The Silver Mage (17 page)

“I do, Mistress.” Hwilli swallowed heavily to clear her voice. “I’m frightened I won’t be worthy.”

“Work hard, and you will be worthy.” Maraladario glanced at Jantalaber. “Thank you for bringing your new apprentice.”

Jantalaber smiled and rose with a quick gesture to Hwilli to follow. The audience had ended.

That night, when Rhodorix came to her chamber, Hwilli considered telling him about her studies and in particular, the meeting with Maraladario, but he’d been drinking with the other guardsmen and seemed muddled. Besides, she suspected that talk of sorcery might frighten him, perhaps even turn him away from her. She’d had so little joy in her brief life that she lived in terror of losing what she now had: her healing knowledge, her dweomer studies, and a man of her own, a man of her own kind who still had as much honor as a fighting man of the People.

Instead of talk she let him fall asleep on her bed. For some while, though, she stayed awake, watching him by candlelight and thanking the gods for letting him love her.

“
Y
ou have to learn to ride wet and cold sooner or later,” Rhodorix told his men. “Today’s a good day for it.”

The guardsmen grumbled, but when Andariel snapped out a string of orders, they obeyed. Rhodorix had judged it time to take his new troop of mounted soldiers off the terrace and into the real terrain beyond. They rode armed. Most of the guardsmen wore a bronze breastplate and carried a long slashing sword in a baldric, though Rhodorix had his own chain hauberk and pattern-welded sword. Five of the mounted men carried the new short bows and quivers of arrows. Andariel had deemed it wise to ride ready for trouble, since trouble lay all around them.

Under a thick gray sky the men walked their horses down the mountain, following a narrow dirt track through the system of terraces, where the farm folk were planting the winter wheat despite the chilly drizzle. Like the farm folk that Rhodorix had grown up with, they were thin, bent-backed, dressed in scruffy brown clothes with their feet wrapped in rags. Overhead birds wheeled, desperate to steal the seeds that the folk flung broadcast on the ground. Children with sticks chased them away.

Back in the homeland, Rhodorix had paid little or no attention to farm folk, but here everything struck him anew.

“These farmers.” Rhodorix waved his arm in their general direction. “They’re Hwilli’s folk?”

“They are,” Andariel said. “We bring this lot up here in the summers. Soon they’ll go back down the mountain with the cattle. The snow up here—it’s too hard on the stock. We send them to the Vale of Roses for the winter.”

Rhodorix had the distinct feeling that he was including the farm folk with the cattle when he referred to “the stock.” He rose in the stirrups for a last survey of the farm folk, but none of the women looked attractive enough to give to Gerontos. They rode on, heading down the mountain. Below in a narrow valley a village of wattle huts stood around a well. More fields spread out to either side. A wider road ran the length of the valley, leading to the foothills at either end.

“This isn’t the Vale of Roses, is it?” Rhodorix said.

Andariel tossed his head back and laughed aloud. “No. In the spring we’ll ride back there, and you’ll see how splendid it is.” His face suddenly darkened. “Well, with luck.”

“And if the gods are willing. Are the farmers down there Hwilli’s folk, too?”

“No, not at all. In the Southlands around Rinbaladelan, the farmers and herders all come from the People themselves.”

“Ah. I’d wondered.”Which meant, he supposed, that he wouldn’t find another woman for his brother there, either.

“It’s a hard life they have,” Andariel continued. “The priests say that they did somewhat in their last lives to deserve it, just like we earned our place as warriors.”

“Our priests always told me the same thing.” Rhodorix touched the hilt of his sword to ward off any evil that might appear at the mention of such arcane matters. “Which way shall we go now?”

“South,” Andariel said. “The prince told me that some bands of Meradan are raiding to the south. They must have stayed down on the flat and just bypassed us.”

“Have messengers come in? I haven’t seen any.”

“The prince doesn’t need messengers. He has farseers.”

