The Pearls (13 page)

“You're mad,” Hervan said. “Hidden Ways…shadow worlds. All of that is gone, do you hear? Gone!”

“Then what do you call what happened today?” Thirbe asked him. The man's steely gaze pinned Hervan, refusing to let him deny or evade the truth.

If only I could remember,
Hervan thought.
But surely…surely it wasn't…

“That's impossible,” he said angrily. “That clout on your head has broken your wits. The shadows are gone, defeated, vanquished.”

“Then tell me what it was, and where they took her.”

Hervan shook his head helplessly, wincing as the movement jarred his broken bone. “I can't tell you. I—”

“Can't, or won't, believe it?” Thirbe asked, stepping closer. “Take hold of yourself, man. We all saw it, whether we like it or not.”

“But—but
how
could they do something like this?”

“How should I know? The question is how to get her back. If you think that priest can do something, call him forth and have him try.”

Part of Hervan wanted to refuse, simply because it was too fantastical, and—more honestly—because Thirbe wished it. Telling himself not to be petty, the captain sent for the priest, who couldn't be found.

“What?” Hervan said in surprise, glaring at the messenger. “Has he been killed?”

“He's not among the dead or wounded, Captain.”

Thirbe snorted. “Hiding out, more likely.”

“Find him!” Hervan ordered.

A search began, while Hervan went to his tent. Exchanging his muddy clothing for clean was no simple matter, thanks to the way his arm was bound. Clothed at last, he sat shivering by a blazing fire, feeling sick, weary, and tempted to turn everything over to Rozer. But commanding officers did not shirk their duties, he reminded himself. Not with the emperor's sister in jeopardy. Not with Lady Lea's protector pacing about, muttering to himself, with a rag pressed to his bloodied forehead. Why, Hervan asked himself in frustration, couldn't the tiresome man collapse and be carried away? As long as he refused to surrender to his injuries, Hervan could not do so either.

So he sat, aching and feeling wretched, telling himself to think while he had this chance. Only his wits seemed mired in sludge, and he could not come up with a clever solution that was going to salvage his military career, much less advance his ambition to marry the lady and bring his family into alliance with the imperial throne.
Father,
he thought,
is going to be furious
.

Outside his tent came a sudden commotion, with raised, eager voices and the squelch of boots through the mud.

Sergeant Taime ducked inside and saluted. “The priest is found, Captain.”

“Bring him inside at once.”

“About time,” Thirbe said, tossing aside his bloodstained cloth.

The priest came in, his ugly face pinched with cold, his robes soaked and muddy. He held out his hands in supplication. “Praise to Gault that you survived the assault, Captain. My prayers were heard, and I give—”

“Get on with it,” Thirbe growled, and Hervan cleared his throat.

“Er, Poulso,” he said with some reluctance, feeling a fool. “Well, the thing is, we've need of your special kind of assistance.”

“Ah yes, of course. A service of thanksgiving and—”

“No. Not that.” Hervan frowned.

“Tell him!” Thirbe said, then turned to the priest and said gruffly, “Lady Lea has been abducted, taken into the Hidden Ways. Will you open them, so we can pursue her?”

The thickset priest stood frozen, his protuberant brown eyes starting from their sockets. His look of alarm told Hervan that he had no inkling of how to perform their request.

“Well?” Hervan asked him anyway.

Poulso ran his tongue across his thick lips as though to moisten them. He started to speak, but his voice squeaked and broke. Clearing his throat, he started over. “Sirs, good sirs, this thing you ask of me is—is—well, it's forbidden. Impossible.”

“Her abductor did it.”

Poulso glanced around as though he expected
casna
demons to crawl forth from the tent shadows. “Impossible!” he whispered. “Who could draw magic from the shadow side of—”

“Never mind asking who!” Thirbe said. “Will you do it?”

The priest turned his gaze to Hervan in appeal. “My ability to weave magic is ceremonial in nature only. I don't think I could possibly break the great seal set in place by Light Bringer to hold Beloth.”

“No one's asking you to do that,” Hervan lied. “Just pull open the door, so to speak, so we have a chance to find the lady.”

But Poulso was shaking his head, his gaze abstracted. “How can this be?” he whispered as though to himself. “To think that dark magic, shadow magic should still exist, and could be used to such dire purpose. Are you certain?”

“We saw it done,” Thirbe said flatly.

The men around them muttered agreement, while Hervan wished he could remember.

