The Silvered (2 page)

Tomas frowned across the river. Adding insult to injury, they were facing barely half a division of the Imperial army. Of the three divisions, the regiments that made up the Shields never left the heart of the Empire, the Spears were quelling rebellion in the northeast, so the emperor had only the Swords to aim at Aydori. Or those Swords not bringing the Imperial boot down on the recently conquered Duchies, at any rate.

“I wonder if that’s why they’re hanging back so far.” Squinting didn’t bring their colors into any better focus, but there had to be cavalry. There was always cavalry. “So their horses don’t spook if the wind comes back up.” There’d been heavy gusts of wind in the early morning, but, by the time the sun reached its highest point, the air was barely moving.

“Possible. But it looks like mostly infantry and artillery over there. You don’t end up ruling most of this continent by being stupid enough to send horses against you lot.” Harry bumped Tomas’ shoulder. When Tomas growled softly, Harry laughed. “Yeah, you’re tough. Besides, even if they were loitering about close enough for our nine pounders to reach their lines, that’d still be too far for an Air-mage to send scary wolf scent.”

“If they were close enough for our artillery to hit them, their artillery could hit us.”

“And that,” Harry snorted, “is pretty much the whole point of war.”

“Danika could do it.”

“To my knowledge, your sister-in-law has no experience with artillery.”

“What?” Tomas twisted and stared. “Is your hat too tight again? I meant that Danika could send our scent across to them!”

Harry grinned.

Tomas felt his cheeks heat. Harry had never let differences in social standing stop him from pulling Tomas’ tail. “Oh, bite me!”

“Not likely. You bite back. Besides, moot point,” Harry reminded him. “Your brother would never allow Lady Hagen anywhere near a battle in her condition, no matter how powerful an Air-mage she was.”

“True.” Tomas sighed and returned to trying to force an explanation for the delay by power of will. He hated waiting.

“Maybe the Imperials took one look at us and were so scared they shit themselves and we’re waiting for the laundry to return their trousers.”

“They didn’t smell scared.”

“Joke, you ass.” Harry drove his elbow into Tomas’ ribs. “If we don’t move soon, the sun’ll be against us. Go tell Lord Stovin I’m willing to lead a sortie against their lines. Draw them out. Prove to him I’m the right man for Geneviene.”

“You haven’t enough mage-craft for the artillery,” Tomas told him, elbowing back. Most of the Fire-mages in the army were artillery, but poor Harry hadn’t been able to pass muster. “What makes you think you have enough mage-craft for Geneviene?”

“Love makes my fire burn hotter.”

“Oh, puke. She’s probably going to marry Gregor.”

“What’s he got that I don’t?”

“Fur.”

“I hope he gets mange,” Harry muttered sulkily. “I hope he…”

Raising a hand to cut Harry off, Tomas stepped forward. “Something’s happening.”

A pale blue bulge rose above the heads of the closest Imperial ranks.

“What the…?”

“I don’t know.”

It continued rising until it looked like an upside-down teardrop.

“What’s that underneath it?”

“I don’t know.” Squinting, Tomas leaned forward. “A basket? Is it mage-craft?”

“If it is, it’s not like any I’ve ever heard of.”

Another time, Tomas might have needled Harry about testing too low to get into the university, but something about that
thing
in the air made him uneasy. “If they’ve put one of their long nines in that…”

“Too heavy,” Harry interrupted and, although he sounded as sure of himself as he always did, Tomas could smell the beginning of fear.

Tomas glanced over at his uncle. Lord Stovin had his eyes locked on the Imperials, one hand on Colonel Ryzhard Bersharn’s shoulder.
Ryzhard, married to Stovin’s oldest daughter, was one of the most powerful Air-mages in Aydori. Not as powerful as Danika, but he was
here
.

After a long moment, Ryzhard shook his head.

What did that mean?

