Chapter Nine
Archer joined Jenah and Tuzza in the large tent that served as a temporary headquarters for both armies. As it was set on neutral ground between the two camps, no one could see a purpose in raising a building here yet, because they were planning to march very soon. The work on a camp and buildings for the Bozandari had been born of an effort to establish a sense of purpose and permanence for the erstwhile captives, and to help build relationships between them and the Anari.
So far there had been few problems. It had helped greatly when the Anari army had sprouted banners sporting the white wolf as well. Just as helpful had been the amazing gifts of the Anari stoneworkers who assisted their former foes in building the camp.
But now the real dangers approached, ones that might not be so easily solved. Would Tuzza's men be able to stand against another Bozandari legion if necessary? Or would they lay down their swords?
No one could say for certain, oaths aside. All had sworn fealty to Tess, but that did not necessarily mean they would kill their own comrades-in-arms.
Tuzza grew more uneasy about the difficulties ahead with each passing day. So did Jenah, who often had a nightmare vision of the Bozandari troops laying down their weapons, leaving the Anari who marched beside them to be slaughtered and taken into slavery. Both men were wary, even as the friendship between them appeared to grow.
Archer was acutely aware of the tensions, though he seldom mentioned them. "Time," he had said to both Jenah and Tuzza. "Time is needed. This is all new to our peoples. We must gently carry them along with us for as long as we possibly can."
But tonight, as he stood at the fore of the tent beside Tuzza and Jenah, he noted that the Anari and Bozandari officers stood apart from one another, almost as if there were an invisible wall between them. Denza Grundan, the quarter-Anari soldier who had recently been promoted to rearmark, alone stood between them like a bridge. Archer was relieved to note that neither side seemed bothered by his presence so near them.
When everyone had settled, Tuzza stepped to the fore and held up his hand. "The time approaches," he said. "We have received word from both Anari and Bozandari scouts." He paused then, weighing the import of his words. He paused to choose more carefully. "Let me say that otherwise. Our scouts have returned with information."
Throughout the tent, heads nodded, noting the distinction he was making. Faces, however, offered no clue as to what lay behind them.
"A legion has marched into Anari lands presumably to rescue us." This with a nod toward the Bozandari officers. "We must go forth to meet them, but we must try at all costs to meet them peacefully."
Murmurs of agreement from the light-skinned officers, no sound whatever from the dark-hued faces of the Anari.
Jenah stepped forward then and looked directly at his fellow Anari. "The same applies to us all. We must win allies, not alienate them. All of us face a threat bigger than our past problems. We face a threat to our entire world, as my lord Annuvil can well tell you."
"Annuvil..." The whisper passed among the Bozandari who had not yet heard Archer's true identity. The Anari, who had long known, remained stoic. Archer, however, did not speak. Standing with his arms folded, he merely lowered his head and looked downward.
Finally, someone called out, "Where is the lady? It is to her that we have sworn our fealty."
Only then did Archer lift his head. "She is at the temple," he said heavily. "The Enemy assaults her. Thus, her sister Ilduin stand guard at her side, as do the clan mothers."
The silence grew profound at that, and men shifted uneasily.
Archer tilted his head a little to one side and scanned all the faces before him with his gray eyes. "I am sorry," he said, "that it has come to this. And yet, awful though the days ahead may be, none of you ever would have been born had not we Firstborn made so many mistakes. Learn from our sins. Do not repeat them."
After a few moments during which men murmured and then stilled, Tuzza spoke again. "From the banners our scouts have observed, it is my cousin Alezzi who comes to us. He is a good man, my cousin, and close to my heart. If for no other reason, we must do all we can to avoid a clash. I will speak with him."
A Bozandari officer called out, "Are you certain you can persuade him to join us, Topmark?"
"I must," Tuzza answered simply. "I must. Still, we have but tomorrow to complete our exercise, and not even all of the one day. We do not want to fight, but we will have to when we find Ardred's force, if not before. Anari and Bozandari must be able to fight together, or his army will defeat us in detail."
