The Sacred Band (21 page)

Corinn said, “We were thinking, Jason, about the charge I gave you earlier—about creating a horse lore.”

The scholar jumped at the mention of his name. “Yes, I’ve been working on that. There are many ancient references to be expanded upon. Did you know that Talayans once had a horse culture? I didn’t know until I dug deep into the archives. You’ll be fascinated. I’ve collected documents for you to consider.” He turned to hand the folder to a servant, who would bring it around the table to Corinn.

“Um … I don’t think so,” the queen said. She indicated with curl of her lip that the servant need not bother. “We’re going to scrap that idea.”

Jason stared at her, at a loss for words for a moment. “Your Majesty,” he eventually said, “ ‘scrap’ it?”

“An idea for yesterday,” Aliver said, picking up for his sister. “The notion of another life entirely. No, instead, work on a lore of winged riders.”

“Winged riders …”

“Are exactly the thing to excite the masses.”

“But … there have never been winged riders. Not until Mena and—”

“There will be more than just Elya,” Corinn said. “There will be.”

In the face of such dual certainty, Jason withered. He took back his documents and mumbled that he would begin researching that very afternoon.

Winged riders? Dagon wanted to laugh, but the knot that formed in his stomach told him there was something to this. When was the last time his agents had seen Elya’s young? He had a sudden realization that the maid who funneled information from the palace had been silent on the subject lately. He would have to check. Could the queen be doing something with them? She must be. She was confident enough in her actions to flaunt it here, among her councilor enemies.

In everything as they talked on, the royal siblings shared the same mind. How bothersome. Even when Aliver set his light brown eyes on the leagueman himself it might as well have been Corinn doing so. “Sire Dagon, what of the search for my brother? I read the last dispatch, but you must give us more than vague hopes and possibilities.”

“I’m afraid I cannot, Your Highness. Our search continues, of course, but there has been no word of your brother at all.” Aliver stared at him. “It’s our top priority in the Other Lands, I assure you.”

The prince made a sour face. It was startling, until he followed it with a gesture of his fingers, as if he were opening his hand to drop seeds. Dagon recognized it for what it was—a Talayan expression of grudging acknowledgment. “I’m sure that’s so, but Dariel is lost in a foreign land! What can be more important than finding him?”

More likely he’s dead in a foreign land
, Dagon came very near to saying. “Dare I say it, but we may never do that, Your Highness.”

Aliver leaned forward, set both elbows on the table. “Then the league will have me to answer to. Let me be clear. This will happen. You will find Dariel. Everything about the empire’s relationship with the league depends on it. Do you understand that, Sire Dagon? Need I detail exactly what I mean?”

The whelp is threatening me! Dagon thought. He’s threatening the league and making sure everyone here knows it. Corinn looked as pleased as a proud mother.

The other thing it convinced him of was that Queen Corinn had evolved into a greater danger than the league had anticipated. It was not just that every rumor about what she had achieved through sorcery appeared to be true. Nor was it that her demeanor was more self-satisfied than he had ever seen. It was none of the things Dagon detailed about the weapons she had at her disposal. It was, instead, that for brief moments he was sure her eyes sparked with madness. He was sure nobody else noticed. It was there, though, a quiver at their corners on occasion. Once it looked as if she saw something in the room that was not actually there.

By the late hour that the meeting concluded, Dagon knew he would have to send his brothers a troubling report. The situation was not as chaotically tranquil as they had anticipated. More was at work than they had known. The league could not simply float above the bloodshed, watch the shuffling of pieces, and accept any outcome as beneficial. Not when Corinn raised the dead and destroyed small armies and planned to fly men on dragons. With all that, she might actually triumph! What a terrifying thought.

In his quarters in the league area of Acacia, Dagon moved swiftly. There were enough leaguemen in Alecia to convene a partial council. He would sail for the Mainland and commune with them there. He wrote a quick missive and had it sent ahead of him via the swiftest of his messenger birds. He penned it in the league’s archaic script so that he could speak directly. No fear of anyone decoding the message.

Brothers
,

Aliver lives. I have seen and touched him. The queen’s power expands to danger
.

