The Pearls (23 page)

It registered then, how close she'd come to losing her head with Tylik, how close his sword tip had passed before her face.

Shudders ran through her. She couldn't catch her breath enough to speak. Her heart was racing hard, making the blood pound in her ears.

“Lea! Answer me.”

Something in his voice reached through her shock. She managed to shake her head.

The commander gripped her hand and pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her knees dipped and wobbled.

The barbed
quai
of death and killing engulfed her, and so potent was this man's aura of violence that she felt dizzy, unable to regain her wits. Her gown was soaked with Tylik's blood. The hot, fresh stench of it made her gasp for breath. She sank to the verge of a swoon, and the commander's arm slid around the small of her back, holding her up.

“You
are
hurt,” he said roughly, lifting her in his arms and carrying her farther up the bank. He laid her on a drifted pile of soft leaves, away from the gore, and crouched beside her. A crease etched his brow. When he smoothed her hair back from her eyes and brushed dirt from her cheek, his touch was gentle.

“Lea. Lea,” he whispered.

Her eyes opened fully, and for a moment she found herself looking into his unguarded gaze. His eyes were those of a normal man, one who cared. She blinked, and he drew back from her at once.

“I could have killed you,” he said gruffly.

“I thought you had.” Her face puckered as she saw again in her mind Tylik's head flying through the air, spraying blood as it went. “Why didn't you just hit him? You could have punished him without—why did you kill him like that?”

Anger slammed a door between them. “Little fool!” the commander said. “Leading a blackguard like that to a tryst.”

His unjust accusation rallied her. She sat up. “I didn't. I didn't!”

“What did you expect, running off from camp? You knew you'd be followed. This offal was bound to seize his chance.”

The unfairness of his blame stung her. She bit back her denials, too proud to defend herself further, and stared up at him through tear-filled eyes. That's when the
sevaisin
came again, without warning, involuntarily, and just as powerfully as before.

Alarmed, she tried to break the connection, but he was quicker in slashing it. He jumped away from her as though arrow-shot and clenched the hand that moments before had been smoothing her hair. His breath came as short and raggedly as hers. But while her head was filled with marvel, he was glaring, as red as fire.

“Damn you,” he breathed out. “Damn you!”

She reached out her hand. “So that is what you—”

He whirled away, slamming his bloody sword into its sheath without cleaning it and drawing a war axe from his belt. It was short-handled, more of a hatchet, and its steel head caught the sun in gleaming reflection as he seized a sapling and chopped it off in a single blow. Another blow cut off its leafy crown. Tossing it aside, he chopped down another, and another, working fast until he had an armload of pike-length stakes.

Pointing with his axe, he said, “Over there.”

Confused, unsure at first of what he meant to do, Lea walked over to the stream. Inside, she was a messy confusion of impressions stolen from his mind during that brief joining of
sevaisin
. Thoughts of jealousy and betrayal and fury and guilt and concern and cold intention tumbled about until she could barely think. As they faded, however, one thing clarified in her mind.

“You're going to fight,” she said in a whisper. “Are the Crimsons here?”

A grim smile touched his mouth. “The Crimsons are going to die.”

“No, please!”

Without looking up, he thrust the crudely cut stakes one by one into the ground, making a sort of tall fence that encircled her. She did not understand what he was doing. The soil was soft. She could pull these stakes out and escape easily. Yet when she put out her hand to grasp one, he spoke a curt word of magic.

The wood sparked power against her hand, flinging it off. She retreated instinctively, although her enclosure was so small she could take no more than two or three steps in any direction.

“Don't do this,” she said, pleading with him. She tried to step through a gap, tried to reach for his arm, but he thrust her back. “All this time we've stayed ahead of them. Why attack them now?”

He pushed the last stake into the ground and stepped back. His eyes burned like black holes in the pallor of his face. “I let them live once, most of them.”

“Yes, yes, you did. I thanked you for it. Why change that decision?”

“Because they do not quit.”

Her chin lifted high. “Of course not. They are the Household Regiment and sworn to keep me safe.”

“Better they had never dogged my trail,” he said, looking unimpressed. “They should have accepted the trickery laid before them and turned back at Falenthis.”

