Ash and Silver (11 page)

Fortunately or unfortunately, the swordmaster and the combat spellmaster announced that the quarterly combat tourney required for all parati would begin the next morning. After the first hour of serious bouts, as a healer stitched the laceration that spanned the length of my forearm, I determined to bend every thought to avoiding further bodily damage. As when wrestling the demon tides, distraction would see me dead—or at least a patchwork of stitches.

•   •   •

B
y the fifth night of the tourney—the sixth of Inek's absence—body and mind were pounded to paste. As midnight struck, I stood at the bottom of the steep, narrow, exposed stair to my watchpost atop the seaward wall. The ascent appeared as unassailable as a mountain must to an ant.

Are you tired, Greenshank? Do we push too hard? Will you always manage to be fresh and rested on your knightly missions? Can only those born in armor serve the world's needs?
I didn't need Inek's cold assessment to judge how weak I was. An ink dabbler aspiring to be a knight. Perhaps that was the problem.

I cursed and set my boot on the first step. Whenever he returned, Inek would not find me lame and would not find me shirking.

Relief at nearing the top vanished as I emerged from the shelter of the wall and the sea wind blasted me full in the face. I tried to plant the heel of my lance, but the step was too narrow and I wobbled sideways, dizzy, toppling. . . .

I lunged for the wall, scrabbling and heaving myself upward for my life. Stone had never felt so welcome as that narrow walk atop the seaward wall. Until I thought about getting up.

I lay straddling the walk, one foot dangling over the deeps, the other over the courtyard far below—a lesser drop than the plunge to the sea, but more than enough to leave me a heap of broken armor and bloody meat. My right hand yet gripped the lance, but the shaft was trapped somewhere between my torso and the wall.

Worse yet, the low parapet did not begin for a body's length from the stair on either side. Encased in heavy armor, buffeted by a constant gale that could fell trees, my limbs displaying all the strength of butter in summer, I could imagine no possible way to get to my feet without falling.

What a damnable predicament.
I pressed my forehead to the stone, trying
to slow my thudding heart and pumping lungs. If I could just clear my head . . . so foggy . . . so drowsy . . .

A gust of wind slapped me in the face like a cold, wet hand. My extremities were grown frighteningly numb. I had to move, and I needed leverage and more width than the wall walk provided. The stair was somewhere behind me.

Gripping the wall with my knees, I wriggled backward and stretched my right leg along the wall to locate the stair. Nothing.

Again.

When my boot at last scraped the edge of the blessed stair, I almost wept. I wriggled and stretched again, but just as I found a solid purchase, a shadow flapped over my head. Not a bird, for a firm weight pressed on my back.

Fear had me reaching for my knife, only to realize that it was the very lump grinding divots in my hip bone and entirely impossible to extract. Which made no difference whatsoever when someone grabbed my waist and dragged me, armor, lance, and all, backward along the damnable wall and onto my hind end right beside the stair.

“Choose, paratus. Get your own feet under you or dive off. Anyone so infernally stubborn is like to die young anyway.”

My chin rested on my chest, not from the humiliation, but from sheer difficulty in lifting it. Indeed, I was helpless to suppress the laughter that bubbled through my aching chest. “How long have you been watching me, Commander Inek?”

“A very long two years and sixty-eight days. But for tonight, near an hour. Your snoring belied any notion you were dead, so all I had to do was make sure you didn't fall. I wished to judge what I must add to your schedule of punishment for sleeping on watch, and I wasn't about to help if you didn't make a move to help yourself.”

Asleep? A chill rippled my skin as though a wave had strayed up the wall. I pushed up to standing. My knees buckled, but I planted the lance and willed myself into a proper stance.

“My life is yours, Knight Commander.” This was the correct acknowledgement to a comrade who had saved one's life. Once my spirit settled, I might argue that I was very close to saving myself, but the night had a while to run as yet.

“I don't want your life. I want your attention. The stair verge is hardly the best position to stand watch. You should consider a station more useful. Perhaps near the north bend?”