Poulso was taken out to the field, pushed along by men carrying torches, and led by Thirbe the indefatigable. Hervan started to go with them, but a wave of giddiness overtook him. By the time he'd fought it back and forced his head to clear, he found himself still sitting close to his tent fire with Barsin anxiously pressing a cup of wine to his lips.

“Ah, that's what I want,” he said in appreciation and took the cup.

“You're not at all well,” the adjutant said. “The fall you took has shaken you sorely.”

Emptying his wine cup to its dregs, Hervan struggled a bit to get out of his camp chair.

“No, sir, please. You're to stay where you are.”

“Nonsense. Mustn't look weak to the men.”

“No one thinks that, sir.”

Hervan made it to his feet and swayed a bit—thanks more to wine than injury. He found a wan smile for his adjutant. “You're a good, loyal fellow,” he said, clapping Barsin on the shoulder. “Help me outside.”

Leaning on the adjutant, Hervan made his way out into the cold darkness, squinting against the cold wind and wishing himself back in New Imperia, where winters were mild and snow unthinkable. Ahead, he could see a cluster of men and heard shouting. He slowed his steps, aware of Barsin tightening his supportive grip.

In fact, Hervan did not want to hurry. He was afraid that he would find the gateway to the shadow world yawning open before him and demons pouring out to attack the camp.

By the time he reached the group of onlookers, there was a shout, followed by the sound of angry voices and a sharp smack.

“Gault above!” he said involuntarily, reaching for the Choven talisman he'd worn under his clothing since childhood.

“Make way!” Barsin commanded. “Make way for Captain Hervan.”

The cavalrymen parted immediately, and Hervan had no choice but to stride through their midst with more confidence than he felt. He found no demon, however. Instead, Poulso lay sprawled on the ground, his robes thrown up to reveal scrawny legs encased in long wool stockings. Thirbe stood over him with clenched fists.

“Sniveling coward!” he was shouting. “What good are you? Answer me that!”

Poulso held his cheek and made no effort to rise. His ugly face was contorted. “This is forbidden magic. Forbidden! Even the scrolls dealing with it have been removed from the library. I am not trained to commit such a vile blasphemy.”

“Liar!” Thirbe yelled. “You're a Vindicant—”

“No longer!” Poulso made a hasty gesture. “I reformed my vows, accepted the purging.”

“Doesn't mean you can't—”

“My soul would be jeopardized, and I—”

“And what happens to Lady Lea while you're protecting your soul?” Thirbe demanded.

When the priest gave him no answer, Thirbe spun on his heel and came limping over to Hervan.

“Faure's breath, but he's useless,” the protector muttered. “And she is lost to us forever.”

T
he
men began muttering among themselves, while a pang went through Hervan.
Lost forever
. He did not want to think about Lady Lea, frightened or perhaps hurt, trapped in the clutches of monsters. How could the foul shadows take away someone so lovely, so special? If anyone lived filled with light, it was she. What was happening to the world, if Light Bringer's influence was waning already and the shadows were returning to power?

“Tell me, priest!” he said before he could stop himself. “Does Beloth rise again?”

Thirbe gripped his forearm. “Be quiet, you fool!” he said for Hervan's ears alone. “You'll panic the men if you talk this way.”

Hervan pulled free. “And what of you, conjuring up old, forbidden rituals? Priest, give me an answer!”

Poulso rose clumsily to his feet, shaking down his robes into order, breathing heavily. “The shadow god does
not
return,” he said firmly, his voice ringing out with assurance. “Have no fear of that.”

“Then what supports this magic?”

“I do not know. But—but I
do
know that there have been no dark portents, no signs of the shadow's veil falling over us again.” Poulso spread out his thick hands. “Perhaps, well, I do not like to speculate without more study on the question, but perhaps this magic is not very strong. It only seems potent and frightening to us, because we thought never to witness its like again.”

His blathering brought back Hervan's headache. “Get to the point!”

“Just because the shadow god is gone, Captain, it does not mean that all evil has been expunged from the world. So many creatures remain, diminished of course, but they are not yet dead or destroyed entirely. It seems to me that a
donare
, yes, a powerful
donare
sworn to shadow might perhaps do something like this.”

Hervan tried not to flinch. The murmuring around him grew louder, but he ignored it. It was rumored, Hervan reminded himself, that the emperor was a
donare
also, although never of the shadows. Light Bringer—no matter how amiable his manner at court—remained a formidable warrior supported by Choven magic. He was a god destroyer impossible to lie to and capable of extinguishing a man's life with a word or thought. But the emperor was not here to lead them.
It's not fair,
Hervan thought.
I have no magic to bolster me. I cannot take on a
donare
and win.