An Aydori lieutenant galloped in from the south, his pony sitting back nearly on its haunches as he hauled on the bit. Tomas thought he recognized the officer attached to General Lamin. Ears pricked forward, he tried and failed to separate words from the noise. The lieutenant was still talking when General Krystopher pulled out a telescope and turned back toward the Imperials.

Telescope.

“Harry.” Tomas reached out blindly, and closed his hand around Harry’s wrist. “If they’ve got a man with a telescope in that thing, they could see right into our lines. Locate our commanders.”

“Yeah?” Harry sounded calm, but then Harry always sounded calm. “And how would they get the location back to the ground?”

“Air-mage. Either up in the basket sending their voice down on a breeze or on the ground listening to the breezes and non-mage observer’s voice. Or both, just to be sure; it’s really up there.”

“The Imperials think they’re too good to use mages.”

“Then they write the coordinates on a piece of paper and drop it in a weighted pouch.”

“Fine. Doesn’t matter. We’ve already established we’re too far away for the artillery to…” Harry pulled free of Tomas’ grip and took a step forward, his pony following. “Now what?”

As the first few ranks of Imperial infantry peeled back, Tomas’ hands fell to his belt, working the buckle free. Whatever was about to happen, he needed to be back with Lord Stovin and he’d get there faster in fur. He saw sparks, heard a whistle…

“Incoming!”

Several voices.

“We’re too far for artillery!”

Harry.

The blast wave slammed Tomas face-first into the ground. Something heavy landed on his right leg, pinning him. He felt it jerk from multiple impacts as he fought to get free. He could smell smoke and
blood and shit and gunpowder. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear screaming.

Finally, scraping skin off against the ground, he dragged his leg free and rolled over to see that he’d been trapped by the bulk of Harry’s pony. Its head and one shoulder missing, its body had absorbed a number of small balls of shot from a secondary explosion.

Silver.

His lip curled off his teeth as he fought his way out of his sodden greatcoat and changed.

The scents separated into their component parts and his nose took him to Harry, lying in a crumpled heap against his pony’s head, both legs gone at mid thigh. He changed again—this needed hands—and grabbed up the reins to tie off the stumps.

Harry’s fingers touched his wrist. “Don’t bother.”

“You’re in no shape to cauterize them.”

“Idiot. Can’t cauterize myself.”

“Then shut up.”

“Tomi…”

“Shut up.”

Even in skin, he smelled Harry’s bowels let go. Felt Harry’s last breath against his shoulder. Let the reins drop from shaking fingers.

Changed.

Spun on one hind foot, nails gouging the dirt, and raced for the command post. Lord Stovin would have orders. Lord Stovin would…

He heard another whistle.

Saw General Kystopher point. Saw Lord Stovin change.

The blast flung him head over tail.

“Mirian, concentrate! I can barely see you.”

Mirian frowned at her sister’s image in the small, brass-bound mirror propped up on her dressing table. “I
am
concentrating.”

On the other end of the mirror-link, Lorela’s face grew larger as she moved closer in. “So you are. Sorry.” An extreme close-up of an embroidered handkerchief momentarily filled the glass, then Lorela’s face reappeared, much more sharply defined. “One of the boys
spilled his milk this morning. I didn’t realize how far it had spread, and it’s impossible to keep this place clean when…”

Mirian let the monologue drift into background noise as she searched her portmanteau for her jewelry case. Her mother wanted her to wear her pearl earrings tonight and had refused to listen when told they’d already been packed. Hardly surprising since her mother refused to pack.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Miri, not with Lord Hagen here. The Pack Leader will keep us safe.”

“Miri! Are you listening to me? You have got to convince Mother and Father to leave Bercarit tonight!”

All right,
that
she should have been paying attention to. Apparently her sister’s stories about husband and children had segued into a topic of actual note. Pushing her hair back out of her eyes, Mirian turned to face the mirror again. “Leave the city?” She pitched her voice higher, imitating their mother. “The Pack Leader says there’s no need. Aydori will not fall to the empire.”

