The Way Into Chaos (12 page)

“Third Splashtown is gone?” Gerrit sounded shocked.

“In minutes,” Col said. “Short minutes.”

Cazia realized she was holding her breath. Peradain was gone, and when it vanished, so did the power and authority that protected them all. That power had been such a part of her life that it had been invisible to her, but now, with nothing but a burning, overrun city down in the grasslands, Lar had nothing left to protect him. The same name that had safeguarded him for his whole life now made him a target for any tyr who wanted a crown of his own.
 

She felt as though she’d been cast out into a storm to fend for herself. How could they restore that power? Yes, the society she’d grown up in had been full of Enemies, but this was Lar’s
life
they were talking about. This was everything. The emptiness she perceived in the world was like a collapse of a city wall or the destruction of an army. How could they feel safe again? How could they bring it all back?
 

“I suspect there is little chance that I have any troops at all,” Lar said quietly. “And I’m not sure troops can even address the problem. The creatures are enchanted; the one advantage of being a scholar is that you recognize magic when you get close enough. Their entire bodies are suffused with it.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I intend to travel to Tempest Pass.”

“My king—!” Stoneface said.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Lar told him. “My father died in the face of the enemy, and what did I do? Ran away. That’s how the tyrs will see things, yes? And now, instead of rallying support and leading a force to retake the city, I’m fleeing to the far end of the empire to talk with a hermit scholar.”

Stoneface nodded to show that Lar had understood. “The tyrs will be expecting certain behavior from their king.”

Cazia stood beside Lar. “That’s because they don’t expect enough,” she said defensively.

Lar laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Living among the tyrs while they gather their armies, I would have only the authority they were willing to grant me. And I would have to be constantly on the lookout for the edge of a tall tower so I didn’t end up like Sibilan the Scholar.” He gave Cazia a sly, sideways look. “But my uncle is at Tempest Pass, and he’s been studying portal magic all of his life. I expect he will be able to examine the spells holding this creature together. With the Scholars’ Tower at the palace fallen, he is probably the last theoretical scholar in the empire. The rest are clerks, builders, miners, and healers. I don’t think spears are going to hold this tide back, any more than serpents or mountain men will.”

Gerrit made an unhappy face. “Spears built this empire, my king.”
 

“Magic built this empire,” Lar responded. He leaned forward and tapped his index finger on the table for emphasis. “The Gifts of the Evening People gave our spears an advantage over every other tribe’s spears. Healing, clean water, healthy crops, building stones, breaking stones: the empire would not exist without those spells. I don’t say this to denigrate the brave soldiers who have fought and died for us; they deserve our respect. But so do the scholars. In fact, our next council should include Doctor Warpoole; see that she is made welcome. The empire has always relied on its scholars; we just don’t like to admit it.”

Gerrit and Treygar looked at each other mournfully. Cazia wanted to believe they were simply unhappy to hear that their new king planned to force them to share power with the scholars, but she knew there was more to it than that.
 

Lar wasn’t finished. “We’ve conferred enough. We must inform the tyrs without further delay. Commander, have your steward show me to your mirror; you will want to ready the fort’s defense. My Tyr Treygar...”

Stoneface stood out of the chair. “My king.”

“Go to the sleepstones. The sooner you are healed, the sooner we can start our trip. Col, go with him. Caz can stand with me when we talk to your father, but I’ll want you beside me for our journey.”

Cazia’s brother shook his head as he stood. “That’s a blessing.” His voice sounded odd. “Won’t you need all of us to stay here as hostages?”

Lar looked guiltily at Cazia. “My father may have wanted twice the insurance against yours, but times are stretched. I think I can only afford one.”

Cazia couldn’t hold it in. “That’s not fair! You’re going to visit Tempest Pass without me? Your uncle is the most famous scholar in the world!” Lar had promised to take her to visit him someday. Why should her brother, who knew nothing of magic, be the one to go?

“Nothing is fair, Caz.”

The look on Lar’s face made her flush with embarrassment. If she wanted to stay close to Lar while he was king, she’d have to control herself better. She was going to have to grow up. “I’m sorry, my king.”
 

“You can still visit when this is all over.” He said it almost as though he believed it. “

“In the meantime,” Cazia said, trying to recover herself, “please command Doctor Warpoole to answer my questions. She did something odd back at the tower and I think we need to know what it was.”

Lar nodded. “If it turns out to be important, let me know. And I hope you understand how glad I am that you’ll be safe here, inside this fortress.”

The tall steward opened the door for the king, who led the way into the waiting room. Cazia hung back, well aware that she was a fifteen-year-old girl--a hostage--and Stoneface, the commander, and even her brother were more important than she was. Apparently.
 

When she did step through the doorway, she heard Lar say, “...answer her questions as though they were coming from me.”

Doctor Warpoole gave Cazia a flat, unreadable look. “Yes, my king.”

Col squeezed her hand. “I’ll make my own way to the sleepstones, Caz. Make sure Father believes we’re still hostages.”

Her brother shuffled slowly down the stairs, leaving her alone with the scholar.

Doctor Warpoole’s eyes were wide and bright. “The king says you have questions for me?” Her voice was brittle and it put Cazia on edge. But the administrator would just have to swallow her pride; Cazia had the king’s support.
 

“I saw the spell you cast on the top of the Scholars’ Tower--the green mist you sent down through the trap door? I know that spell wasn’t one of the Thirteen Gifts, and I—”

Doctor Warpoole slapped Cazia’s face. Hard.

Chapter 9

The medical chamber was not in the lowest level of the fort, but it was close. Tejohn had to stumble down long flights of stairs to reach them. How did men with leg or back injuries manage?
 