We must meet
.

He signed it by pressing a fingertip smeared with his own blood on the parchment.

Rialus did his best to explain that he need not be brought along. Calrach was going. He could surely provide all the pertinent information. He knew more than Rialus did about the Ice Fields and all that. Rialus would just be deadweight. An extra burden. Besides—and this was no small thing—Rialus was not good with heights.

He need not have tired his tongue. Devoth’s mind was made up. Rialus’s objections influenced him no more than a buzzing gnat would have—if there had been any buzzing gnats in this arctic hell. Devoth only acknowledged his protests as if Rialus were being self-denigrating. A willful misinterpretation if Rialus had ever seen one. It did not help matters that Sabeer offered to ride with Rialus between her legs, for extra warmth, she said.

Devoth pointedly ignored her. “Come, Rialus, it’s no bother. You’re my guest.”

Rialus found himself standing in the blistering cold, so weighted with furs that just staying upright was a mighty effort. Before him, like stone statues brought to life, moving with their strange, regally bestial mannerisms, stood the fréketes. Rialus had learned that there were only twelve of them. Though furless and naked, they took no notice of the cold. They shifted every so often, but did so as if posing before an audience, flexing their muscles and stretching their wings, which shone blue-black against the gray wall of the sky. Quota minders moved around them. Some climbed about on the leather harnesses strapped to the creatures’ backs, making adjustments. A few seemed to be massaging oils into their skin.

The massive size of the fréketes was bad enough. The fact that their bodies had humanoid musculature—masculine yet somehow sexless—was even worse. But their pale faces truly made Rialus want to slither away. Large, round eyes set in apelike features, proud and cocky and malicious at the same time. They did not look like dumb beasts at all. Rather, they gave the impression of intelligent creatures bored and unimpressed by life, doubtfully hoping that this whole mad invasion might prove diverting.

“That one is my mount.” Devoth smacked Rialus on the shoulder and pointed at one of the nearer fréketes. He named it something that Rialus did not catch in the slightest. It sounded like a sputtering grunt cut short by a sneeze, then snapped away on the wind at that. “But you can call him Bitten. You will like him, Rialus.”

Not likely.

“Listen, though.” Devoth pulled him near and whispered, almost as if he feared the creatures would overhear. “Don’t look them in the eyes.”

“What?”

“I’m telling you. Don’t look them in the eyes. They don’t like it. Not from any but their riders. They’re particular, Rialus. Take no offense at it.” Devoth smacked him on the back, an impact that nearly sent Rialus sprawling.

Other Auldek arrived, jolly and shouting at one another, blowing plumes of mist. Calrach had never looked more pleased with himself. Herith and Millwa actually sang verses of some ghastly song. Menteus Nemré was among them also. He stood with the Auldek, not with any of the quota slaves. Even with his body wrapped in furs the sculpted musculature showed through. His hood was thrown back. Perhaps it had to be, considering the way his mass of white dreadlocks jutted out from his scalp like an unruly mane of thick snakes.

For a while they milled around as if just enjoying the morning, but at some point the Auldek announced that it was time to depart. The quota handlers jumped from the beasts as the Auldek clambered up them. With Devoth climbing up after him and several slaves directing him, Rialus scaled their frékete’s back. Slaves pushed him into position, shoving his limbs through straps, buckling him down. Before he knew it he was spread-eagled against the creature’s back, immobile. Devoth took up a position just behind him, pressing against him in a more intimate position than Rialus had ever experienced with a man. Rialus set his cheek against the frékete’s warm skin, closed his eyes, and tried to think of …

The frékete bellowed. Rialus felt the vibrations through his cheek and chest and thighs, a sound so complete it became everything for a few moments. As it faded, the creature shifted from leg to leg. The muscles in its back quivered, and then it leaped. Rialus’s internal organs tried to slip out of him and stay earthbound. They caught down around his groin and went hurdling into the air with the rest of him.

For a few seconds it seemed they would just rise indefinitely with the power of that first leap, but then the momentum slowed. They reached a zenith and the mighty wings flared. They flew, slanting away with a speed that this time shoved Rialus’s insides up against one side of his rib cage. Devoth howled in pleasure; the frékete answered; Rialus clung, eyes still shut, miserable.

