King's Shield (45 page)

“Gone. No trace, and that means no bodies left for us to find. Unlike what happened with the observers in spring.”

Talkar let his breath trickle out, glanced at the busy Ulaffa, then said uneasily, “No trace?”

“Dag Erkric himself went to the south. Found and destroyed the Marlovan and Idayagan communication scroll cases, once he located them.”

Talkar grimaced. “How does he do that? Magic eyes watching everywhere?” He grimaced again.

“I’m told that magic leaves a trace in the air, like scent, and the dags are like dogs who sniff out what we humans cannot. He doesn’t even have to touch their devices, which are much more simple than ours. He just casts a ward around them.”

Talkar raised a hand. “I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to.”

“Very well. After he broke our enemy’s means of magical communication, he searched for traces of our dag scouts. This was while we launched the invasion. There he had no success. He returned to the flagship before we rowed to Trad Varadhe for the prince’s inspection. He reported to the prince in my hearing that all the locals south of the pass are talking about the great Marlovan army no more than a day or so outside of the city of Ala Larkadhe.”

Talkar’s granite-solid jaw tightened. “Then we have to get to the top of the pass first. An army two days’ ride from the city at that end? That leaves us a day to take this castle. Because the reports put the climb from either end at roughly equal. That’s tight.”

These words caused a pang of regret in Durasnir for his deliberate procrastination. But he dismissed it. A day could not make that much difference, judging from the poor defense they’d encountered so far. Of primary importance was resistance to Dag Erkric’s insidious plan to insert his mages into the conduct of war.

“Dag Erkric has readied a plan for that, too,” Durasnir said.

“A plan to get us to the top of the pass faster?” Talkar asked, lifting his helm again to rub his sweat-soaked, metal-baked head.

“No, it’s some sort of ruse.”

Talkar pursed his lips. His innate distrust of the interference of dags appeared to be warring with his desire to get up that pass as swiftly as possible.

Ulaffa finished making his square, laid a series of transfer tokens down, then turned an inquiring face their way. They rejoined him, standing well outside of the square. A short time later, half a dozen blue-robed dags appeared.

At Talkar’s somewhat ironic gesture a party of warriors, all of them rigid with unexpressed resentment, conducted the dags to the walls. There they began examining the massive hinges and conferring with one another, while the invasion force watched.

Durasnir had no more excuse to be present. Ulaffa would transfer back to the ship whenever he wished, using one of those instantaneous transfer spells. One heartbeat here, the next there. The warriors hated that, too.

Durasnir and Talkar exchanged salutes. Durasnir signaled to his waiting marines and was rowed back to the flagship.

Once again on the
Cormorant,
he retreated to his cabin to wait. Now he was left with nothing but the familiar, internal struggle with the concept—unexamined all his young life, now haunting him in his aging years—of one very young man embodying, in his person, the will of an entire people.

Especially when one was not certain how much of his will was truly his.

Chapter Three

“ IGNI!” Inda’s voice broke into her sleep, light as it was.

She opened her eyes. It was dark, though she sensed the proximity of the sun somewhere below the eastern horizon. She sat up, brushing her tousled hair out of her face. “What is amiss?”

“Messenger. From the Venn,” he said, setting a candle down on the single camp stool. “I mean, from Ala Larkadhe, with a message from the Venn. They came in by magic.” Inda frowned. “Can they do that with whole armies?”

“No,” she said, poking her elbow out of the bedroll and leaning her cheek on her hand. “That is why Dag Erkric desperately wants Norsunder’s rift magic. You need such great spells to transfer great numbers. More then three together, and the three feel the wrench at triple strength.”

Inda whistled. “Glad you told me that. All right. Evred needs you to tell us what their message means. I’ll be with you,” he added, and he couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss her, so sweetly she lay curled up in their bedding, drowsy, her sandy hair wisping about her face. His hands reached for the softness of her curves, though he knew that Evred was waiting.

Her lips, so giving, her smell like summer grass and blossoms on a cool wind, arrowed straight into his brain. No, it arrowed straight to his arrow. He backed away, trying not to laugh, and saw her smiling, her eyes reflecting golden flames of the candlelight.

