Petra ran in front of her, with Kerrec still on his back. Sabata sprang after the others.
The suddenness of the leap nearly flung Valeria to the ground. She clamped legs to his sides until he bucked in protest. Prudently, if without apology, she loosened her grip.
Kerrec had stopped just ahead. His head turned, scanning the field. His back tightened, then relaxed—as if he had seen a difficult choice and made the only one possible.
Valeria could make no sense of the confusion, but it seemed he could. He sent Petra onward again—not toward the emperor but in a sweeping arc across the field.
Sabata followed. The Lady, riderless, curved in the opposite direction. She was herding men—driving tribesmen on imperial swords and bringing the remnants of the legions together into a new wall of shields.
Kerrec was doing the same on the other side. Instead of hooves and teeth, he wielded his voice, calling out commands. Men obeyed him.
The enemy were not fools. They could see what the rider was doing. A swarm of them turned against him.
Valeria smote the ground in front of them with a mage-bolt born of anger and grief. The wall of fire drove them reeling back.
Kerrec took no notice. He was bullying, coaxing, cajoling, turning a jumble of scattered cohorts into a disciplined army.
The enemy battered them again and again. They wavered, but then they steadied. Shield locked on shield. The sound of it made Valeria’s skin shiver.
The barbarians howled in rage—and then in terror, as they realized what the rider and his hooved allies had done. Two walls of shields hemmed them in. The third wall was the open field and the river, now full of archers and spearmen and swordsmen. The fourth was the emperor’s cavalry and mounted auxiliaries, regrouping and launching the latest of innumerable charges.
The cataphracts in their heavy armor bore down on the mass of the enemy. The lighter auxiliaries darted in and out, shooting arrows or hurling spears with deadly accuracy.
The enemy might be crazy in their courage, but they were sane enough to know when they were done for. They broke and ran.
They overran the defenders on the field, swarmed over and through them without heed for the weapons raised against them. Archers and cavalry pursued them, taking a terrible toll—but no small number won free and fled across the bloodstained water.
Petra halted on the edge of the ford, with Sabata close beside him. The last of the clans had disappeared into the trees. Some of the mounted archers and the remains of the Valeria would have gone after them, but Kerrec stopped them with a raised hand.
“Let them go,” he said. “They’re broken. They won’t be a danger to us for a long while.”
“We should break them completely,” said the commander of the Valeria. He had lost his horse and was limping badly, but he had refused to withdraw from the fight. “It’s the only way to be rid of them.”
“Ah,” said Kerrec. “You would track every last one of them to his hole and destroy him. That’s wise.”
The commander eyed him dubiously. Valeria had heard the irony, too. She opened her mouth to say something, but a runner halted panting beside Kerrec.
The boy’s eye rolled at Petra, but he was too desperate to be afraid. “Sir! The emperor—he’s calling for you.”
Kerrec’s face went still. If he had been anyone else, he would have looked stricken. There were tears running down the dust and blood that caked the runner’s cheeks.
Kerrec barely paused to say to the commander, “Take command here. Do what you will.” The last of it was flung over his shoulder as Petra wheeled and galloped toward the emperor’s hill, with Sabata close on his heels.
The hill was barely visible above the mass of dead and dying. The imperial banner still streamed in the wind, but the hand that held it was rigid in death.
At first Valeria dared to hope Artorius was only exhausted, sitting up against the stump of a blasted tree. Then she saw the blood. There was a great deal of it—more than she would have thought a single body could hold.
Kerrec flung himself from Petra’s back and dropped to his knees. The emperor opened his eyes. They were clear and empty of pain. “You do realize,” he said, “that you are guilty of escaping imperial custody.”
“I said I would pay the penalty,” Kerrec said stiffly. He looked around him. There was only Valeria standing within earshot. “Find a Healer,” he said. “Quickly.”
“Don’t trouble,” said Artorius. “He won’t get here in time. Both of you listen. Tibullus of the Valeria is the most capable of the generals. Put him in charge of the army and have him see to the mopping up. My clerks know what other arrangements to make. Master Pretorius—trust him. He owes allegiance to no one order of mages, but he’s sworn indelibly to the empire. And Briana—tell her—” He stopped. He had run out of breath, but there was more to it than that. His eyes were full of sadness. “Tell your sister she’ll do no worse than I ever did.”
“I’ll tell her,” Kerrec said. “Who should take my surrender? Tibullus or Pretorius?”
“Neither,” said his father. “Gods, you’re a stiff-necked thing. Was I that bad when I was young?”
“Probably,” Valeria said. Her eyes were dry, but her throat kept trying to close.
Artorius smiled at her. “You’re good for him,” he said. “Don’t let him trick you into forgetting it.”
“I’ll try,” she said. She took his hand. It was already cold. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save you. We did everything we could.”
“You did a very great thing,” the emperor said. “That Dance—I’m glad I lived to see it. There’s never been anything like it.”
“It failed,” said Kerrec.
Artorius shook his head. “It succeeded. It’s not only the One who takes blood sacrifice. When the need is greatest, our gods exact the utmost price, as well. It’s fair. Blood and flesh belong to earth. Our souls we keep.”