The sleepstones themselves were marble slabs broad and long enough to accommodate the empire’s largest soldiers with some room to spare. Each had been enchanted with a healing spell that would persist for years--as many as ten, if it was not often used. The hunched, portly woman who met him at the entrance and examined his wounds wore a scholar’s robe with a medical patch. He glanced at her cheeks and saw they were dry.
 

“Can you cast a healing spell, doctor?” Tejohn asked. A direct spell worked much more quickly than a sleepstone.

“This way to the beds, my tyr” was all she said in return. She held out a gray robe made of coarse wool.

Frustrating. Tejohn sat on the edge of the nearest bed and carefully changed into the robe. The Bendertuk boy was unconscious on the next slab but the Freewell boy had not yet arrived.
 

“Do you have any old injuries, my tyr?”

Tejohn thought again of those long flights of stairs. “Knee aches,” he said, touching it with his good hand. He had no idea why she would ask; he’d been badly cut in one of his first battles, and by the time his turn on the sleepstone came, it had begun to heal naturally. It often twinged in sour weather, and Peradain was infamous for its rain clouds.

He noticed a slender iron needle in the scholar’s hand as she gently directed him to lie back. The sleepstone pulled him down into slumber.

He awoke with a start. His mouth was parched and his throat dry. The scholar gave him a tiny cup full of purified water. Tejohn drank it and demanded more. The little woman took her time returning with another tiny cup almost brimming over, and by the third or fourth, he realized she was deliberately making him wait between each drink. “Bring the pitcher.”

“Small sips, my tyr. That’s safest.”

The process continued until Tejohn had had enough. A boy brought him a piss pot to use. The gouges on his forearm had not healed shut and he still couldn’t use his wrenched arm. “How long?”

“Hardly any time at all, my tyr,” the scholar answered. “Please lie down.”

The Bendertuk boy was still there but Freewell was not. Had he come and gone already? Had the prince--
the king
; he must break that habit--ordered him to be healed quickly with a direct spell while Tejohn himself suffered this slow, uncomfortable process?
 

It didn’t matter. If the new king didn’t favor him, there was nothing he could do about it except prove himself all over again. He noticed a spot of blood on the front of his bad knee. It took a moment for him to recognize that it was the size of the scholar’s iron needle.

He lay down as he was bid. “Next time I wake,” he told the scholar, “I want to see marching armor laid out for me, along with a sword, shield, and kit. See to it.”

“Yes, my tyr. Now please rest.”

Tejohn’s thoughts were already slipping away.

When he woke the next time, he was not nearly so thirsty. Tejohn sat up quickly, pleased to feel rested and well. The gouges on his arm had healed completely; only thin white scars were left. He could move his shoulder freely and without pain. There was no swelling at all.

He slid off the bed and looked around the room. The lantern burned low, but his eyes were well adjusted. The Bendertuk boy was still sleeping. His color was good, although his lips were white and dry. He would be waking for some water of his own soon. Again, there was no sign of Colchua Freewell. As he went to the pot, he noticed a marching kit laid out on a table.
 

After he relieved himself and slowly drank his fill, he examined the armor. It was steel and of good quality, which did not surprise him at all. Ranlin would never offer shoddy equipment to a friend and a tyr of the empire, even though some of his men were still wearing bronze. As long as Lar received equal quality or better, Tejohn was satisfied.
 

First he strapped on his greaves, then the flannels, then the boots, the skirt and fringe, then finally the cuirass. Even the helm fit him; the felt underpadding was thick around the sides of his narrow skull and guard did not squash his oversized nose. Maybe Ranlin had the armorer take his measure while he was unconscious. Best of all, the helm came to a simple blunt point at the top. Tejohn thought the tall brushes that had become so popular among officer classes were silly and dangerous. Yes, they impressed barmaids, but one errant blow could knock a helm askew, blinding a soldier. Not that it was his place to criticize the generals who allowed them.

The only disappointing thing was that the shield and cloak bore the green-and-brown Four Rivers emblem of the Gerrits rather than the black and red of the Third Splashtown armor he’d left in Peradain. He was proud of those colors and was keenly aware that it was possible that no one would ever wear them again. Still, he would make do.

Tejohn inspected the sword next. Like Ranlin’s, it was longer than a common soldier’s, with a blade that was three hand-lengths rather than two. The dagger was old but well made. The hilts didn’t match, of course, but he wasn’t marching in parade. He strapped them to his hip and wondered where he would find himself a sturdy spear.

He went up the stairs, past the drab scholar’s office and the hunched little woman working there. “My tyr,” she said, hurrying toward him, but Tejohn brushed by. Presumably, the scholar could cast a healing spell--she wouldn’t have the patch otherwise--but while Tejohn couldn’t order her to cast it, he didn’t have to be pleased about the time he’d lost sleeping.
 

Out in the courtyard, Tejohn saw the sun striking the peaks on the western side of the pass. It was morning, but was it the next morning? Had it been two days? Three? He needed to find--

Tejohn stopped short. There, at the far end of the courtyard, was a temple. Yes, he needed to report to Lar as soon as possible, but it had been more than a month since he had prayed properly. What hope did they have if they didn’t pay their respects to the gods?
 

He strode across the yard, slinging his shield on his back and removing his helm. The entrance was a short passageway in which the walls had been carved to resemble a round tunnel--an Eleventh Festival style that he didn’t care for, but aesthetics weren’t important. He bowed his head at the entrance. “Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.”
 

He strode into the main chamber, which had a traditional layout for a fort or holdfast. In the center of the room was a marble statue of Fury in his Soldier avatar, painted in the Gerrit Four Rivers colors. Instead of a sword, he held a stone lamp.