“Is that your only reason?” she asked. “That they refuse to follow your plan? Is that your only reason for attacking them now, from ambush like a barbarian?”

He frowned. “How do you know—” With a curt gesture, he cut himself off. “I see that you made swift use of
sevaisin
, reading my mind.”

“And you're evading my question. Have you no good reason for what you do?”

“I have excellent reasons for everything I do.”

His contempt made her feel like a child who cannot win a reasoned argument and so wants to scream in frustration.

“How can you condemn them for trying to save me?” she whispered.

“How can you expect me to do otherwise?” His gaze seared her. “Am I to welcome them into camp and hand you over with a smile?”

“Trick them!” she insisted. “You have wiles you haven't begun to use. Throw them off. Use whatever means you must, but don't slay them.”

He gave her a mocking little bow. “I'm flattered that you believe my fighting prowess is superior to theirs. Or do you see the future and know the outcome of this little battle already?”

She bit her trembling lip. “Yes, I see it. I know its ending.”

Her admission seemed to surprise him, but he recovered quickly. Raising both hands, he spoke words of shadow magic in a low, gruff voice.

The
jaiethquai
of this place—already disrupted by his slaying of Tylik—shattered completely before the assault of his magic. Biting off a cry, Lea stumbled back as far from him as the enclosure would permit. The words he spoke hurt her. She pressed her hands to her ears, whispering words of a different kind of countermagic, but she was too late. The glowing force of his spell held her trapped, like an insect in a bottle.

“In Gault's name, you don't have to do this,” she said.

He lowered his hands, looking strained by the effort he'd made. “It goes too far. They follow you too well. That stops now. For the sake of my br—it stops now.”

“Shadrael!” she cried.

He jerked to a halt and spun around, eyes blazing. “You know? How dare you address me as though we are—”

He broke off, but fiery embarrassment was already spreading through Lea. He did not have to complete his sentence for her to understand. An unmarried woman did not address a man unrelated to her so intimately unless they were betrothed. She had used his name without thinking, used the knowledge gained through
sevaisin
as naturally as drawing breath. Horrified, she struggled not to show her mortification.

“I—I—Commander Shadrael,” she said, fumbling to correct her error by speaking more formally, “I beg you not to—”

“My name is not for your use!” he shouted. “I warned you not to seek knowledge of me beyond what I've shown you!”

On some level, it touched her that he could be so upset by her knowledge. She understood that he was protecting her from himself, in his own misguided, terrible way, just as he'd protected her from Tylik.

“You are not as evil as you believe yourself to be,” she said now in kindness. “You—”

His curt gesture cut her off. “You were not to know,” he said as though to himself. “You were not to know! Everything can now be linked to—”

“As soon as we've broken camp, we'll ride away. You can lose the cavalrymen in these hills. Don't, please don't do this. Let them go. You don't have to kill them.”

“My name is death,” Commander Shadrael said, staring into the distance. “My mouth holds a killing breath. My eye is blight, as fierce as Mael's. I was born to destroy, trained to—”

“Mael is destroyed. Beloth is destroyed,” she said urgently. “Their reign is broken, and the world is free to grow and rebuild. You're free, too. Don't you see? You need not serve them anymore.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “Don't bleat your assurances to me. I was a doomed man long before Light Bringer came to break the world. As for liberty, there is no such thing. I am chained to stone for all time, and one day the demons will feed on my entrails.”

So bitterly did he speak, so raw and exposed was his inner anguish that she faltered. She did not know how to comfort him, did not know how to make him believe or hope.

He stepped closer to her magical cage. “You understand nothing, Lea. Nothing! The Crimsons are using magic to track you. Shadow magic, the kind your brother has forbidden.”

“No,” she whispered, shocked anew. “I don't believe you.”

“That's because you think the world spins all new and fresh, balanced on the triad of harmony. You forget that as long as men crawl in the mud and breathe the wind they will know hatred and enmity. Resentment dies hard, little girl. Betrayal and guilt and evil do not fade away just because you wish it. Your friends use forbidden magic in
your
cause. They have broken your pretender brother's express law, to save
you
. Who is to blame for their treason, if not you?”