“There is nothing fair about this,” Kerrec said. His voice was raw.
Artorius’s free hand reached for his, gripping it as hard as his failing strength would allow. “Child,” he said, “I love you, too—as poorly as I’ve ever been able to show it. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t loved you so much. Then I’d have been less outraged when you chose a herd of fat white horses over me.”
“Did you ever think it was easy?” Kerrec said.
“I made it easier, didn’t I? I drove you away.”
Kerrec did not try to deny that. He said, “I did my share. If we had only—” He bit off the rest. “Damn it. Damn you. You weren’t supposed to die.”
“You can’t always get your way,” his father said. “I’m leaving you with a ruddy mess—war always is. Tell Tibullus not to go after the tribes. He’ll want to—he’ll be convincing, too. But stand your ground.”
“I already did,” Kerrec said.
Artorius laughed—breaking into a fit of coughing. There was a thickness to the sound, a gurgle that made Valeria’s heart clench. When he swallowed, she knew he swallowed blood.
He forced words through it. “Good! Good. You’ll know what to do with the rest, then. Gods, I’ve missed you. Briana is a better heir than I ever deserved, but you and I—you know why we fought so much. We’re exactly alike.”
“So people say,” Kerrec said. He bent his head and kissed the hand in his. Tears fell on it. “I’m not going to forgive you for this. Or myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father said. “All I regret is that we waited so long to be civil.”
“Better late than never,” Kerrec said.
Artorius smiled. He was letting go. “My dear,” he said. “There’s one last thing.”
“Yes?” said Kerrec.
“Closer,” Artorius said. “Come closer.”
Kerrec bent down, nose to long arched nose. Both of Artorius’s hands gripped his.
Kerrec met the wide grey eyes. His own were the color of rain.
Artorius let it all go.
&nb
sp; Kerrec’s body spasmed. He fought to pull away—but his father held him fast. All that Artorius had been, all that he had known and seen and wrought, poured into him. All the magic, the manifold powers, the gifts and arts and skills of a thousand years of emperors, filled him until surely it would burst him asunder.
He tried to stop it. “Father! You can’t—this should be—Briana—”
“This is for you,” his father said. His tone was gentle, but there was no yielding in it at all.
He gave it all to Kerrec—every scrap of magic that had ever been in him. When it was gone, he gave all that was left, his life and soul and the love he had so seldom been able to express.
Kerrec was crying like a child, great gulping sobs that rocked his father’s body. Its emptied eyes stared up at the sky. Though its lips were growing cold, they smiled.
Death was seldom peaceful, no matter what the songs said. But this truly was peace.
Valeria reached to close his eyes, but Kerrec was there before her. His storm of weeping had passed quickly. The eyes he raised to her were preternaturally calm.
He was whole. She looked into him, searching out his scars and mended places—but there was none. He was all healed, all but his heart.
Forty-Nine
“Damn him,” Kerrec said.
There was no rancor in it, which Valeria found encouraging. He looked down at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. That gave her a moment of cold fear. Then he raised his eyes, and the fear drained out of her.
He was still Kerrec. His magic was as beautiful as it had been when she first met him—and more. How much more, she did not know yet, but he was no image of the walking dead.
He looked out across the field. He had changed after all—his face was not the perfect mask it had been. She saw the pain and the deep shock.
Battle was ugly. Its aftermath was uglier. And there was so much of it.
People were picking their way across the devastation. Most of them were rescue parties, soldiers guarding Healers who would try to find the living among the dead. Others had begun to gather and sort the fallen. Valeria had no doubt there were looters among them, scavengers who would rob the defenseless corpses.
Kerrec rose with his father’s body in his arms. Petra knelt. He stepped astride. The stallion straightened and began to descend the slope, picking his way down the hill.
Valeria followed on Sabata. Others joined them as they went, the wounded limping, half carrying one another. No one spoke.
It was a long slow way across the battlefield, and a long procession, pacing in silence. The healers and the burial parties paused as it went past, bowing low before the royal dead.
The gate of the camp was open. Guards stood on either side. As the emperor passed, they performed the full salute. Weapons clashed, armor rang. Then at the last, they smote spears on shields, beating out the pace of the death march.
In front of the emperor’s tent, Petra halted. People were waiting to take the body—embalmers in their robes and cowls, faceless and voiceless.
Kerrec surrendered his burden reluctantly. Once it was gone, he sat motionless on Petra’s back. His face for a moment was empty, as if he had given up his spirit as well as his father’s body.
Then life came back into it, and grief, and a steadiness Valeria had not seen in him before. He caught her eye.
There was no need for words. People were standing, numb or helpless, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Kerrec on his glimmering white horse, with his father’s face and now his father’s magic, drew them irresistibly.
He drew himself up. He was exhausted—they all were. Grief lay heavy on him. But he could not run away and hide and cry himself out in peace, any more than Valeria could. There was too much to do.
“If you’re wounded,” he said to the men around him, “go to the Healers’ tents. If you’re walking sound, find your cohorts. Clerks will run the tallies—dead, wounded, whole.”
