The gods were speaking clearly, but Kerrec refused to listen. “Tonight,” he said. “After dark. I’ll get us across.”
Rodry swallowed, then nodded.
Valeria opened her mouth to object, but the words would not come. A dart of bitter cold had pierced her.
The Unmaking. Someone was toying with it—tempting it. It felt like a mage testing his powers. Somehow he had touched what was inside her.
Dear gods. If that was Gothard, and if he realized who she was—if he tried to use her—
She had to trust her wards and hope they would be enough—just as she had to trust that Kerrec was right. He could lead them to Gothard and stop him before he turned this new power on the army.
They waited out the day in an oak grove that grew on a hill above the river. It had a strange feel to it, as if gods had walked here long ago.
The stallions were completely unperturbed. They grazed in the clearing at the grove’s heart and drank from the spring that bubbled on its edge. The water was as cold as snow. It tasted of earth and greenery and a faint but distinct sharpness of magic.
Rodry slept like a sensible soldier. Kerrec sat on a flat stone that lay in the middle of the clearing, face turned to the sun. He looked as if he were drinking sunlight.
Valeria dozed for a while, but her dreams were strange. They seemed to belong to someone else. She saw people walking in the clearing and heard faint chanting. The words were like the grove, ancient and long forgotten.
She opened her eyes on Sabata grazing in the sun. He cropped grass as any horse would, switching his tail and shaking his ears at the flies. He was more real than anything in the world.
The sky lost its clarity as the sun sank. By evening the clouds were thick, though no rain seemed about to fall. It would be a dark night, without either moon or star.
Kerrec’s satisfaction tingled on the edges of Valeria’s perception. She was inside Petra and Sabata and even, in a dim way, Rodry’s gelding.
She woke from a light doze and found her awareness spread like mist through all the horses. Whatever they felt or heard or smelled or saw, she felt with them.
She was not alarmed. It was a pleasant sensation, as if she were more a part of the world than any human could be. She could walk and talk and eat, and neither of the others looked at her oddly.
Kerrec had strengthened his spell of mist and confusion. The look of strain was back on his face. Valeria wondered if she should worry. The stallions were unconcerned, but they were not human enough to understand how close to the edge Kerrec could walk.
All she could do was watch him and be ready for whatever came. After nightfall, they waited for the army to settle for the night.
It looked as if it was under discipline, as Rodry’s cohort had been. That meant half rations of wine and ale, and men in their tents and asleep by an hour after sundown.
The sentries were still awake, and many of those were mages. There were wards on the camp. Valeria saw them as a glimmer in the gloom.
Kerrec skirted them as he led the others away from the grove, flowing like a mist toward the river. Through Petra, Valeria felt the effort in him, the struggle to keep his spell from scattering.
She had to be careful herself or she would be lost in the working. She kept a part of her awareness inside of Petra and therefore Kerrec, but drew the rest into herself. The world was less wondrous because of it, but her focus was clearer.
The horses picked their way down the hill toward the river. Once they came to the bank, they had to pick their way along the edge of the camp toward the ford.
There were guards, magical and mortal, and protections against intruders. Kerrec’s spell and Valeria’s wards had to hold. If they failed, the whole army would come down on them.
Valeria turned her mind away from fear. She had to remember to breathe. Sabata trod softly in Petra’s wake.
Rodry was between them. He was mage enough to know what they were doing. He said nothing and clearly tried to think nothing.
Whatever mud and flotsam the flood had left, the emperor’s troops had cleared away. The ground was bare and level. On their right hands, the earthwork rose above their heads.
Every imperial camp had such a wall, even if it was only for a night. Here, where three legions together prepared for battle, it was buttressed with stone. Guards walked the rampart, peering into the dark.
None of them saw the riders passing below. There was a mist on the river, dank and chill, and no moon to cast a shadow.
Mages were watching, clear-sighted in the dark. None sounded the alarm.