“But—”

“Because of
you
, they will die.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could brush them away. “I have not asked this of them. I haven't!”

“Haven't you?” He walked over to Tylik's corpse, heedless of the blood he stepped in, and nudged it with his toe before glancing back at her. “Are you not divinely beautiful? Divinely attractive? Your face is reason enough for any man to sacrifice his last breath. You don't have to ask with words, Lea. Your very existence calls out the question, and we all answer it, fools and puppets that we are.”

Stabbed by his comments, she forced herself to meet his eyes, so bright with scorn. She did not know how to answer him. The brittleness of his voice warned her to stay silent.

He went on glaring, his face pinched and white. The hem of his cloak was wicking up a dead man's blood. His armor looked like night in the blazing corona of late afternoon sun. He started to say something else, but her lacerated heart cried out in defense.

As though he heard that silent cry, he mercifully closed his mouth instead, his lips compressing tight. Abruptly turning on his heel, he walked away from her without looking back.

R
iding
along a rocky trail too narrow at times for two horses abreast, Hervan felt perspiration trickling down his scalp beneath his helmet. His shoulder no longer ached unless his horse did something to jolt it hard, but he'd grown gaunt and tough from these days of pursuit, driving himself beyond the limits he once thought he had. This was terrible country, all low hills and little canyons. The ground was mostly gravel and stone, the undergrowth stunted shrubs full of thorns that scratched his boots and the horses' legs.

He found it impossible to see far enough ahead in such broken terrain to shake the sense that they were being watched and perhaps about to be attacked. And although he was crowding his scouts, riding almost at their heels instead of waiting, he no longer cared about the risks he ran.

A sort of dogged obsession had gripped him, fed by misery and physical hardship. The fact that the mercenaries had so far not been able to elude him kept him going. Every night and dawn he checked the opal against his map, and he felt certain now that he knew where Lea was being taken. By his estimate, they were less than ten leagues from Kanidalon, where the Ninth Legion was stationed. Help was within reach, yet he stubbornly refused to seek it.

“Sir!”

One of his scouts—bearded, ragged, filthy—jumped into the path of Hervan's horse, startling the animal so much it reared up. Hervan curbed it at once, but the jolt to his healing shoulder was painful.

Swearing, he sawed at the reins enough to back his mount away from the man and issued orders for the squadron to halt.

“Gods, are you mad?” he asked, glaring down at the scout. Only then did he notice that the man had blood running down the side of his face and looked more disheveled than usual. Throttling his temper, Hervan asked, “What's happened? What is it?”

“Captain,” the scout said, out of breath. “They must be close by. Their scouts…we've been seen.”

Rozer squeezed his horse up beside Hervan's and tossed the scout a water skin. Hervan fidgeted impatiently while the man drank.

“Report,” he commanded.

“Well, sir. We were looking at some old tracks, trying to make sense of them, when these men came up from behind us. Moving fast. Blundered right into us. We did our best to fight, but one got away.” The scout paused to rub the back of his wrist across his lips and handed back the water skin.

Hervan asked, “Are you sure they're with the men we're looking for?”

“Had army tattoos,” the scout said. “The pair of 'em carried no water, no food on their belts. They're camped somewhere close, no doubt of it.”

“Damn,” Hervan mumbled. “They'll run like—”

“Unless they set up a trap for us,” Rozer said.

At Hervan's nod, Rozer pulled out the map. The pale doeskin had grown grubby from much handling, but the bright inks glowed richly in the afternoon sunlight. Hervan held the opal over the map, and where it started to glow, Rozer scraped a small X with the point of his dagger.

“We're a hard day's ride, maybe two, from the Ulinian border,” Rozer said.

A gruff voice cleared its throat behind them. Hervan looked over his shoulder to see Thirbe coming up, grizzled and gaunt, his face as seamed as old leather.

“What's all this?” the protector demanded. “News? We in Ulinia yet?”

“Not according to the map.”