“As you suggest,
rectoré.
” But he was already vanished into the dark. Northward.

It took me a while to follow him, planting the lance and each foot with perfect caution, making sure my gelatinous limbs would hold me up. I even cast a light. My night-seeing was acute and most times I could walk the wall by feel, but I dared not rely on it this night.

By the time I reached the bend in the wall where the Archive Tower blocked observation from any other point in the fortress, Inek sat draining a flask of . . . ale, by the smell of it. His legs dangled over the precipitous drop as if he perched on a fence in a homely meadow.

I doused my magelight, took my stance facing the sea, and held proper silence. No more reprimands this night.

“No one but the Marshal knows I've returned from Lillebras,” he said from the sheltered corner. “It will remain that way until you encounter me inside the fortress.”

I dipped my head. The gibbous moon sailed out from behind gnarled clouds—a welcome brilliance. He must have known the sky would clear—thus the move to this hidden spot to prevent his being seen. I shifted a few steps over to where I
could
be seen, if anyone had a mind to check on my whereabouts.

“Heed me closely, Greenshank. A battle is shaping northeast of Lillebras. Perryn's legions began a move northward four days ago—shortly after he received word of his brother's infamous alliance. And we've reports that Bayard's second legion has joined him at Tavarre, and they march east from the coast, on a line to meet his brother in the valley of the Brasé. It remains to be seen if Sila Diaglou's rabble will join Bayard before he engages his brother or hold back as a surprise mid-battle.”

He stoppered his flask and shoved it into a bag under his cloak. My parched throat resented that enormously.

“The most interesting report claims that Prince Osriel has been sighted not twenty quellae from Lillebras. The man in question travels with a small party and little state. But our informant has seen Osriel before, and we've heard the Bastard can sniff out a battle before it happens, as if the fester of hostilities draws him.”

Stories told worse than that about Osriel and battlegrounds. The bastard Duc of Evanore commanded only his province's mountain warlords. Those were fierce, but few, and no match for his elder brothers' armies. Yet soldiers
feared him far more than Bayard or Perryn. They spoke of mutilations and demonic rites, or gatzi summoned to couple with the injured to birth demon warriors to fill the prince's legions. Wounded soldiers begged comrades to kill them rather than leave them lie where Osriel might find them.

“You're not asleep again?”

“No,
rectoré
.”

“And so we come to your part. The Marshal wishes you to determine whether Prince Osriel has dealings with the Harrower priestess or either of his brothers. I suggested that we proceed as before—that our more experienced spies locate our quarry, and we bring in Greenshank only when we have an idea of the Bastard's activities. If you were to bide close to Lillebras, a triggered beacon could draw you into play quickly. I've recommended that the journey between here and Lillebras—rugged country threaded by streams and rivers that might slow your progress—should begin immediately, giving a raw paratus ample opportunity to find his way. Is this very clear?”

Ferocious pleasure infused my bones with a bit of vigor. Inek had contrived an opportunity for me to speak with Morgan. “Aye,
rectoré
. All seems clear.”

“Leave your silver bracelets in the armory when you go off watch. They'll be fitted with the summoning beacon. Fix will provide the bracelets when you depart for Lillebras. Heed me. No matter delays along the way, you
must
be ready and in place when the spy's signal comes.”

“I will.”

“Go in safety, Greenshank, and return in honor.”

“In honor, Knight Commander.”

He rose, lithe and easy as a juggler. The wind flapped his black cloak. “I've had no opportunity to work in the archives of late. And we need to explore your reactions to the mission study. But I doubt your stone skull could comprehend a discussion of history or tactics at present.”

“Aye, Commander.” My desperation to speak of the incident had to yield to necessity. I had four more hours to stay awake and alive, and it would take everything I could muster.

“But I do wish to hear how you've performed in the spring tourney. Clearly you've thrown yourself into it with your usual extravagant diligence.”

Why in the Sky Lord's midnight did he care for such trivialities?