The ford was closely guarded. Archers who were mages were stationed at intervals along the bank. The shimmer of wards caught their faces and the gleam of their helmets.
Mortal eyes could have seen nothing. To Valeria, seeing as the stallions saw, the world was dim but clear. Wherever magic was, there was light.
The riders slipped between two of the archers. One of them shivered with a breath of cold air from the river. The other stood still, staring out in the dark. He was watching with more than eyes.
He never saw or sensed their passage. Just past him, Kerrec paused, gathering strength before he sent Petra into the water.
A small wind had begun to blow, stirring the water. Waves lapped the bank, a soft whisper and sigh. Reeds rustled. Leaves whispered.
Valeria’s nose twitched. The wind was blowing from the farther bank, bringing the scent of pine from the forest beyond.
On this side of the river, magic had laws. Mages gathered themselves in orders, each divided according to its arts and skills. The world was not a tame place, but it was an orderly one.
No such law ruled beyond the border. Magic ran wild. The tribes worshipped a god of blood and reveled in disorder. Chaos was holy. The Unmaking was divine.
Valeria was shaking. Sabata was calm under her. She pressed her hands to his warm, massive neck and bent, burying her face in his mane. The familiar warmth and the tickle of coarse hairs steadied her.
Petra stepped softly into the water. Rodry’s gelding hesitated, but the stallion’s will drew him onward. Sabata was close behind.
The wind was blowing briskly now. Valeria glanced up. The clouds were breaking. Moonlight glowed behind them. Stars glimmered through the tatters.
Kerrec’s spell was holding. His power was stretched thin, worn down by wind and water, but he held on.
They were a third of the way across the river. The army’s wards were behind them. They were already looking ahead to the wilderness beyond and the forest into which they had to vanish before the sun came up.
The moon’s light grew stronger. The sky was black and silver. A white glow swelled over the water.
Valeria had heard of the moon’s road. Mages could walk it, people said, if they were strong enough. It was eerie to see Kerrec wading through it, leaving no shadow and no ripple on the water.
She blinked. There was a shadow and a shimmer after all. Was Kerrec swaying?
He was as straight as ever. It was the moonlight shifting and swelling and the water flowing. They were halfway across now. The far bank was dark and quiet. No guards stood there. Wherever the enemy was, he was not watching over the river.
The clouds tore. The moon cast the world in silver.
Petra halted in the middle of the river and raised his head. Light gathered in him, blazing up to the moon and turning the water to white fire.
Thirty-Eight
Kerrec had no warning. One moment he was holding the spell of mist and darkness, drawing strength from the wild magic beyond the empire’s edge. The next, he stood in a blaze of light.
Petra had turned traitor. There was no time to hate him for it. Arrows were flying. One sang past Kerrec’s ear, so close it stung.
Kerrec gathered himself to urge the stallion forward. Petra erupted. For the first time in more years than he could count, Kerrec flew off that faithless back into icy water.
It was shallow, hardly more than knee-deep, a
nd the current was not particularly strong. He came up gasping into a circle of cold-eyed archers, each with an arrow aimed at his heart.
Valeria and Rodry were still mounted but likewise surrounded. Kerrec knew better than to expect either of them to resist. He could taste Valeria’s relief beneath the bile in his mouth. Who knew? She might have had something to do with this betrayal.
He had vowed not to be bitter, but that was not easy. His captors bound his hands, then the others’, pulling them off their horses and half carrying them out of the river.
The stallions submitted to being led like common animals, plodding meekly beside soldiers who had no inkling of what they were. The blaze of light that had betrayed them had vanished as quickly as it came. Men’s minds being what they were, they quickly forgot what they had seen, ascribing it to a trick of moonlight on water.
Kerrec had by no means given up hope. He would be seen by the captain of the archers first, surely, then passed up through the ranks to one of the legionary commanders. It would be hours if not days before they were done with him—more than enough time to plot an escape.
