Fifty
The fortunes of battle were notoriously fickle, but as turnabouts went, this was neck-snappingly sudden and appallingly complete. One moment the tribes were victorious—the emperor was down, most of his guards and mages were dead, and the legions were a few broken remnants on a bloody field. The next, three fat cobby horses and two tattered and nondescript riders created an army out of nothing and drove the tribes back over the river.
Bloody imperial gods and their bloody imperious servants. Euan Rohe had had Valeria within his reach. He could have hewed the blocky white head off that stallion of hers. And he had gone on past. He had let them go—and now it was all lost.
He would pay for that. For now he rallied his Calletani as best he could, along with anyone else who would listen to his voice. They crossed the river more or less together and scrambled up the far bank, slipping in mud and blood.
They caught up with the remnant of the Ard Ri’s warband between the river and the trees. They were going slowly, carrying the high king.
He was conscious and his mind was clear. He greeted Euan with a fair imitation of his old, fanged grin. “Bloody imperial axe,” he said, glowering at the leg that had bled through its mass of bandages.
The blade had nicked the great artery, from the looks. He must have got a bandage on it as soon as the blow fell—probably killed off the man who struck it, too. Whatever failings he might have as a warleader, the Ard Ri could hold his own in a fight.
Euan’s Calletani lent a hand with the Ard Ri. There was no pursuit—yet—but they judged it wise to make as much speed as they could. Once they were well into their own woods and hunting runs, the legions would have to work to find them.
They swept through the camp they had left only this morning—and it was still barely past noon. A double circle of priests and imperial renegades lay dead on the camp’s edge.
Gothard was not among them. Not all of his Aurelians were there, either. At least one was missing from the count of the dead—the tall fair one with the priest’s eyes.
No need to ask what had happened there. Hooves had trampled among the dead—big and round and unshod. Euan would wager that three gods from the Mountain had been here.
He would also wager that the starstone was gone—destroyed. He felt an odd emptiness when he thought of it, as if part of him was missing.
He shrugged it off. He was in a better state than he had been the last time his stroke against the empire fell disastrously short. This time he went home as king, with a growing mob of clansmen behind him. Remarkably few had died, considering how badly they had lost the war.
By nightfall they were a long way from the river. The walking wounded were dragging. The men who were carrying the worst wounded were walking in their sleep.
They made what camp they could, with what they had been able to bring from the old camp. Euan decided to risk a fire. It might draw pursuit, but he had a feeling the legions would not be looking far tonight. They had a victory to celebrate.
He had wagered well. People did come to the light and warmth—but they were warriors from broken clans or tribesmen who had lost the rest of their people in the rout.
The legions had called off pursuit, they said. The last to come in declared that the old emperor was dead and there was a new one already—a man on a white horse who rode back and forth through the imperial camp, and the legions did as he told them.
“I thought the emperor’s heir was a female,” the Ard Ri said. He was bleeding whiter by the hour, but he clung fiercely to consciousness.
“She is,” Euan said. “They must have misunderstood.”
The Ard Ri nodded. His latest bandage was soaked through. The shieldbrother who had been looking after him was standing by with fresh bandages.
Euan moved away to give him room. He was not feeling anything yet, and if he had any sense he would wait a long while before he did, but he could think clearly enough. He knew who the man on the horse had to be—and that one had been born to be emperor. Now he had won the battle, who knew what he might decide to do?
A horse mage on the imperial throne. That would be interesting. Would he make Valeria his empress?
Euan did not like what his stomach did when he thought of that. He was not feeling anything, of course not. He was only seeing her face every time he closed his eyes.
That was shock, of course. He had fallen out of a pitched fight into a circle of quiet, and there she was, sitting on her fat white horse. Even though he had half expected her once he saw the horse gods on the field, he had not been prepared for the blow to the heart.
Damn her. She had got under his skin. Now he owed her a double defeat—and he could no more hate her than he hated the air he breathed.