It was like that at night too. She wondered as she rose and hastily pulled on her travel-worn smock and riding trousers how long his ardor would last, and why such things were so mysterious, so wholly uncontrollable. She loved lying in his arms at night, at peace. She would have been happy just doing that on this long, terrible ride surrounded by Marlovan warriors, and curtained only by a leddas-and-canvas tent that did not really muffle sounds. But for him proximity ignited the fires of desire, and those, once quenched (as quickly as they could, as silently) caused him to drop into slumber, leaving her lying awake, body content, mind anxiously seeking answers to questions she could not ask, except of herself.

They emerged from the tent into the lantern light. Evred-Harvaldar looked past Inda’s foolish little grin of sexual desire temporarily thwarted; there was no corresponding smirk in the woman’s face. Her eyes focused inward, her expression the blind one that either meant mental turmoil or she was doing magic. No, he had to assume goodwill. Honor required it, and her self-effacing behavior during this long journey—she under guard—had been exemplary.

Evred handed Signi the letter.

Signi bent to the nearest lantern and read fast, her brow lined and tense. “Can you not read it? This is written in your own Iascan. It is from Prince Rajnir. He wishes his dag to parley under truce, on Restday, three days hence.”

“There was a thing with it,” the Runner explained. And on Evred’s motion, the runner held out a metal disk with Old Sartoran glyphs on it.

Signi only had to glance once. “Ah. That is a Destination token. Did he give you phrases to say when you place it upon the ground?”

The Runner repeated what the Venn messenger with the truce flag had told him, there at the city gate: simple words in Old Sartoran, freighted with a transfer spell.

“It will transfer Dag Erkric to wherever you place this token,” Signi said.

“Or one of us to their arms?” Evred asked, tone dry. “And I use that term in the fullest possible sense.”

“No. The disks are different for that kind of transfer.”

Inda said, “That’s true. I used one once at Ghost Island.” Evred’s head snapped his way, his eyes narrow and remote, and Inda knew what question would come next. He quickly explained what Signi had said about transfers and rifts, and they all saw Evred relax.

“Very well,” Evred said. “But we will prepare an appropriate reception first.” He gestured for Hawkeye’s Runner to take charge of letter and disk again. Motioning to Inda and Noddy, “We will ride ahead. The rest can follow us into the city.” He raised his voice to the Sier Danas, now straggling from their tents, buttoning coats or tying sashes. “Rat! Cherry-Stripe! You two and Cama bring them in. Barend. You ride with us.”

We
did not mean just the commanders, but their personal entourages as well. Tau, as Inda’s Runner, was left to sweep together his and Inda’s belongings and give commands to the waiting runners-in-training for mounts.

The sun was still well below the hills to the east when they raced by streaming torchlight out of the camp, leaving the warriors cleaning weapons and talking among themselves. No morning drill for the first time—but there would probably be no more liberty.

Evred rode at the front with his Harskialdna and his cousin at either side, Noddy behind them, and from the sound of occasional hoots and crows of laughter, it was clear that no resentment had been harbored in the upper ranks at the permanent shift in command.

Tau and Signi rode side-by-side—Signi for the first time without her guards.

Stars twinkled overhead as they cantered behind torch-bearing Runners up the smooth, well-tended road. The setting moon still gave faint light. As they rounded a rocky outcropping, pungent with the scent of dry needle-grass and goldenrod, and spotted the glistening white tower projecting above the city, Signi swayed once in her saddle. As Tau urged his horse to close with hers, one hand reaching out, she shook her head and straightened up.

Tau dropped his hand. She’d slipped; Tau had made many riding errors before learning how to sit these scanty saddles.

Tau glanced ahead. The old academy friends rode together, talking back and forth in low, laughter-punctuated voices. Noddy was saying, “. . . so I’ll raise my Inda to scrag your boys on sight. You better raise ’em to fear my name—”

“Noddy Turtle?” Inda asked, to shouts of laughter.

Did they not feel the tension? On the surface, no. Under the surface? Ah. The laughter sounded too loud, too bright, the voices too forced. There was just enough of some quality to them that caused Tau’s heart to thump with warning.

