The Sacred Band (15 page)

The mood held through to that evening. They dined on the back terraces of Corinn’s gardens. Servants brought up standing torches that ringed the diners and fought back the evening’s chill. They ate braised eel in a ginger sauce, served over sticky rice that Aaden insisted on forming into balls with his fingers. Corinn let him. They were not on display this evening, not even among the court. They were alone, all the family she could have near at hand. When Aliver pinged Aaden with a long bean, Corinn laughed as loudly as anyone. When Rhrenna toasted the queen’s victory in Teh, Corinn sent a charm snaking up her arm and into all the glasses as they clinked together, just a further lightening of the mood, a feeling like bubbles floating in the air around them, popping in gentle kisses on their skin.

They talked of nothing pressing. Aaden peppered his uncle with questions about his youth. Aliver responded with tales of his boyhood, of his journey into Talay in exile, of growing to manhood there. After dinner, he acted out his laryx hunt with a spear fetched from one of the statues in his hallway. He made the whole thing seem deathly frightening and hilarious at the same time. By the time he finished, Corinn’s stomach ached from laughing. That was a pleasant pain she had not felt for many years.

“Is it just me, or does the harbor seem busier than usual?” Aliver asked a little later, as they sat on the crescent balcony that offered a dizzying view out over the harbor.

Corinn thought of the ridged back of some beast that she had seen cutting through the water earlier, but that was not what he meant. Since nobody else had seen it, she knew it was an imagining for her alone. She was almost used to seeing things that were not real. It was a small price to pay for having the song coursing through her.

What Aliver referred to were the hundreds of very real ships that bobbed on the sea. They choked the harbor and spread out into the open water itself. Black shapes and white and red sails rode the swells, many of them torchlit like an aquatic constellation.

Rhrenna licked lime cream off a tiny dessert spoon. “It appears that we’re being flooded by pilgrims.”

“Pilgrims?”

“Most are from Talay, but not just there. They come to praise Corinn. To pray for Aaden. To spot Elya on the wing. But mostly because of you.”

“Rumors of you have spread far and wide already,” Corinn said to Aliver. “Considering that you strolled through the lower town this morning in broad daylight, we’ll soon be flooded with many more than what you see here.”

“I should go down to greet them,” Aliver said, setting aside his porcelain bowl and spoon as if he would do so at that moment.

“You will,” Corinn said, “but let them talk a bit longer. Let them all talk, from here to the Senate and the league great ships and beyond. Let them talk you into a god. Then we’ll show you to the world for real, and they’ll be all the more amazed. We’ll soon announce your coronation. It will be abrupt, but we’ll already have half the empire floating around us.”

Just then a servant girl dashed into the courtyard. She drew up and stared at the group with frightened eyes. “Your Majesty, pardon me, the—the eggs, Your Majesty, they are cracking. Hatching, I mean.”

Corinn would have chosen to witness this alone, but there was no keeping Aaden and the others from dashing through the hallways with her. Aliver made a show of racing Aaden. Rhrenna asked who would get to name the young. Aaden himself was too giddy with excitement to do anything other than run.

They rushed onto the terrace balcony that had served as Elya’s private hatchery. The creature snapped around. For a moment there was something fierce in the glare of her eyes and the way her head slipped low on her subtle neck. It only lasted a moment, though, and then she was gentle again. When Aaden threw himself around her neck, burying his face in her plumage, Corinn’s fine mood flooded back. She approached carefully, touching first her son’s shoulder and then Elya’s soft back. She leaned forward and gazed into the basin.

And there they were. Elya’s babies. Two of them were completely free of their shells. They squirmed at the edge of the basin, clawing at the fabric that lined it as if they wanted to climb right out and face life. One still stretched and struggled with its shell, and the fourth was but a small snout protruding from a crack in its egg. They were tiny versions of Elya in many ways, plumed with a sleek coat, with serpentine necks and delicate claws. The feathers around their heads were a bristling confusion, though, and they were variously colored. One was crimson at the head and fading to black, while another displayed yellow stripes across a brown back. The one kicking free of shell was sky blue, and the last, from the look of his protruding snout, was all black.

Corinn said, “Look at them. Little beauties.”

