The Pearls (15 page)

With an oath, he released her, jerking back his hand as though burned. Overwhelmed by a tide of emotions she could not begin to understand, much less control, Lea tried to retreat from him, but sank to her knees instead. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

He stood over her, a dark silhouette. “Stop that. Get up!”

Grief and fear engulfed her. Seeing inside him, knowing some part of him, was too terrible to endure, for he was…he was…With a wrench she managed to break
sevaisin
, but she felt pain rip through her, as though she'd torn her flesh. She cried harder.

“Hear me,” he said, gripping her shoulder. “You must show no weakness here. Get up. Stop your sniveling at once.”

But she could not obey him. All of it, the shocking brutality of the ambush, the death of men sworn to protect her, Thirbe lying unmoving on the ground, Fyngie's death and Rinthella's worse fate, the evil of this place, and now the involuntary joining with someone like this man—this creature—who was…who was…It all overwhelmed her. Crumpling over, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

The commander gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet, shaking her when she swayed. “Stop this!” he said. “I can hold back only so much, can protect you only so far. If you do not control yourself, they'll attack.”

As he spoke, he pulled her hands away from her face, and pearls that had formed from her tears went spilling everywhere. He frowned, staring at her in amazement. “You—”

Lea flung down the rest of the pearls. They rolled in all directions, glowing briefly in the gloom before turning dark. Wrenching free from his slackened grasp, she hurried away, wanting to get as far from him as she could. In two strides he caught up with her, steering her past the watching soldiers with repeated prods to her back.

At one point, she stumbled and would have fallen but for the quick hand of a soldier, who steadied her back on her feet.

His eyes, set in a homely face, looked kind. He almost smiled at her—until he glanced at his commander and stepped back with all expression wiped hastily from his face.

Still, that small show of humanity was enough to help Lea regain her self-control. She drew in a breath, sending the soldier a look of gratitude. “Thank—”

The commander shoved her forward. “Move.”

She was lifted up onto his huge black warhorse, where she sat stiff and horrified while he climbed into the saddle behind her. Drawing on his gauntlets and gathering his reins, he gestured at his men before hesitating. That was all the warning Lea had before he sagged forward heavily against her, bracing his hand on the pommel. She could hear him breathing raggedly, and at first she thought he was about to fall.

Resisting the temptation to push him out of the saddle and flee on his horse, Lea struggled to support his heavy weight. The others were too close for her to try anything. Already the centruin was riding up, starting to speak, then choking back words as the commander abruptly straightened. A muscle knotted in his jaw as he grimaced, his features contorting. Lea saw red fire blaze briefly in his eyes.

Gasping, she shrank back, but his arm went around her and pulled her close as he kicked his horse forward.

The centruin rode beside him, stirrup to stirrup. “Commander,” he said in a rasping whisper. “We're far enough away. Let us drop out of the Hidden Ways and—”

“Not…yet.”

Puckering his mouth, the centruin dropped back. In silence, they all trudged onward.

Fresh tears blurred Lea's eyes, despite her attempt to control them. Her emotions churned in chaos, driving all inner harmony away.

It could not be true. She did not want it to be true. Yet the vision she'd involuntarily seen, however brief, could not be brushed aside.
Sevaisin
did not lie, and what she'd glimpsed inside this man had to be faced, whether she wanted to or not.

For in him she'd seen her future, a destiny she'd never planned on, and one she did not want.

I
n
the dead of night, Hervan awakened, feeling restless and half-caught in a dream he couldn't remember. Fiery embers glowed balefully in a pile of ash, filling his tent with orange light. Lying down had proved impossible, so he was propped up on several rolled blankets. Damned uncomfortable they were, too. His hand had gone numb from the awkward way his arm was trussed to his side, and his broken bone ached miserably.

Next to his cot, his servant Crox lay knotted up in a blanket on the ground, uttering soft snores. Atop Hervan's campaign chest, his cuirass gleamed with polish, his leather gauntlets had been scrubbed with pumice and ash to restore their white perfection, and his boots shone with a fresh application of blacking—all readied for the morrow. Hervan frowned. There should have been a full cup of wine within reach, but obviously the lazy knave hadn't thought to provide it for him.

A faint sound from outside distracted him from rousing his servant. Curious, Hervan struggled up, nearly stepping on Crox, who should have risen to serve him. Slinging a blanket awkwardly around his shoulders, Hervan ventured outside.

It had stopped snowing. Overhead, the clouds had parted to allow a full moon to shine down on pristine white ground. The ruins cast strange shadows in the pale landscape, and the world held a still, hushed quality. The hair prickled uneasily on the back of his neck.

He heard a distant sound of male voices. They paused, then murmured again, paused, and murmured.