“I stand first in archery, third overall,” I said. “Out of eleven remaining.”

“Better than my estimate.”

Yes, it was a decent result; I'd worked hard on my blade skills since the last quarterly. Inek, of course, demanded that I finish first before the end of my training.

He moved as if ready to go. The walk was too narrow for him to pass, so I had to move past the stair to let him down. My knees whined at the prospect.

“One more matter, Greenshank.”

I paused.

“Answer me this: If your brother knight was ill or injured, unfit to venture his next assignment to the danger of his life, what would you do?”

Inek, ever the schoolmaster. “I would offer to take his place,
rectoré
.”

“And what if he was most honorably set upon doing his duty—a non-critical duty, as it happened—and refused your offer? Would you let him die for his pride?”

“Of course not. I would speak to his commander—” My glib answers hung on the blustering wind like branches snapped from a tree . . . about to pummel me on the head, I feared.

“It is a guide's duty to push. It is your duty as a knight-aspiring to strive; strength, skill, and duty are your pillars. But, as you've said, it is also your duty to push back when it is clear a brother's life is in danger. And why would it be important to save your brother's life and not your own? Perfection is ephemeral, Greenshank, and true wisdom is the knowledge of when to bend. Now, have you anything more to say to me tonight?”

Even my dull wit could not miss his meaning. True wisdom it might be, but the speaking was bitter. “Knight Commander, I am unfit for duty. But I can—”

“You are dismissed—to resume this watch at the usual time only after you have accumulated no less than ten hours of sleep. All other duties remain as scheduled.”

Clouds had swallowed the moon again. I cast light enough to guide my feet back to the stair, but moved past and waited, allowing Inek to descend first. A small way to demonstrate relief and shame . . . and respect.

But he remained a short distance away, facing the sea. “I'll go down later.”

“As you say.
Dalle cineré, rectoré.
” The Order's motto held immediate
significance, when body and spirit were so weary. The prospect of sleep approached rapture. Perhaps tonight I wouldn't dream of screams drowned in ash, of purebloods watching, of Damon's cunning eyes peering through the Marshal's white mask. . . .

The embers of outrage flared hot and bright.

“Rectoré?”
I had descended but a few steps, and leaned into the upper stair as I shifted round to speak. Inek was scarce visible atop the wall, his black cloak billowing like a raven's spread wings against the midnight clouds. “Who were they, the two at that burning house?”

“How could I know? Have you forgotten their identities are purged? Go to bed and wake up with your wits about you.”

“Not the Order knights, but the purebloods—the two who watched, laughing, as the walls collapsed. The knight saw them on the road as soon as the remaining Harrowers rode away. He thought it looked as if they dropped veils, and he assumed they were the last two of the nine riders. Did someone identify them, call them to account for such a crime?”

For a moment I thought he'd vanished.

“Commander, you've seen this study. Your squires saw it. You must know.”

Inek abruptly drew his cloak tight and joined me. He sat on the wall, feet on the top step, his face on a level with mine. “I never imagined you were yet spellbound when I took the squires away. You were engaged, yes, but that mission is a terrible scene, and I knew it would hit you hard, prey to sentiment as you are. But my squires did
not
view that piece at the end, nor did your fellow parati. No trainees are allowed to experience it; it deals with complexities most are not ready to deal with. What else were you shown?”

Sitting on the steep, narrow steps was impossible. Rather I perched like a steel bird.

“Nothing beyond that,” I said. “It sickened me, as you expected. Worse. I believed I could never witness anything more vile than people, especially those so gifted by the gods, amused at such savagery. And then, within the hour, the Marshal told me the story of the Order's founding. About Xancheira and the Registry. Something I wasn't supposed to know as yet. Why would he? And why the two together?”

“He said naught of Damon or his interest in these matters, I suspect.”

“No.”

Another pause. “The two purebloods remain unidentified.
Rumor
spoke that one pureblood and one ordinary were executed for involvement in the crime, but neither matched the descriptions of those two. It is a strange case—”