“Has what?”

“Mages who can see things from afar.”

Andariel was watching him with a slight smile, as if he expected the stranger to argue. While Rhodorix had never known men with true magic, he’d heard about them back in the homeland.
What about Galerinos and that blue fire?
he told himself.
That must have been magic.
“Well and good, then,” Rhodorix said. “South it is!”

Although they saw no raiders that first day, after a few more days of riding patrols the mounted guardsmen had their first battle test. They had ridden a little farther than usual, once again to the south some ten miles from the fortress. When they crested a grassy hill, they saw below them some fifteen Meradan, riding along as easily and openly as if they owned the road.

“Here’s a chance to try those new bows,” Rhodorix said, “but tell the lads to try to spare the horses. We need every mount we can get.”

Andariel turned in the saddle and called back the orders. The archers looped their reins around the saddle peaks and brought their bows from their backs. Down below, the Meradan had seen them. They paused their horses, then called out and waved to the guardsmen, who must have appeared from their vantage point as small figures silhouetted against the sky.

“Ye gods!” Andariel said. “They think we’re some of them!”

“Of course.” Rhodorix grinned at him. “We’re on horseback.”

Andariel shouted more orders. The archers lowered their bows but held them ready, hiding them as best they could behind their horses’ heads. Rather than charge, Rhodorix led the squad downhill at a steady walk, just as if they were planning on joining up with allies. They had reached the flat before the Meradan realized their mistake.

The five archers whipped up their bows and loosed the first volley. Arrows whistled, then sank into targets as the Meradan yelled war cries—then screamed. Three of their men pitched over their horses’ necks into the road. More arrows, more screams, but over the shrill rage and fear, Andariel yelled for the charge. Rhodorix followed the captain as the mounted swordsmen left the archers and charged straight for the remaining Meradan.

The Meradani horses that had lost their riders bolted, galloping back south down the road. The others were milling and rearing, bucking and trying to grab their bits. Their riders could barely control them, much less fight. Rhodorix saw one savage whose black hair bristled like a boar’s, tied as it was with a plethora of charms and beads. He urged Aur straight for him. Foolishly, the Meradan tried to turn his horse to run. Rhodorix swung straight for his spine at the neck. His sword slashed through the man’s pitiful leather hauberk with a spurt of blood.

With a last scream the rider fell just as Aur slammed into the rear of his horse. The Meradani pair went down, and Rhodorix nearly followed. Only a lifetime spent on horseback saved his balance and his life. He managed to stay on Aur’s back and balance his weight at the same time so that the golden gelding kept his feet. Aur tossed his head, foaming in panic. Rhodorix threw his weight forward and kept him from rearing while he stroked the horse’s neck.

“Whist, whist, lad! It’s all over.”

The swordsmen had cut to pieces the few Meradan that the archers had missed. When Rhodorix turned his horse back to the battle, he had a moment of nausea at the sight—severed limbs, hacked torsos, heads rolling under hooves, and still the swordsmen cut and slashed until every single enemy had been reduced to so much butchered meat. Battle fury he knew, but he had never seen so much hatred on the field of war.

“The horses!” Andariel was calling out in what amounted to bad Gaulish, words he’d learned from Rhodorix. “Round up the horses!”

Blood-spattered and grim, the swordsmen followed orders. Andariel urged his foaming, dancing horse up to Rhodorix’s mount.

“Well, that’s a few less Meradan in the world,” the captain said through the crystal. “Once we catch these horses, let’s head back to the fortress.”

“What about the bodies?” Rhodorix said.

“Leave them for the ravens and foxes. They don’t deserve anything better.”

With the captured horses came an equally valuable prize, a leather saddlebag with painted insignia upon it, the ship crest of the Prince of Rinbaladelan. One of the guardsmen handed it to the captain, who opened it and peered inside.

“Messages,” Andariel hissed. “What happened to the messengers, then?”