“Cedryc says the Imperial army will be over the border before dawn and marching on Bercarit before breakfast.”

Mirian rolled her eyes. “Has Cedryc turned Soothsayer now?” When Lorela didn’t answer immediately, she frowned and leaned closer to the mirror. “Lore? Has he?”

“Of course not!”

Mirian waited.

Finally, Lorela shrugged, her face expressionless. “He has dreams sometimes. When he’s asleep. That’s all.”

Soothsayers eventually went insane, their minds in the future, their bodies in the present; Lorela wouldn’t have admitted it even if Cedyrc had been having waking dreams. All things considered, Mirian didn’t blame her. “So if he’s not a Soothsayer,” she said lightly, and noted the way her sister’s shoulders relaxed, “who do you think Mother and Father will believe? Lord Ryder Hagen or your charming but otherwise unremarkable husband?”

You have to make them believe.”

“The Pack Leader is never wrong,” Mirian muttered wearily.

“
You’re
ready to leave.”

She glanced down at her portmanteau, a little impressed the mirror-link had depth of focus enough to show it. The blue Air-mage
flecks in Lorela’s eyes hadn’t changed and her sister had never been more than fourth level, merely maintaining the link was already at the edge of her abilities.

“Miri…”

“Traiton fell.” Mirian drew a line through the spilled powder on the dressing table. “Pyrahn fell. My mage-craft may be too diffuse to be viable…” The opinion of her kinder professors; the less kind accused her of being lazy, stubborn, and superficial. Occasionally all at once. “…but no one ever said I was stupid. We’re only seventeen miles from the border and refugees have been arriving for weeks.” Bercarit’s hotels were full of people from both Duchies with money enough to pack up and escape the advancing Imperial army, and the streets were filling with people who’d left without anything more than a desire to survive. “Mother says the refugees are proof positive the border will hold.” Mirian thought they proved only that Pyrahn had fallen. “But it’s not just the refugees,” she continued through gritted teeth. “The Hunt Pack is on the border and the Pack leadership has come to Bercarit in case defending the border requires their personal touch. Mother and Father couldn’t possibly miss this chance to present me at the opera like a dressed side of beef!”

With four and a half years and a dead brother between them, Lorela had carried the weight of their parents’ expectations until her marriage to a young man she’d met at school had taken her out of the social advancement game. It would never occur to her to say
Mother and Father just want what’s best for you
. Their father wanted the Pack’s business at his bank. Their mother wanted to be invited to all the best parties. The only way that would happen was if their remaining daughter married into the Pack.

“They think because my mage-craft was strong enough to get me into the university, it’s strong enough to attract a member of the Pack.”

“Have you told them you won’t be going back?”

Mirian frowned, and bent to grope among the folds of a sprigged muslin day dress.

“Miri?”

What she thought might be the pearl earrings turned out to be the two polished bone buttons that closed the top of the bodice.

“Miri!”

“No!” She straightened so abruptly that Lorela’s image flickered. Drawing in a deep breath, Mirian forced herself to concentrate. Forced herself to calm enough to anchor her end of the link. “No,” she repeated quietly, “I haven’t told them. It seemed a little pointless what with Emperor Leopald suddenly deciding this year would be all about conquest. Besides, you know how Mother thinks. I was tested, I was accepted, I was schooled. I can, therefore, attract a member of the Pack.”

“Well, you won’t,” Lorela said bluntly. “Not with only first levels. So, it’s the opera and parental disappointment tonight. What about tomorrow?”

Mirian kicked the portmanteau shut. Tomorrow she’d try again to get her parents to leave the city, to head to Trouge, higher up in the mountains where the land itself would give the Imperial army pause. Of course, as long as the Pack leadership remained in Bercarit, the odds were high her parents wouldn’t be moved and she’d be expected to smile and dance and pretend that disaster wasn’t on the doorstep. “Tomorrow,” she sighed, “never comes.”