He had not included blind chance in his reckoning. The emperor had escaped from the press of clerks and counselors just in time to see the light on the river. It brought him from his tent in the center of the camp, down to the ford.
He was waiting by the rampart as captors and captives approached the gate. There was no escort with him. He was dressed in the working uniform of a legionary commander, without mark of imperial rank. But Kerrec would always know his father.
People said they looked alike. Kerrec did not see it. For one thing, he did not grow his beard, whereas Artorius did. For another, Artorius cultivated good humor. Kerrec considered it a useless indulgence.
There was no smile on that face tonight. Artorius recognized the stallions—Kerrec saw how his eyes widened, then took in the captives. As they fell on his late and unlamented son, they went cold.
He said nothing to Kerrec. His glance slid away toward Kerrec’s captors. “Bring them in,” he said.
Valeria and Rodry were mute. Kerrec’s jaw ached with clenching. His captors were not unduly rough, but they were not gentle, either. They quick-marched him through the gate into the camp.
The Emperor Artorius sat in his tent. Witchlight glowed brightly, dazzling eyes accustomed to moonlight. He had dismissed his servants. Except for a handful of guards, he was alone with the captives.
The guards had unbound them—not altogether willingly, but they were obedient. They were none too pleased to share the tent with three horses, either, though, gods knew, there was room enough. A cohort could have formed ranks here and been only slightly crowded.
Artorius studied his odd assortment of guests. He looked well, Kerrec thought randomly. His magic was restored and his body recovered from the ravages of the drug that had nearly killed him before the Great Dance. He was lean, fit, and bronzed by the sun. War suited him.
He leaned forward in his carved chair, searching each of their faces. None of them flinched. Valeria went so far as to smile.
He smiled back, if briefly. “Now,” he said. “Suppose you tell me why we find you here, breaking the ban and crossing the river, instead of safe on the Mountain.”
Valeria opened her mouth. Kerrec spoke before she could begin. “We’re on an errand for the gods.”
“Indeed?” Artorius said. “Is that why the gods laid you open to us all?”
“The gods are incalculable,” Kerrec said.
“So we’re often told. It doesn’t answer my question.”
“There is no answer,” Kerrec said.
“I could have you interrogated,” Artorius said coolly. “I would prefer not to. I’ve had word from your sister that you were missing—she hated to confess it, but she could hardly avoid it. I must say, neither of us expected you to fall into my lap.”
“There was a flood,” Kerrec said. “This was the first ford that we could cross. You were in Tragante. Why didn’t you go south?”
“Am I required to explain myself to you?”
Kerrec’s chin lifted. “This is a terrible place for a battle. You have open land behind you, there is that—but there could be fifty thousand of the enemy in the trees yonder, and you would never know it.”
“So now you are a general,” Artorius said. “A moment ago, you were a captured spy. Are you going to tell me what you really are?”
“The gods’ plaything,” Kerrec answered.
“I think you’re trying to play the gods,” Artorius said. “What is it? Where do you think you’re going?”
“He wants to find Gothard,” Valeria said before Kerrec could stop her. “I suppose then there will be blood and entrails and magic spewing everywhere.”
“And you let him go?” said the emperor.
She met his hard stare. “It wasn’t a matter of letting,” she said.
“I am supposed to be across the river,” Kerrec said tightly. “Can’t you see how it calls me? Sire, in spite of all that is between us, please try to understand. This renegade is a great danger to all of us—greater than anyone seems to see. I have to find him before he unleashes whatever it is that he’s got hold of. He’ll do worse than lose the battle for you. He’ll destroy everything on both sides, and laugh while he does it.”
Artorius seemed hardly to hear him. “Why you?” he asked—without anger, at least. “Why can’t you trust me to find him, with all the resources at my disposal?”
“I believe this task is given to me,” Kerrec said. “Will you help me? It’s no loss to you if I fail. If I succeed, there’s one less threat to your victory—and your life.”