It was simple common sense, but they bowed to him as if he had dispensed the gods’ own wisdom. Valeria doubted that he saw it. He was already riding through them, heading back toward the field.
They opened the way in front of him. Hands rose here and there, yearning toward the stallion, but no one quite dared touch.
Their awe made Valeria’s stomach hurt. It fell on her, too, because of Sabata and the Dance. Generals and commanders were ordinary if exalted mortals, but riders who had come out of nowhere to win the battle for them were as close to gods as made no difference.
Once he was past the camp’s walls, Kerrec turned Petra toward the nearest general’s banner. Sabata would have followed, but Valeria was done with running the gods’ errands—or, for that matter, Kerrec’s. She set her leg to his side and shifted her weight. He veered off toward the river.
The masses of the dead were greater the nearer Valeria came to the ford. Barbarians lay on their faces, hacked down from behind. Legionaries lay in battle order, many of them headless or with their right hands hacked off. The carrion birds were coming down to feed, going for the eyes and the soft bellies, snaking their heads in under armor and helmets.
There was nothing in her stomach, but it did its best to turn itself inside out. Sabata stood patiently while she leaned over his neck.
After a while the fit passed. Valeria straightened slowly. She was not going to find her brother—not among so many dead.
She had to try. She owed it to him. He had anchored the Lady to earth and shown her the way through the Dance. Maybe he had been no horse mage, but he had done a thing that no rider had ever done. Because of him, the empire was still standing, and Valeria was still alive.
She steeled herself to ride on. It did not get easier. She made herself focus on what she knew. Rodry had not worn armor—that excluded almost every imperial on the field. He had obviously not been tall, fair-haired, or painted blue.
If she had been a seeker as he was, she could have set a spell to find the one man in plain riding clothes among thousands of dead. But in spite of all her power, she had not been given that gift. She had to hunt as mortals did, step by step and body by body.
She refused to give up. Maybe the sorting parties would find him first. Probably they would not. They were on the other side of the field. It would be a long while before they came this way.
It occurred to her that Sabata did not need to endure this. It was slow, and she had to stoop over every heap of bodies. But when she tried to dismount and go on foot, he spun and sidled and bucked.
He wanted her on his back. She sighed. He went on, stepping carefully.
She found Rodry on the far side of a heap of barbarian dead. There was a ring of green grass around him, with flowers springing in it. Their scent was eerily sweet amid the stench of death.
He did not look as if he was sleeping. He looked dead. Whatever had healed the earth had done nothing to bring him back to life.
The Lady stood over him. Valeria had not seen her coming. She was simply, suddenly there.
“You,” Valeria said. “Bring him back.”
The Lady’s head drooped.
“I don’t believe you,” said Valeria. “You let him die. Now make him live. You’re a god, aren’t you? You can do whatever you please.”
The Lady sighed heavily. Some things were not to be undone.
“Undo it,” Valeria said. “He earned it. Give him back his life.”
The Lady turned her back. Valeria dropped to the ground and stooped and pitched a stone at her.
She flinched strongly under the blow, but she neither kicked nor bolted.
The grass was growing. A moment ago it had been a furze of green over the raw ground. Now it was fetlock-deep on the horses.
A vine unfurled over Rodry’s body, putting forth buds that bloomed into sweetly scented flowers. Their petals were waxy white, but their centers were the color of blood.
Death was transformation. Valeria had heard priests say that.
She knew nothing about it
. Her brother was dead. She wanted him back.
She was not being reasonable. Why should she be?
Because you have to be.
The Lady had turned to face her again. Valeria had another stone in her hand, but she clenched her fist before she threw it. The eyes in the long horse-face were dark and sad and ineffably wise. They understood grief—which Valeria found difficult to believe—but they did not indulge it.
Valeria’s magic was the highest and strongest of all, because it could open the gates of time and change the course of the world. It could not change this. Worlds and empires could shift under the power of the Dance. One life was too small for it to change.
She sank to her knees. The grass and the flowers were swallowing Rodry’s body. The earth was accepting the sacrifice, turning it into new life.
Rodry’s soul was gone. The Unmaking had never touched it. Wherever it was, she could not follow.
His body was a low mound in a spreading expanse of green. The tide of grass and flowers flowed over the heaps of the fallen.
When Valeria looked back, the Lady had vanished. She had heard no footfall. The Lady was simply and completely gone.
So was Rodry. There was a bank of flowers where he had been, and a seedling rising out of it. She recognized the leaves of an oak, tiny but perfect.
Tears were streaming down her face. Her first instinct was to swallow them. She never cried. Tears were a weakness. She could not afford to be weak.
Who would know? There was only Sabata, cropping grass with a singular lack of concern. He knew exactly what she was, to the tiniest detail. No one else was within sight. Even the dead were gone, sleeping under a blanket of grass.
It reached all the way to the river now, and halfway to the camp. The burial parties had stopped to stare at it. It must be dawning on them that they would be left with nothing to do.
Something huge was rising in Valeria. For a few moments it swelled, caught under her breastbone. Then it broke free. She lay in the grass and cried herself out.
Song of Unmaking Page 30