For a time the frékete pounded its wings vigorously. The beasts called to one another, and the riders on them shouted as if to top them. Soon they developed a slow rhythm, one wingbeat followed by a long pause before the next. Judging by the way wind ripped at him and howled in his ears, they must have been moving at great speed. Rialus could not know for sure, though. He kept his hood fastened tight and endured the passing hours and constant motion as best he could.

The expedition took nearly a week. They flew east along the ragged, ice-choked coast, camping on the boulder-strewn beach with a wall of stone pressing them toward the sea. Massive rivers of ice choked the few gaps in the mountains. Fissured. Groaning and cracking as if alive. Impenetrable. Beautiful in a way that confounded Rialus. The ice glistened blue, clear as glass in some places, touched with swirls of red in others. Certain formations he would have thought sculpted by artists, save the scale was too massive. It was a work out of proportion for human contemplation, as was his view of it on the occasions he looked down from thousands of feet in the air.

For a few days Rialus felt a bubbling of hope and fear in his chest. He knew that farther south the mountains jutted right out into the sea. No rolling army could pass there. Perhaps there was no route. Perhaps they would have to turn back and Calrach would lose his head and Rialus would … well, he would spend the rest of his days in Ushen Brae.

It was a short-lived notion. Flying on south, they found the gap in the stone barricade, the very one that Calrach insisted existed. No river of ice flowed in this one. Perhaps it once had, but now it just lay before them, the long tongue of a peaceful valley. They turned inland, scouting a route through the mountains and eventually out onto the Ice Fields. The Auldek became more and more pleased with everything they observed. The route through the mountains was navigable. The ice of the fields was solid enough for all their structures and beasts to roll over. Everything was as Calrach had said. Because of it, his stature among the small group grew in direct proportion to the degree to which Rialus’s hopes shriveled.

Their destination before returning to the war column was Tavirith, the northernmost trading outpost along the Candovian coast. Rialus himself had named the place a few days before they flew out. He had been there only once while governor of the Mein satrapy. He had never thought he would return.

When Bitten touched down, Rialus did not really believe they had made it that far. They had been flying long enough that he had lost track of time and distance, but at some level he could not believe these arctic wastes would ever end. He did not so much feel as if they were hiking toward one world as he felt they were marching out of the world entirely, into endless nothing.

Devoth dismounted before him, and was off conferring with the other Auldek by the time Rialus touched his feet to the ice-crusted stones of the windswept beach. He moved away from Bitten, not trusting the beast without Devoth beside him. He found himself too close to one of the other hulking fréketes, so he moved forward and a little to the side of where the Auldek stood conferring. He tried to make sense of the low, dull light, but he could not even say what time of day it was. They could be anyplace. Anyplace at all in this forsaken barrenness.

He had just begun to turn and look toward the north when something caught his eye. Shapes huddled in the shadow of the dunes to the south. A cluster of geometry just ordered enough to stand out. As he stared, the details became clearer and clearer. A village. There a second cluster of houses. What looked like large stones on the shore were the hulls of beached boats, and that clutter of sticks was actually an old pier. Smoke rose from several chimneys. The moment he spotted the plumes he smelled them as well. Embedded in the side of one building was a square of glowing yellow light. He had been inside that building. He had looked out of that very window.

“Is this it?” Howlk asked. “Tavirith?”

The Auldek had gathered to either side of him, studying the same view he was studying. Rialus yanked his eyes away, as if he could deny that he had seen anything. He did not want to answer. And yet, there it was, a piece of the Known World again.

“Rialus, tell us,” Sabeer said. “Is that Tavirith?”

He only meant to acknowledge it to himself, but the word escaped him. “Yes.”

“Yeesss!” Howlk hissed. “Yeesss! I knew it. I can smell Acacians.”

The people of Tavirith were hardly Acacians—more a mix of ancestral Candovians, combined with some of the Scav who were their own race, perhaps a few of Meinish stock and a motley collection of others, misfits who had fled the real world and washed up here.