“No loss?” said Artorius. “You think so?”
“I’m dead already,” said Kerrec.
He was mildly gratified to see how his father’s face tightened at that. “There are fates worse than death,” the emperor said. “I would rather not see you suffer any more of them.”
“You concern is commendable,” said Kerrec, “but please, sire. Think.”
“I am thinking,” Artorius said. He nodded to the guards. “See to their comfort. Treat them as guests. I hope they will agree not to escape until morning.”
“We’ll stay,” Valeria said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sire,” Kerrec said. “Every moment we waste—”
“You will rest tonight,” his father said, cool and firm. “In the morning I’ll speak with you again. Good night.”
That was as polite a dismissal as Kerrec could have asked for. It made him feel fourteen years old again.
He bit his tongue before he said anything that might confirm his father’s opinion of him. He bowed stiffly and turned on his heel.
That was not the wisest thing he could have done. A wave of dizziness struck him. For a moment he was sure he would fall flat on his face.
Somehow he kept his feet and his balance. No one seemed to notice his sudden weakness. It was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving a dull headache behind.
They were taken to a smaller room within the larger tent. There were carpets on the floor, rich and soft, and beds made up, one for each of them. Valeria was not given her own prison—Kerrec found that interesting. Did the emperor remember who she was?
Of course he did. Artorius never forgot a face. Either he was paying her the courtesy of treating her like a rider, or it simply did not matter to him what she did or where she slept.
Kerrec rubbed his aching forehead. He had stretched the boundaries of his magic to sustain the spell of mist and shadow. Its breaking had come too fast.
There was a basket on a table, covered with a cloth. Under the cloth were loaves of legionaries’ bread, flat and floury, and wedges of hard yellow cheese. There was a jar of wine and another of water.
Those were soldiers’ rations, deliberately unpretentious. Kerrec found he was ravenous. The bread tasted much better than it looked. The cheese filled him admirably, and the water tasted like the spring in the oak grove.
The horses were still in the outer room. Kerrec heard them eating—the steady grinding of jaws—and smelled hay and straw. They were being stabled in the emperor’s hall.
That would destroy any chance Kerrec had of secrecy. White horses in the imperial tent—any fool would know what that meant. But he could not leave the room to visit them, let alone escape. When he tried, he met wards that he was too worn down to break.
He would wager Valeria could have broken them. She seemed content to eat a few bites of bread and take a sip or two of water, then lie down and close her eyes. Rodry, as usual, was already asleep.
Kerrec’s clothes were no longer dripping from his fall in the river, but they were clammy and cold. He stripped them off and wrapped himself in the blanket from the one remaining bed. He meant to sit up, searching for ways to escape, but his eyelids drooped in spite of all he could do.
For this one night, he gave way to weakness. He lay on the bed, which was surprisingly soft. Sleep swallowed him in a rush of cool darkness.
Thirty-Nine
The prisoners were left to sleep for as long as they wished. Kerrec was the last to wake, with morning well advanced and the smell of breakfast in his nostrils.
Valeria and Rodry were up and bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. They were eating a considerably more elegant meal than they had shared last night. There were sweet cakes and exotic fruits and a concoction of eggs and sausage and cheese that made Kerrec’s mouth water.
He had no will to resist. He left the bed, remembering almost too late to wrap the blanket around him, and reached for a plate and a spoon.
Valeria seemed in excellent spirits. Rodry looked somewhat pale around the edges. He must be waking to the reality of what he had done. He was a deserter in the emperor’s camp. A court-martial was the least of what he could expect.
Kerrec had given the boy his word. He did not mean to break it. As far as he could, he would protect him.
Kerrec would not have been surprised to wait days for a second audience, but the emperor, like his son, was a man of his word. It was much nearer noon than morning when the summons came, but it did come.
Song of Unmaking Page 24