Recognizing the pattern, Hervan swore softly beneath his breath and ducked back inside his tent. He found Crox sitting up, hair wild and eyes staring.

“My dagger and boots,” Hervan ordered.

“Are we breaking camp? Are we under fresh attack?”

Hervan snapped his fingers impatiently, and Crox scrambled to do his bidding, even fetching a thick cloak for him to wear instead of the blanket.

“Shall I go with you, sir?”

“Gods, man, I don't need your help to piss,” Hervan said. “Go back to sleep.”

He stepped outside, drawing a deep lungful of the frigid air to wake himself up, and made note of the sentry positions before slipping into the shadows between the tents. In moments, he'd left camp and was picking his way cautiously through the snow, stumbling a bit over the rubble concealed beneath it. His breath misted white about his face, and soon he was panting and hurting, wishing he'd stayed in his tent where he belonged.

A shape loomed out of the darkness before him with a suddenness that made him reach for his dagger. Recognizing his lieutenant in the moonlight, Hervan eased out his breath.

“Rozer,” he said quietly.

“Captain. We didn't expect you to join us.” Rozer glanced around. “Have you come alone?”

“Of course.”

Rozer nodded and escorted him past a corner where two walls stood nearly intact. On the other side, four men sat on large, rectangular stones, holding steaming cups. They stared at Hervan in unfriendly silence before getting up.

Something tight eased in Hervan's chest. Conscious of Rozer at his back, he went forward.

“Men,” he said quietly, well aware of how clearly sound could carry over snow.

Sergeant Taime stepped forward. “Come you as friend or foe?”

It was a loaded question, full of all that had been left unsaid two years ago when Hervan—on the urgent advice of his father—had withdrawn his membership in the Talon Cadre. There was no harm in the brotherhood, of course. Hervan knew that every officer belonged to some secret society or other, sometimes several. Such memberships were expected, especially in the Household Regiment. Even the rank and file, notoriously superstitious, had their groups. All now officially forbidden, of course, by the reforms.

“Well?” Taime demanded.

“I come as—as your captain.”

“That's no answer.”

“Taime,” Rozer said in rebuke, and the sergeant shut up. “Well, Captain, if you're curious, we're drinking toasts to our fallen comrades.”

“And calling the dead.”

Rozer drew in a sharp breath, and the others exchanged glances.

“What of it?” the lieutenant asked.

Hervan was glad Rozer didn't deny it. He'd known the lieutenant since they were boys, growing up on adjoining estates. They took their commissions on the same day, had trained together. Not until Hervan dropped out of the cadre had their paths grown apart. But it was good to know that Rozer still cared enough not to lie to him.

“A fine old tradition, honoring our dead,” Hervan said now. “Did they come?”

“Not yet,” someone replied, and was elbowed sharply by Taime.

“We'd just started,” Rozer said. “There's a lot of old death in this valley. We don't want to call forth the wrong ghosts.”

Hervan swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. He'd never been enamored of the rituals. The fellowship was fine, and the drinking marvelous. To this day he remembered a birthday celebration they'd thrown for him. Giddy with wine, he'd gone blindfolded into a chamber containing a haggai—smuggled in Gault knows how—and no pleasure he'd known since then had equaled that experience. Most of the rituals, however, were boring recitations or chants and responses from rote. The words meant nothing to him. Only a few ceremonies—usually the most important ones—proved unnerving. Twice had he stood in a circle that called the dead; twice had he toasted their shimmering pale images with blood-spiked wine. It was a bit hair-raising, but he knew of nothing darker that went on in the cadre. Despite his father's nervous fears, they were not using shadow magic, not really.

“I, too, would like to honor our dead,” Hervan said now.

Rozer moved closer. “Would you? What else do you want?”

Hervan shoved prickles of doubt aside. He'd made his decision before he came out here. “Ask them to open the Hidden Ways to us.”

Some of the men gasped aloud. Another started to laugh, but swiftly hushed.

Rozer ducked his head, and through the shadows and moonlight, Hervan saw him smile.

“That's my Oli,” Rozer said in low-voiced approval. “That's the friend I remember, full of courage to the rattle, not afraid of light
or
shadow.”

They gathered around him then, clapping him on his good shoulder and leading him over to sit down on one of the stones. It felt like a block of ice under his rump, but he perched there just the same, trying not to shiver, and felt the reckless delight of illicit conduct.

Taking the flagon for himself, Rozer handed Hervan one of the cups. The contents smelled quite dreadful to Hervan. He lowered the warm steam away from his face, knowing it was not time yet to drink.
No one has to know,
he assured himself.
Least of all Father. His spies can't report on me out here
.

“I must say, Captain, you played your part very well by asking the priest to do this,” Rozer said. “Taking the officially safe route, when all the time you knew we could do more. Is the protector satisfied?”