“What do you think?” Rhodorix said. “They must be dead.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t the farseers tell us about the messengers? We might have saved their lives.”

“Good question,” Rhodorix said. “Maybe the savages can hide from magic. Maybe they have magic of their own.”

The color drained from Andariel’s face. Rhodorix abruptly realized that the captain—and doubtless the entire fortress—had been considering magic an important weapon on their side.

“I could be wrong,” Rhodorix said. “Be that as it may, we’d better get these back to the prince.”

“Just so. Let’s ride.”

Leading their captured horses, the guardsmen rode back to Garangbeltangim. As they entered the gates, half the servants in the fort rushed out to cheer the riders, blood-spattered and exhausted, but victors in their tiny battle. Everyone had been desperate for some kind of victory, Rhodorix realized, so desperate that the insight gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe they could find and kill a few bands of raiders, but what would happen if his pitiful handful of mounted guardsmen had to face an army?

Andariel insisted that Rhodorix accompany him when he took the captured messages to the prince. They found Ranadar in his great hall, sitting on the dais with his advisers, all of them lounging in chairs around a small inlaid wooden table and drinking from golden cups. Rhodorix wondered which ones were the mages. All three of the men with the prince looked too young, too smooth and handsome to be learned councillors to a cadvridoc. He realized that he’d not seen one old person in the entire fortress, though Hwilli had certainly implied that her master in herbcraft had reached some great age.

Rhodorix and Andariel knelt before the prince, who leaned down to take the saddlebag from them. When he showed his advisers the crest, they all leaned forward, faces suddenly grim. Ranadar handed the messages to the nearest one, then spoke to Andariel. Rhodorix could pick out a few words and phrases of what the prince said, and he understood even more of the captain’s report of the skirmish, since he of course knew what had happened. The prince listened, nodding now and then. Behind him the adviser was reading through the messages; as he finished a sheet, he handed it over to the next man at the table. All of them had turned grim as death itself.

When he finished, Andariel handed Ranadar the white crystal, apparently at the prince’s request. Ranadar turned to Rhodorix.

“I’m well pleased with how you’ve served me,” the prince said. “From now on, you shall have the title of horsemaster and be an honored man among us.”

“My thanks, honored rhix,” Rhodorix said, “but at least half the honor goes to Andariel. He’s the one who thought of the new saddles, and without them, we couldn’t fight half as well.”

“Indeed!” Ranadar turned to Andariel. “Then you’re too modest by half, my friend.”

Andariel smiled, but his eyes looked suspiciously moist. Rhodorix could guess that the prince rarely referred to any man in the fortress as a friend.

“Your armorer deserves honor as well, my prince,” Andariel said.

“He shall have it, then. You must be tired and hungry. My honor goes with you.”

It was the best dismissal he’d ever heard, Rhodorix thought with a grin. They both rose, bowed, and took themselves away. At the door Rhodorix looked back to see the advisers standing up to huddle around the prince, each of them waving one of the pieces of parchment that held the messages.

Rhodorix followed his usual routine, bathhouse first, then back to his chamber. As he came up to the door, he heard Gerro’s voice and a woman giggling in answer. Suspicion flared in his blood like fever. He flung open the door to find Gerro lying half-naked on the bed and Hwilli’s friend Nalla sitting beside him. She held a pot of some sort of salve in one hand, but judging from the disarray of her hair, and from the fact that her tunic was hiked up around her waist, she’d been doing more for Gerro than treating his withered leg.

“You might have knocked,” Nalla said. She handed the salve to Gerontos and grabbed her tunic to pull it down.

“My apologies.” Rhodorix knew his face must have turned scarlet. “I’ll uh just uh go find Hwilli.”

He turned and beat a hasty retreat, slamming the door behind him. Yet despite the blush, he felt gratified that his younger brother had found a woman of his own, partly because he liked seeing Gerontos happy.
And he won’t be sniffing around mine this way,
he thought.