanting him to stand alone, remained with him.
Rylin wasn’t keen on watching himself, no matter that the blood mage had said the land treaders had been built for this, or that Rylin would gladly have slain all the beasts himself a few days ago if it would have kept the Naor from the walls. Now the injury or death of the smelly beast was distasteful to him.
Perhaps it was distasteful to Varama as well. It was hard to know, for the somber cast to her face might be the result of various facets of their situation.
A curious Thelar paced about the diagrams. Two tired
young Naor apprentice mages stood to one side. Muragan examined each line in the dirt, occasionally making a very minute adjustment with aid of his spearpoint. Varama walked with him, watching with her habitual intensity.
Vannek joined Rylin. “You’re watching their work as though you understand it. I keep forgetting you’re a mage. You don’t have the manner of one.”
“Oh?” Rylin asked.
The general seemed unconscious of the implied prejudice against magic workers. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he continued. “He was one of our mages.” Vannek turned his head, though Rylin sensed it wasn’t the diagram he studied, but some memory. “There are a lot of stupid things our people do. Instead of shielding those with mage sight, we mock them. We lock them away, and say they’re women and worse than women, until and unless they show signs of real power. Someone like you would never have risen to honors unless you were a powerful and well-connected talent.”
“I’m not.”
“But you have some skill, yes? And it enhances your abilities as a warrior. A wise leader would lift up his mages.”
“A wise leader lifts up all his people.”
Vannek looked shrewdly at him. “You are more than you seem.”
“And you never fail to intrigue me.”
The general didn’t smile, exactly, but the compliment had obviously pleased him. He looked as if he was about to say more, but Muragan called out then that all was in readiness.
“I can begin,” the general said, “if the Altenerai are ready.”
“We’re ready,” Varama affirmed.
Muragan bowed his head to her, then breathed out once, like a diver readying to leap into cold water. He waved to the man on the back of the giant land treader.
The burly Naor drove a pointed spear deep into the large hump along the beast’s back.
Rylin winced. The beast itself didn’t seem to notice the injury.
The reek of the land treader was joined by the scent of blood, but it was the magic in the air that held Rylin’s attention. His arm hairs stood upright under his uniform coat. Muragan closed his eyes, his hands low, one palm to the diagram, the other to the trough into which the blood streamed down from the canvas hose upon the land treader. Astonishingly, the beast stood docile.
When the Goddess Wakes Page 34