“No, but the priest is. We've scared him enough, I think,” Hervan replied with bravado. “And if he is a spy, he'll report that I did everything in the approved manner.”

“Damned Reformant,” Taime muttered. “Ain't his job to go around preaching to the men. Some of what he says is culled straight from Vindicant text, but some of it is pig-wash.”

“We'll have to get rid of him before we venture into the Hidden Ways,” Rozer said.

“That's easy,” Hervan told them. “The wounded will be left here in camp. He'll stay behind to minister to them.”

Rozer hesitated. “Er, yes, if that's the way you want it done.”

Hervan stared at him in surprise, suddenly wondering if Rozer had meant that the priest should be killed.

“I heard the protector yelling about sending for Brondi reinforcements,” Rozer said. “Will we wait for them?”

“No.”

The men stiffened, and Hervan said quickly, “By the time they arrive, the trail will be too cold. I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't want to ride back to New Imperia like a whipped dog. Considering the proud history of our regiment, do you want to be known for a failure like this?”

They exchanged looks in the moonlight, and he knew he had their complete attention. “No word to Brondi,” he said, his voice firm. “We make do without reinforcements, and we don't send a courier to report what's happened.”

A grim silence fell over them, broken by Taime. “We could be hanged for dereliction of duty.”

“Only if we fail,” Hervan said.

“It's still a risk, sir.”

“I know that. But if we go strictly by the book and sit here on our duffs waiting for reinforcements, we'll never find her.”

“What if we go after her now and still fail to find her?” another man asked.

“We mustn't fail.”

“But, Captain, if we do?”

Hervan frowned, impatient with their doubts. “Then we'd have to desert.”

Rozer grinned, his eyes alight at the challenge, but some of the others looked alarmed.

“That's dishonor!” Taime said, squinting and hostile. “Never been done in the Crimsons. I ain't going to be the first.”

“Then we don't fail.”

They still looked unconvinced.

“See here,” Hervan said. “Aside from the lady's plight, think of ours. If we follow regulations now, our careers are finished.”

A murmur went around the group. Several nodded.

Rozer leaned forward. “It's either get her back or serve out the rest of our days patrolling a salt island off the Madrun coast.”

“That's right,” Hervan said.

“Those whoreson renegades have us outnumbered,” Taime said. “And if they've got magic on their side, real magic for battle, how—”

“They caught us by surprise this time,” Hervan said. “They won't do it again. And they won't expect us to go after them. Poulso says their magic is weak. It must be, since they haven't the shadow god to support them.”

“Seemed strong enough today,” a man chimed in.

“It doesn't take strength to open the Hidden Ways,” Hervan said. “There's a trick to how it's done.”

“Do you know it?” Rozer asked.

“Of course not.”

They grinned at Hervan's answer, and he grinned back. “We'll need a guide,” he said.

That sobered them.

Taime glanced around at the others. “I've put in ten years of service. And I had to unswear my secret oaths to stay in. Some of you have done that, too. Some of you”—he glanced at Hervan—“are new enough you don't know what that required.”

“Damned Reformants,” a man named Aszondal muttered in the dark.

Taime nodded. “Going into the Hidden Ways unprotected by Alcua is risky. And if we do get through, and live to tell about it, it'll be called treason.”

“No one has to know but us,” Hervan said.

“Once we go through we're in this together to the finish,” Rozer added. He grinned fearlessly. “I'm willing to take the risk. Gault knows I have no choice. If I lose my commission—or my head—my lady betrothed will never forgive me for the shame of it.”

“Be serious,” Hervan said.

“I am! I dare not risk losing her fortune to pay off my gambling debts.”

The men chuckled at his joke but refused to meet each other's eyes.

“This is no game, men,” Hervan said. “And nothing to boast about in the barracks later.”

“We'll have to swear each other to strict secrecy,” Taime said. “Or face the hanging rope.”

Hervan frowned, wishing the man would stop talking about executions.

“A blood oath!” Rozer said in delight. “I haven't sworn one of those since Light Bringer took the throne.”

“Forbidden, ain't they?” Taime said gloomily.

Anxious not to lose their support, Hervan lifted his hand. “We'll risk all for the lady. Are you with me on that?”

“Aye,” Aszondal said with a sigh. “She's worth my life. I'll say that.”

“Aye,” said another.

“Aye.”

Hervan's heart swelled with pride and relief. They were good men, brave fellows, every last one of them.

“She could be dead already,” Taime said. “Like Lady Fyngie with her neck broke.”

Rozer broke into a fit of coughing, and Hervan could have cheerfully strangled the sergeant at that moment.

“Then we take home her corpse,” he said. “I can't face Light Bringer empty-handed.”

Glumly they nodded agreement.

“So we'll do it?” Hervan asked.

“We must,” Rozer said.