The Ard Ri died in the dark before dawn. He was clearheaded to the last, and he was unafraid. Late in the night, when he was nearly bled out, he said to Euan, “When they have the kingmaking, don’t be a fool. Let someone else have it.”
“Are you telling me I should try for it?”
The high king’s eyes on him were dark with irony. “I’m telling you you shouldn’t. A tribal king—now that’s a free man. The high king is slave to everyone in the tribes.”
“What if I do it in spite of you?”
“The One knows,” said the Ard Ri, “I won’t care.”
“There’s not likely to be anyone else,” said Euan. “Galliceni king is dead. Prytani king may be. Mordantes king hasn’t been seen since the battle. They’ll all be making kings of their own—never mind a high king.”
“Victory can be hollow, can’t it?” said the Ard Ri. “We’re broken badly. We’ve lost more men than we can spare, and the legions are going to come after us, demanding tribute. Be careful you don’t find yourself an imperial vassal, boy. That’s what they’ll want. They’ll do everything they can to trap you into it.”
“I’ll be careful,” Euan said. It was better than arguing with a dying man. He knew about traps—and about treachery, too.
He stayed with the high king through the night, not just because the Ard Ri wanted him there. It seemed the right thing to do.
When the night reached its darkest point, the time most sacred to the One, the Ard Ri let slip his spirit. Euan closed his eyes for him, giving him to the dark. Already the keening had begun, the death chant for the high king of all the people.
Fifty-One
Kerrec had taken the army’s reins because no one else seemed able or willing. The generals, even Tibullus, were numb with the emperor’s passing. It was as if he had laid a spell on them, and now that it was broken, they did not know what to do.
Kerrec made what order he could. For the most part the troops knew what to do after a battle. They simply needed a touch here and a tug there. Kerrec on Petra, riding back and forth across the field, served well enough.
When the tide of green began to roll over the dead, he paused. The Lady’s power thrummed in the earth. He tasted her sorrow, like bitter herbs.
Petra went on of his own accord, carrying Kerrec toward soldiers who had never seen such magic. They needed to see and hear him and touch Petra, to be sure of their place in the world. Then there was a flurry of clerks and a matter of supply wagons and a long hour among the wounded.
Whispers followed him. Some of it he expected—that he was a First Rider, that he had been the emperor’s heir once and had died to that world. Some of it took him slightly aback. People were marveling that he had stopped a war without laying his hand on a weapon.
Magic was a more terrible weapon than any sword or bow. He was full of magic, overflowing with it. He could swear it was dripping from his fingers.
It fed him strength. He fed it in turn to the men of his father’s legions. There seemed to be no end to it.
Sunset caught him by surprise. It had seemed as if this day would never end. When he stopped to think, he realized that the battle had been won before noon. As battles went, it had been mercifully short.
By then the army was
settled in camp, with fires lit and the evening meal eaten. Tibullus had ordered a double ration of wine. Kerrec would not have done that, but he lacked the common touch. Maybe Tibullus’s order had been wise.
It certainly raised the army’s spirits. They were singing and shouting and dancing victory dances. Any grieving they meant to do for fallen comrades was put off until tomorrow. Tonight they would give themselves up wholeheartedly to rejoicing.
Petra was tired. He might be a god, but he lived in flesh, and his body needed to rest. Kerrec found a place for him in the emperor’s horselines. The grooms bowed low before him.
When Kerrec left him, he was buried to the eyes in sweet hay. He barely acknowledged his rider’s farewell.
Kerrec’s own stomach was growling ominously. But seeing Petra fed and cared for reminded him that he had not seen either Sabata or his rider in some time.
He pushed fear aside. If either of them was in trouble, Petra would know. Still, there were other kinds of danger than an arrow in the dark.
The last thing Kerrec wanted to do after a long day on horseback was trudge across the battlefield looking for a strayed rider-candidate. He commandeered a horse—a plain and sensible chestnut who responded to his touch with a contented sigh—and fended off the flock of people who were trying to get him into his father’s tent to eat and rest.