Even as the thoughts ran through his mind, however, he saw a worse alternative in riding back to New Imperia with this terrible news, of kneeling in disgrace before Light Bringer and saying that Lady Lea was lost forever to the shadow realm. Hervan broke out in a light sweat. This would ruin him, ruin his career, and very likely ruin his entire family.

Don't think about it now,
he told himself in an effort to stave off panic. Yet he had to think, had to take action. He simply could not fail. Disaster of this magnitude did not happen to the Crimsons, and it certainly did not happen to members of the Hervan family. There had to be
something
he could do.

“A
donare
,” he said, pretending to scoff. “We would all lie dead had we faced such a foe.”

Thirbe leaned forward. “Saying it was, priest. How can even a
donare
open the Hidden Ways without magic?”

“There is magic,” Poulso said. “Magic everywhere, in myriad forms. For example, it crisscrosses this valley now. I feel it. I believe Lady Lea felt it as well. She called it something different. I suppose she—”

“Never mind that!” Thirbe broke in. “If we're up against a
donare
—”

“We're not,” Hervan insisted.

Thirbe ignored him. “What can we do about it? You're saying his magic is weakened because of the shadow god?”

“Because the shadow god is gone. Correct,” Poulso said. “Those who are shadow sworn live in a diminished state, magically speaking. Many suffer terrible afflictions and illness. Even if he's opened the Hidden Ways, that does not mean he can also travel them. I think—I could be wrong, of course—but I think that because Lady Lea is such a radiant creature of light she could adversely affect his powers.”

“Can she get away, free herself?” Hervan asked.

“That, I do not know. If we wait here, it's possible they will emerge, at or near this point, bringing the lady with them.”

“And if they don't?” Thirbe asked.

Poulso shook his head sadly and said nothing.

“There's nothing to be done in this field except guard it?” Hervan asked.

“I believe so.”

Hervan gestured. “Then that's what we'll do. Sergeant Taime, send the men to quarters. See that they're fed and given a measure of mead.”

“Yes, sir!”

Hervan gave the priest a nod of dismissal and turned back to his tent. Thirbe, however, gripped his good arm and held him fast while the others dispersed. When Barsin tried to intervene, he was waved back.

“Hold on,” Thirbe growled. “That's not all you're going to do?”

“What else?” Hervan asked, trying to keep his temper. “The priest can't perform the miracle you've asked for. Can you?”

“I can do better than swallow tripe from that paper-skulled priest. He's lying to save his cowardly hide.”

“You may not like the Reformants, but—”

“I got nothing against the order itself, just this lazy fool,” Thirbe said. “I'd rather he defied me on his honor and conscience than lie. We'd have done better with a Penestrican along.”

“Gault forbid,” Hervan said uneasily. “Those women are—”

“What? Competent?”

“I was going to say formidable.”

Thirbe uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “At least they'd know whether our good lady had any chance right now.”

Hervan was thinking. “Bandits wearing legion armor,” he said slowly. “Led by a…”

“Oh, say it and be done,” Thirbe said. “A
donare
. What are you scared of?”

“I still don't believe that.”

“Why not? Because we're standing here as survivors?” Thirbe scowled at him. “They can't cut threads of life in close-quarter fighting. And if they'd wanted to slaughter us to the last man, they would have.”

“Do you think the army has rebelled?”

“An uprising?” Thirbe shot him a sharp look, but shook his head. “Doubt it. Weren't carrying standards, so they're renegades certain. Some of the trade caravans have reported trouble from that kind. Bound to be some of the riffraff swept out of service in the reforms. Plenty hire themselves out as mercenaries, too.”

“Their attack was skilled and swift, almost as though they were lying in wait for us.”

“Of course they were waiting for us!” Thirbe said in loud exasperation. “Gault's mercy, but any bafboy could see it was a planned attack. If they'd been after money or plunder, they'd have gone for the supply wagons. No, they took exactly what they wanted.”

“Women.”

“No, noddy! Our good lady, alone. And they let us live, like they knew we couldn't catch 'em afterward. A professional job, start to finish.”

“The report said Thyrazene weapons—”

“That old ploy!” Thirbe snorted. “Wouldn't fool a blind idiot.”

“But how could they have known we were taking this route?” Hervan asked. “I chose this road on the spur of the moment, and—”

“And you don't think that fire supposedly sweeping Brondi was anything but a ruse to turn us onto this road, where we could be caught?”