Tau hated battle, and knew he was going to hate a war even worse. What truly bound him here?
Why am I here?

His gaze strayed to the two figures ahead, the long tails of hair swinging against their backs just barely picked out in the smear of predawn light: one sun-streaked brown, the other red.

He did not define
people
any further than that, but his hand clenched on the golden case he’d worn near his skin ever since Jeje left, in case she were to write back to him.

The sunrise lightened to pearlescent, the molten fire just rimming the eastern skyline sending spear-shafts of brilliantly pure, peachy-gold light to highlight the sides of trees, a rock here, and tuft of grass there. Signi observed Tau’s profile against the dawn of a new day. Though Tau’s proximity would never bring her the glory Inda’s did, she had always loved beauty in all things, whether alive or not, natural or made. Tau was beautiful, riding easily now on his dashing young horse—both so alive, so capable of joy—the sight caused her heart to spasm in poignancy.

How different he was from Inda, and yet they had been raised with love, she could tell in all the little muscle moves, the warmth of glance and voice: Tau, perhaps, had been raised surrounded by love, but had come to regard love as an object, or an objective. For Inda love was sun and air.

Signi’s thoughts broke at the prickle of magic. Venn magic. It was very clear and distinct, as one might expect in this land where no dags dwelled. She could not test the trace, but suspected Erkric. Who else would be arrogant enough to transfer somewhere within the city to watch the Marlovans ride in under his nose?

So she pulled the old, weatherworn cloak about her shoulders, the hood hiding her face, and altered her posture to give the impression of someone either elderly or infirm. And she slowed her horse gradually, so that Evred’s party drew ahead. As she had the previous time she’d felt that same trace, she rode just behind Tau, trusting that he would draw attention away from her.

Tau had noticed her doing the same thing once before, a week or two previous. He’d assumed she had a headache from the dust and warm air, and wanted to leave the loud voices of the Sier Danas behind. Because they were out of earshot, Tau met her eyes, which quirked in question. He asked, “Is this hood some kind of disguise?”

“In a way.” She considered, then decided it was right to speak. “One of my people is spying on your army.”

“Will you tell Inda?”

“If he asks. But I will not offer the information.” She shook her head. “What can be done?”

“Nothing,” Tau agreed. “So you refuse to fight against the Marlovans, but you’re not fighting against your people either, is that it?”

How to answer that? Truth for Taumad, but also deflection. “I’m—I was—a ship dag. We had nothing to do with war, except at a remove. My job was to navigate, to assist in repair.”

Tau shrugged ruefully. “I guess I hoped you might do some kind of spell and make the enemies go away.”

Her nerves stung with cold. “You do not look forward to the coming battle?”

“Not,” he said, “at all.”

She closed her eyes. And though—maybe because—she had been so careful for so many weeks, so watchful, the pent-up words tumbled out, almost too fast to comprehend. “Why do not we see animal bones left in the wild as reminders of what can happen to us? Why not leave ours? But would they not be reminders of life smashed away, of what war means, if we saw them every day?” She lifted her hands, her fingers expressing the anguish of the unanswer ables. “How to remind humans, as we sing so bravely and dress so artfully riding to war that when we make war we are no more than predators?”

Tau had absolutely no answer for that. His fund of pleasant chat—taught to him by his mother to cover every possible social situation—had eased him through a variety of experiences all over the southern continent through the past ten years. Even with a pair of vicious pirates whose weakness was a wish to appear aristocratic. His chatter was inadequate now.

A quick indrawn breath from Signi ended the uncomfortable silence. She stiffened, staring downward, turning almost all the way around to gaze behind her as they passed by.

When she straightened again, her face was pale, making her light freckles stand out, her expression peculiar.

“Are you all right?” Tau asked her. “Do you need to stop?”

“No.” Signi drew in another unsteady breath. “No, actually, I am quite well.” She studied his concerned expression, and wondered if she ought to explain what she had seen, not once, but twice, now. On this otherwise unremarkable little hillock at the roadside, covered with summer wildflowers: placed amid the goldenrod a single blossom of milkweed.