At the sound of her voice, all three of the exposed heads turned toward her. They blinked. One’s nostrils flared. The red one cocked its head. The one in the shell thrust its head through in one great effort. It, too, set its gaze on Corinn. My smart babies, she thought. My little dragons. She extended a hand toward them. All four of them followed it with their yellow eyes. When she was near enough, the red one slammed the crown of her head into Corinn’s fingers like an affectionate cat. The others clamored over one another to do the same.

Elya shifted sideways. She touched her shoulder to Corinn’s side and pressed her back. When Aaden tried to stroke the young as well, Elya slipped her own head in before him, pushing against his chest so that he had to step back. She exhaled an impatient breath.

“All right, Elya, care for your children,” Corinn said, pulling back. “Raise them strong for me and for the empire.”

Are you sure?” Mena asked.

Perrin nodded. He was red-faced from the cold and from the brisk hike that had brought him out to meet Mena and the main column of the army. “That’s Tahalian.”

“It looks to be a ruin.”

“It’s seen better days.” He studied the view a moment and then added, “It’s a bit nicer inside.”

“It would have to be.” Mena glanced back at the ragged line of troops moving like a slow river through the valley behind her. Realizing that her eyes were scanning them in search of Melio, she lifted her hand and pressed her eyes closed for a moment.

“Is it habitable?”

“Yes. I might not have thought so a couple of days ago, but two days’ work can fix a lot.”

Perrin and a small corps had gone ahead on horseback to open the fortress and get the steam vents pumping hot air. Judging by the gaping mouth of the thing before them and the plumes of mist that billowed out of several outlets and hung above the place, he had achieved that. His efforts had done nothing for its forlorn appearance. Tahalian huddled close to the ground, more like a huge pile of debris than the grand structure that had once housed the entire Mein race. Its massive pine beams were bracketed together with iron rings. The wood had been silvered by weather. The whole mass was edged with ice and pocketed with early snowfall. The beams canted at angles that were hard to make sense of but that seemed no work of intentional design.

Pointing at a long, low mound a little distance away, Perrin said, “That’s the Calathrock. We’re having trouble opening the vents to it, but we’ll get the place heated soon. It’s impressive, Mena, most of it is dug down into earth. It’ll serve us well.”

I hope so, she thought. I truly hope so.

That evening she arranged for Haleeven Mein to be brought to her in the Calathrock. She stood awaiting him in the massive chamber, inhaling the dank air. It was sulfurous from the partially functioning vent system. The beams that supported the roof fitted together in an intricate lacework that left an open space largely free of columns beneath it. Workers had lit several of the large lanterns. Though their mirrored backings cast considerable light, Mena could barely make out the darker edges of the space. She knelt and ran her fingers over the hardwood floor. Worn to a smooth polish, it was crisscrossed with scrapes and gashes, the telltale signs of the years of martial practice that had gone on in this room, hidden from the Known World. Right here was where Hanish Mein had fought his Maseret duels. Right here he had honed his army, devised his plans. From right here he had launched the assault that nearly ended the Akaran line and that had changed Mena’s life in so many ways.

Perrin appeared in one of the large entranceways some distance away, behind him three others. Mena picked out the man she was here to meet, for his dress and demeanor were so different from that of her soldiers. The four of them began to come forward, but she motioned with her hand. Perrin paused, studied her a moment. He whispered something to the others. The soldiers halted and Perrin indicated that Haleeven should proceed alone.

She had seen the man several times in the aftermath of Aliver’s War. He had escaped the slaughter that took his nephew’s life on Acacia. He had tried to rally what forces he could on the Mainland, but only until he had heard the news of the Talay Plains. After that he gave up. A patrol captured him on a woodland road near the Methalian Rim. It seemed he was walking home, a handful of men around him. None of them put up a fight.

When he was brought bound for a trial in Alecia, Mena had watched him sit stone-faced as the crimes of his people were read out to the new Alecian Senate. He offered no rebuttal. No justification. Nor did he plead for mercy. Never had she seen a man look more defeated.