A few of them trailed after him, but they were a minor nuisance. The sky was still full of light. The battlefield had transformed into a long rolling meadow.
All the dead had been taken into the earth. Valeria’s brother was there somewhere, asleep under a carpet of flowers. People were saying this great magic had come from him, or from the Lady who had deigned to carry him.
The burial parties had long since returned to camp. There was a watch on the river but not on the farther reaches of the field.
Kerrec found Valeria where the grass gave way to a thicket. Sabata was grazing not far from the trees. Valeria lay on a bed of flowers, staring up at the sky.
Kerrec dismounted near Sabata, tied up his gelding’s reins and let him loose. The beast was delighted to graze in the white god’s shadow.
Kerrec sat a little distance from Valeria. The temptation to stretch out beside her was overwhelming, but if he did that, he would fall asleep. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“So am I,” said Valeria. Her voice was steady, but he could hear the dregs of tears in it. “It’s true, you know. All this is because of him.”
“So I heard,” said Kerrec. He had a powerful urge to move closer to her and take her in his arms, but something about the way she was lying told him that would not be a good thing to do.
“He’d be annoyed,” she said. “All this fuss and magic, when all he wanted was a quiet grave somewhere, and maybe a little glory to carve on his stone.”
“We could still give him a stone,” Kerrec said.
She shook her head. “That’s not what this is about. He helped us win. I’m proud. And I’m so angry I could spit. His death was stupid. Stupid and bloody random.”
Kerrec held his tongue. Anything he could say would only make matters worse.
She did not seem pleased by his silence, either. “You’re annoyed with me, I suppose. I didn’t help you. I did a little—there were wounded who needed taking in and soldiers wandering around confused—but it wasn’t much. I abandoned you.”
He shook his head—though she was not looking at him. “You were there when we needed you most. The Dance succeeded because of you.”
“Don’t indulge me,” she said.
“That’s the last thing I’d dream of doing,” he said. “I saw you on the field all day. It was more than a few wounded and the odd lost trooper. You were working as hard as I was.”
“Was I? It didn’t feel like it.”
“Battle is ugly,” Kerrec said.
She shot a glance at him. “You must think I’m acting like a silly girl.”
“Not likely,” he said. “The young troopers, the first-timers, have been puking their guts out.”
“I did that,” she said.
“Then you got up and went to work.” He moved closer. “I saw my first battle before I was Called. I had to learn, you see, because someday I’d be emperor. I lasted an hour before I fainted. They had to carry me off the field.”
“You never fainted in your life,” she said.
“Like a lady in a corset,” he said.
“So it gets easier,” she said. “Should I be glad?”
“Not easier,” he said. “You learn to swallow it, that’s all, then carry on. I think you’ve already learned that.”
“And yet,” she said, “if you listen to the songs, war is all pride and glory. Warriors live for it.”
“Warriors are madmen, fools, or soldiers who count the hours until they’re home and safe and far away from the field.”
“I wish I were home,” she said.
“Believe me,” he said with heartfelt honesty, “so do I.”
“Can we go back soon?”
“Yes,” he said. “As soon as my father’s body is ready, we’ll take it to Aurelia. Then we’ll go.”
“I’ll make you keep that promise,” she said.
She said no word of leaving without him. He found that he was glad.
He rose, pulling her to her feet. “Come back to camp. You need to eat. Then sleep.”
She let him toss her onto Sabata’s back before he mounted the gelding. He eyed her warily, but she seemed well enough, all things considered. She was tired, that was all. Tired and very young.
Kerrec refused to sleep in the emperor’s tent. Instead he claimed the one that for a few hours had been his prison. The servants had opened up the rooms so that they were all one airy space, and brought in a curtained bed that would have done justice to an imperial duke.