“The map,” Thirbe said with scorn. He spat. “Feels like Ulinia. Looks like Ulinia. Going to stumble over a baron's boundary mark any time now.” He scowled past Hervan at the scout. “You found anything?”

“They've spotted us, sir.”

Thirbe's expression turned grim, and his eyes narrowed. “Have they, now? So they're waiting for us to catch up, are they? This country is built for ambush. The worst terrain in the empire.”

“We're going to trick them first,” Hervan said.

Rozer's expression grew eager and keen. Rolling up the map, he backed away, making room for Thirbe to come closer.

The protector never took his gray eyes off Hervan. “You got something in mind, son, spit it out.”

Hervan turned to the scout. “Get out there and find their camp. Don't let them see you this time, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rozer lobbed his water skin back to the scout, who caught it with a grateful grin and melted into the undergrowth as though he'd never been there.

“I'll bet you a ducat he's not going to the warlord,” Rozer said to Hervan, “but to that Vindicant hideout no one can find.”

Hervan frowned at him. “You have no evidence that the Vindicants are in Ulinia, only hearsay.”

“Be a coup for us if we found it, though.”

“The lady comes first!” Thirbe said sharply.

Hervan and Rozer exchanged looks, and Hervan didn't bother to hide his exasperation. “Obviously,” he said. “Which is why we have to attack them
before
they go over the border.”

“Or is it that you'll have to report to the Ninth?” Thirbe asked harshly.

Hervan stared at him, feeling the heat of his skepticism, not wanting to answer.

“Aye,” Thirbe said. “That legion commander has jurisdiction, and his authority will supersede yours.”

“It's not about who gets the glory of saving her,” Hervan said quickly. “But prying her loose from Lord Vordachai will require a siege.”

“And I still put my money on the Vindicants,” Rozer said.

Hervan glared at him. “Will you forget the Gault-forsaken priests? If we are following Lord Shadrael, we mustn't forget that he's related to the warlord. His brother, in fact. His loyalty will be there.”

Rozer gave Thirbe a nudge with his elbow. “Would you please remind the captain that the army doesn't permit family ties? Any mercenary worth his sword will work for the highest bidder. I say the priests.”

“Ex-priests,” Hervan snarled. “They haven't money anymore. Besides, he's—”

“Hold! The pair of you!” Thirbe broke in. “I've listened to this brangling long enough. Act like officers, damn you, and remember what we're here for.”

Anger swept through Hervan, but he managed to curb what he really wanted to say. “No one's forgotten anything.”

Thirbe grunted. “You been following someone who may just be one of the best strategists in the army for how many days now, and you ain't figured out that he's never going to do the obvious? He's got some devious plan up his sleeve, bound to, leading us around these hills, and if we don't look sharp we're going to lose him.”

Hervan glanced at Rozer. “Get the priest.”

As the lieutenant backed his horse away, Hervan drew a deep breath and turned to Thirbe. “Haven't you wondered how I've been tracking these blackguards so closely? Even when they've left a cold trail?”

“Got my opinions about it.”

“You're so sure the man ahead of us is going to ambush us. Only I'm going to surprise him first.” He showed Thirbe the opal. “This is our guide. Lady Fyngie showed me how to use its powers.”

“Have you taken sunstroke?” Thirbe asked. “I ain't gutsnapped enough to believe that. The lady's dead, and that's just a stone.”

“No, no, and no,” Hervan said, enjoying seeing the protector flustered. “Lady Fyngie's ghost haunts my dreams nightly, making sure I'm going to avenge her. And…the others, of course.”

“Maybe you'd better rest a bit,” Thirbe said. “Or go easy on the mead.”

Despite himself, Hervan grew hot under his cheekbones. Thirbe's sarcasm was like a thorn prick, always painful. No matter how much he steeled himself, Hervan was never quite prepared for it.

“Look at the opal, damn you! It was given to Lady Lea by a water spirit just before she was taken.”

“Aye, I remember that. And I remember her putting it back.” Thirbe scowled. “How come you by it?”

“Never mind,” Hervan said. “Just know that it is our talisman and our guide to her. Do you want to see it glow?”