Startled, Hervan stared at him hard before dismissing the idea as too fanciful. “I think my scouts can tell the difference between a real fire and one set in trickery.”

“Why? Fire is fire, ain't it? If part of the town is burning, does it matter if it was an accident or set? We came wandering this way just the same, and got caught easy as fish in a barrel.”

Hervan frowned, uncomfortably aware that Thirbe had a point.

“Just look how we were attacked,” Thirbe continued, “from three sides, guaranteed to send Lady Lea fleeing right across yon fields into a trap. I'm certain it was a legion commander carrying her off. I saw his eagle when I was fighting him.”

“Legion commander?” Hervan said in disbelief. “That knock in the head has addled your wits. More likely the blackguard stole a legion commander's breastplate somehow—”

“Impossible! Now whose wits are addled? I tell you I know eagle rank when I see it and when I fight against it.”

“No officer of such high rank would stoop to outlawry.”

“Why not? There were four legions disbanded, officers and soldiers alike, all those who wouldn't change allegiance. Kalthunda is dead. Which leaves three other commanders, Osthel and—”

Despite himself, Hervan said, “Osthel is an old man, said to be living on the coast and exiled from his family. They want nothing to do with him.”

“In combat, it's odd what you notice and what you don't,” Thirbe said thoughtfully. “The black Eighth was commanded by a praetinor named Shadrael tu Natalloh.”

“No praetinor would stoop to this villainy!” Hervan said in outrage. “You cannot seriously accuse
him
.”

“Do you know the man?”

Flushing, Hervan looked away. “No, not—not personally. But he's not the man.”

“Well, then, that leaves Maxivim, no, Mavnim. Something like that.”

“Mardico.”

“Aye, Mardico Tohn. A Beloth-loving scoundrel if ever there was one. The stories about him would turn your hair white to hear 'em.”

“I heard he'd bought a farm and was living simply.”

“False rumor,” Thirbe said. “Gone over to the Madruns, more like. As for Shadrael, he's Ulinian by birth and—”

“And of the patrici,” Hervan broke in. “You can't possibly suspect someone of his noble birth and achievement. His brother is warlord of Ulinia.”

“Aye, a province that wants to break loose from the empire,” Thirbe said thoughtfully. “Saw Shadrael once, years ago, when he was maybe a cohort leader. A fierce one already, even before the Madrun campaign.”

“Where he distinguished himself with tremendous honors,” Hervan said. “I saw his triumph when I was a boy. He was a hero, riding through the streets of Imperia to meet Emperor Kostimon. I watched his chariot go by from our window.”

“But definitely
donare
,” Thirbe said.

“Great gods, man, nearly all the very best legion commanders are.”

Thirbe held up his hands. “Easy, lad. Time you learned that war can make even bad men heroes. Mardico was always bad, through and through, indulging in every vice imaginable. But Shadrael risked the Kiss of Eternity and
lived
.” Thirbe tapped the side of his nose. “You know what that means.”

Doubt flooded Hervan before he shoved Thirbe's gossip away. He'd always admired Lord Shadrael and as a schoolboy he'd studied the man's battle strategies in the Madrun campaign. Battle strategies…he remembered reading about a tactic similar to what they'd encountered today. A strange feeling sapped his convictions. Maybe—but, no, he still could not believe a man whom he admired so as a boy would commit the infamy of stealing the emperor's sister.

Once again in his mind's eye, Hervan saw Commander Shadrael tu Natalloh ride by in a processional triumph, wearing full armor, but carrying no weapons, his helmet tucked under his arm to show his submission to the emperor. His profile had been one of arrogant self-assurance, the face of a man who has achieved great things, and will accomplish even more—oh yes, seeing him that day, Hervan had vowed that one day he, too, would achieve military honors and be awarded a triumph by his grateful emperor. He would follow family tradition and enter the cavalry, of course, but he would rise as high in distinction as Lord Shadrael, or higher. For of course he was Itierian, not Ulinian, and born superior in every way.

“What a triumph he was given!” Hervan said. “An extraordinary sight I've never forgotten. That was the day he was named to the ranks of praetinor. My father told me there were wagers laid on how quickly he'd make general.”

Thirbe grunted. “Instead, he's an exile, stripped of honor and rank, discharged without pension. Why defend a man like that?”

“In those days, Protector, everyone was shadow sworn. It meant little.”

“Don't talk to me about the old days, whelp. I lived through them. You didn't. Officer or foot soldier, you couldn't serve your legion without swearing oaths to Faure and—and the others.”