Either they were seers or the rumor was true—servants really did know everything. They had laid out a feast, which Valeria barely touched. She was out on her feet.
Kerrec slipped the cup of heavily watered wine from her hand before she dropped it, then lifted her in his arms. She was a solid weight. He laid her in the extravagant bed and stood looking down at her.
He would not have stopped her if she had asked to go back to the Mountain before all his duties were done, but when she made it clear that she would not even think of it, his heart had leaped. He did not want her to go. He wanted her with him, close by, completing him in the same way Petra did. Somehow, without his even knowing it, she had come to mean the world to him.
He lay beside her. She was deep asleep. He drew her to him, cradling her, breathing the fragrance of her hair. She sighed and murmured and burrowed into his chest.
“My lord?” The voice was soft, a little hesitant, but determined.
Kerrec opened an eye. Valeria was still asleep, curled against him. The chief of the emperor’s servants, whose name was Marius, was standing over them, taking great care not to stare.
Valeria barely stirred when Kerrec left her in the bed, except to curl tighter and fall deeper into sleep. He hoped Marius took note of the fact they were both fully clothed. “What is it?” Kerrec asked. “What’s happened?”
“The sun’s up, my lord,” Marius said, “and the generals are demanding to speak with you. Since they do outrank all of us who are standing in their way…”
“I see,” Kerrec said. “Fetch a bath and clean clothes—the plainer the better. Tell their lordships I will summon them as soon as I am ready.”
Marius’s eyes glinted. “I’ll be pleased to obey, my lord.”
“First Rider,” Kerrec said. “That’s my title. I’m not—”
“First Rider,” said Marius. “Yes, my lord.” Clearly he was incorrigible. Kerrec shook his head but let it be.
Clean, shaved, fed, and dressed in elegant but acceptably plain riding clothes that had been his father’s, Kerrec received the generals in the common room of the emperor’s tent. He would have preferred another place, but it had t
o be this one. They would not accept any less.
Not only the three legionary commanders had come at his summons. A handful of mages and priests attended, as well, with Master Pretorius prominent among them.
The ravages of the battle were still on them all. Some seemed honestly to be grieving for the emperor. Kerrec took note of those.
They were studying him as he studied them. He hoped they were sufficiently disappointed.
When the silence threatened to crush them all with its weight, Master Pretorius said, “Yesterday’s battle will never be forgotten. Not in a thousand years has a war been won in that way. Because of it, the tribes are broken. It will be a long while before they challenge us again.”
“I still say we should wipe them out,” Tibullus said. “Maybe they’re driven into their holes now, but they breed like rats. They’ll be back in a year, raiding our borders, and back at full strength in ten, with a whole new war for us to fight.”
“Maybe,” said Kerrec. “The empress may find ways to prevent it.”
“The empress,” said Viragus of the Seventh Corinia. He was a fine soldier or he would not be here, but he had the air of an imperial fop. His uniform was perfectly cut and fitted, its every bit of metal polished. He sighed delicately. “She is that, by the emperor’s will. Pity she can’t be with us today.”
“Oh?” said Kerrec with lifted brow. “Why is that?”
“Why, my lord,” Viragus said, “war is not for the faint-hearted. A woman’s tenderness, as much as it is to be valued, is perhaps out of its depth where the harsher realities are concerned.”
“By which you mean to say,” said Kerrec gently, “that my sister, the emperor’s chosen heir, is unfit for the office.”
“Oh,” said Viragus. “Oh, no. Nothing so coarse, let alone so insolent. I was merely reflecting on…realities.”
“Ah,” said Kerrec. “Realities. Such as that the empire requires a regent when the emperor is away in his wars? And that the war itself, however vital to the empire’s interests and indeed survival, is in strict truth a clash of isolated armies on the far edge of the world? And that while we wage this war, the rest of the world needs care, feeding, and administration of its provinces? Those realities? I do happen to agree with my father that his heir is well chosen.”
Song of Unmaking Page 31