Thirbe's horse suddenly flung up its head as though he'd tightened the reins. “There'll be none of that,” he said sharply. “Talking to ghosts and calling up spirits. You're no—is the priest in league with you?”

Hervan laughed. “No. But you're in league with me, predlicate.”

“I ain't a predlicate now,” Thirbe began, then clamped his mouth shut and glared at Hervan with suspicious, angry eyes. “So that's it. You've found a way in? You want to get ahead of them?”

“Exactly,” Hervan said. “Use the Hidden Ways to jump ahead of our quarry and give those devils the surprise of their lives.”

But Thirbe was already shaking his gray head. “That'll put the lady right in the heart of battle. No good.”

“Stop thinking like a protector, damn you, and remember your predlicate training!”

“Does no good to track the lady all this way if you're going to see her caught on someone's sword.”

Hervan's temper flared hot and violent inside him, but he curbed it, clamping his jaw so hard he could feel his teeth grinding together. “Then, once we're through, it will be your job to protect her.”

“Still risky. He could slit her throat the moment we appear.”

“Are you going to throw this opportunity away?” Hervan asked. “Just refuse to help her now that we're—”

“Could have done this any number of times,” Thirbe broke in. “Why now? Why today?”

“We've been through all that. I must rescue her before we cross the border.”

“Who's going to know?”

“Stop acting stupid. We've been seen by his scouts. We've got to act now before he turns on us, or flees.”

Thirbe glanced behind him. “Priest's coming. He said before he couldn't do it. Think you can change his mind for him this time? Or is this ghost that's haunting you going to do it for us?”

“That's enough,” Hervan said, his voice low and mean.

They locked eyes, and Thirbe seemed to see the fury that Hervan could barely control. His weathered face went bland.

“Maybe it is,” he said mildly. “You really believe the priest can do it?”

“A former Vindicant priest has to know how.” Hervan set his jaw. “I'll force him to do it this time, Protector, but I need to know you're with me all the way.”

“Listen, running through the Hidden Ways ain't as easy as you seem to think it is,” Thirbe began. “If you don't—”

Hervan frowned. “You can't be afraid to go in there!”

“You ain't never gone through. Ain't never come face-to-face with shadow.”

“Gods, man, what does that matter? The shadows are gone. The Hidden Ways hold nothing to harm us now. Don't try to frighten us with old stories about lurking demons and the breath of Beloth.”

“This ain't a stroll through a garden,” Thirbe said, his voice sharp. “There's danger yet, and you got no experience.”

Somehow Hervan held on to his temper. “That's why I'm asking—no, telling—you to guide us through. Leave the rest to me. Here's Poulso.”

He swung away from Thirbe to smile broadly at the priest. Poulso had lost weight, making his jowls sag. His ugly wart had grown even more prominent and unsightly. A terrible rider, he'd suffered miserably on this hard journey, but so had Hervan with a broken collarbone. The captain wasted no pity on him.

“We've come to a crisis, priest, and need your help.”

Poulso looked eager. “I will be glad to say prayers for the men—”

“Not that,” Hervan broke in. “We've little time if we're to save Lady Lea. Open the Hidden Ways for us now, and be quick about it.”

“What?” Poulso's prominent eyes bugged farther. “What are you saying, Captain?”

“You heard me.”

The priest looked swiftly from Hervan to Rozer to Thirbe. “But—but I can't! I thought I'd made that clear.”

“You did,” Thirbe said grimly.

“Then—”

“We're no longer asking,” Hervan said. “We're telling you. We have one chance to save her, and we're taking it right now.”

“But—but this is impossible. Quite impossible! It's forbidden.”

Swift as thought, Rozer put his dagger to the priest's throat.

Poulso's face drained of color. He sat frozen in his saddle, his mouth open and gasping for air. “Light of Gault, preserve me from—”

“Shut up!” Rozer said while a thin trickle of blood ran down Poulso's throat. “None of that. Do as the captain has ordered you.”

“No, no! I won't!”

“You haven't a choice,” Rozer said.

Poulso rolled his eyes toward Hervan. “Do you know what you're asking? To enter shadow, to partake of evil willingly? Do you realize what it will cost you?”