The Senate had called for his execution—a fate that several of the highranking Meinish survivors had suffered—but Corinn had commuted it. Instead, she had sent him in exile back to the Mein. He had been there ever since, living in a simple hut from which he hunted and chopped wood for the long Meinish winter. She had never been sure if Corinn’s decision had been intended as a punishment or as an act of kindness. Watching Haleeven shuffle toward her now, she thought it more the former than the latter.

Grimy furs covered him, not so much like a coat and leggings as like a motley mass of different pelts, formless and foul smelling. The guards must have taken off his cap. His thin, straw-colored hair was yet pressed to his scalp. Quite a contrast to his beard, which cascaded from his face in unruly swirls and waves. This, too, was soiled, dotted with debris and grease. For a second she doubted that this was the famous brother of Heberen, uncle to the brothers Hanish, Maeander, and Thasren. But only for a second. She recognized his gray eyes and strong nose.

Haleeven’s gaze drifted around the chamber, mouth drooping and lower lip trembling. He seemed to have forgotten Mena before even reaching her, save that he walked in an orbit around her, as if she were a fire that he did not wish to move too far away from.

“Haleeven Mein,” Mena said. “I am Mena Akaran. We have met before. We never spoke, but I … know your face well.”

The old warrior kept circling her. He said something in his tongue, words that rolled out of his mouth like rough-edged stones.

“You have been too long locked out of Tahalian,” Mena said. “It’s time for you to call it home again. For you and—”

Haleeven broke out of his circle and strode away. Mena followed, indicating with a flick of her fingers that Perrin and the guards should stay where they were. Haleeven went to a section of the wall. He ran his hands over it, clearing away the dust. Whatever he saw spurred him on. He wiped in wide sweeps, reaching as high as he could. A cloud of dust gathered around him. He coughed and spoke Meinish and worked his way across the wall. Only when she touched a portion of the cleared area with her fingers did Mena notice the inscriptions in the wood. Names. They ran up and down it in columns. They must have risen to the ceiling, though most of this stretch was coated in dust thick enough to hide them.

Mena was startled to find the old man watching her. He walked back toward her slowly, his gray eyes steady on her. He stopped before her and said something in Meinish.

“I don’t speak your language,” Mena admitted.

“I wish I didn’t speak yours.” Haleeven’s Acacian was accented but clear enough. “I wish I’d never had to learn it. If you are a phantom of my nightmares—”

“I am not a phantom,” Mena said. “Feel my touch.” She held out her hand. He made no move to reach for it. She stepped forward and, hesitating for a moment, grasped the fingers protruding from his furs. “See. We are both flesh.”

“This is really true?”

Mena nodded.

“Why?” Somehow he made the word into more of an accusation than a question.

“Because we face war once more. The entire nation does. Things from the past need to be set aside. Forgotten. We have to—”

“Look at this wall!” Haleeven cut in, gesturing with a quick sweep of his hand. Mena felt the guards stiffen. “The Chieftains’ Tree. These are chieftains’ names. All of them. All of them from the Hauchmeinish’s generation, from the first that your people sent into exile. See? They are all here. From Hauchmeinish to Hanish. With all those who died challenging each chieftain’s given glory here in turn. Look at them.”

Mena raised her chin and did so.

“You want me to forget this? I can’t. Of all the things in the world, this I can’t forget.”

“I’ve … misspoken. That’s not what I mean. I don’t mean that you forget your past. No, it’s important that we remember. Our pasts will forever be entwined, just as our role in creating the danger we face is shared between us even now. My officer explained some of what is happening, didn’t he?”

“They told me of a nightmare that walks in daylight.”

“It’s our shared nightmare, Haleeven. Your people did, after all, first invite the Numrek across the Ice Fields. But we Akarans have done our share to bring them back in an even worse form. Now we need you. We need Tahalian breathing again, warm at her belly. We need the Calathrock to once more ring with troops in training. The fate of the Known World depends on it. The only thing I want us to forget is the animus that caused us both so much grief. Let us remember the facts and learn from them, but let’s start by forgetting hatred.”

Haleeven guffawed. His eyes again slid up along the Chieftains’ Tree. “Two things, then. Two things I can’t ever do.” He walked away, trailing a hand across the wall until he reached the beam that marked its edge. He carried on walking into the dimmer areas of the Calathrock, mumbling to himself again in his own tongue.