"And this will be difficult," Jenah said, continuing their prepared remarks. "We Anari prefer night action. It caused confusion among you, which multiplied our numbers."
"The Anari never had even a full legion arrayed against us. And the column that harassed us on our march was less than one thousand strong," Tuzza said. Murmurs of surprise spread through the Bozandari officers, but he silenced them with an upraised hand. "It is true. The harassing column steered us into that canyon, where we could not deploy our full strength and would be forced to frontally assault their prepared defenses."
The memory of that bitter defeat darkened their faces. Archer could see that this could quickly transform into something else: resentment of the Anari who had defeated them, and the commander who had led them into that defeat.
"However, remember that the Anari had many advantages in that campaign," Archer said.
"This is true," Jenah said. "We had Ilduin to help our communications, and we were fighting in our own lands, among the rocky hills and mountains. It was not difficult to find terrain that favored us, and Topmark Tuzza had few choices as to his route of advance. While we will still have Ilduin among us in the next campaign, our Enemy will as well. And we will not be fighting in Anari lands, but in the open spaces of the Deder desert. That which we have done before will not avail us twice."
This seemed to mollify the Bozandari somewhat.
"Our tactics are also different," Tuzza continued. "The Anari threshing lines are better suited for attacking an enemy. They maneuver more quickly than we do, but the threshing line also gives way to exhaustion more quickly. Our tactics are more stable in defense, and if we are less mobile in attack, we can sustain the action longer."
"Thus," Jenah said, "our exercises will seek to take advantage of our differences. We will cooperate as hammer and anvil. The Bozandari, more stable and resilient, will be the anvil. Anari mobility will provide the hammer."
"Is that not the role of cavalry?" Grundan asked.
"Aye, Rearmark," Tuzza said, "if we had it. We do not. What few horses we have must be used in draft. But our Anari brothers can move as swiftly on foot as mounted cavalry." He pointed to the map they would use for the exercise. "The Bozandari must fix the Enemy in place, and apply constant pressure to maintain his focus and wear down his strength. The Anari must strike him from the rear, crushing him against us. This makes the best use of our respective strengths."
"This plan of battle calls for great coordination," Archer said, seeing the doubts reflected in the officers of both armies. "Each arm must trust the other. The Anari must trust the Bozandari to be strong and steady in their role as anvil. The Bozandari must trust that the Anari hammer will strike, at the right time and with sufficient force to shatter the Enemy before the Enemy's pressure is too much to bear."
"And," Jenah said, "we must train to strike at dusk, rather than at dawn. The Bozandari will deploy and move to contact in the final hour of daylight, while the Anari deliver our blow in darkness."
Tuzza again held up a hand to quiet the murmuring among his officers. "I am well aware that we are used to giving battle in the morning, when our men are more rested. We must change our habits, pausing on the march so that our men have time to rest and eat. This will be difficult, but we will have many days to practice the new ways along the road to Bozandar."
"In this way," Archer concluded, "we will strike the Enemy when he is tired, ready to make camp and prepare his supper. We preserve the greatest strengths of each of our proud traditions, and forge a new tradition."
Archer lifted his mug, and Tuzza and Jenah did likewise. Their officers took their lead.
"To the Snow Wolves!" Archer said.
"To the Snow Wolves!" the men replied.
Ras Lutte watched his men drill with a growing sense of dismay. Lord Ardred's army--a collection of brigands, thieves and rogues--was proving to be a much greater challenge than any he had faced in the service of Bozandar. Ardred could control them as a hive, but Lutte knew that no mere swarm would survive in battle against even a small force of well-trained men. That had been made clear in Lorense, when scores of Lantav Glassidor's men had fallen to Ardred's brother and two Anari slaves.
Lutte would have much preferred a proper army, comprised of trained, disciplined men who would stand by one another and continue to perform their duties under the harshest of conditions. But men built of such stern stuff were far more difficult for Ardred to bend to his will.
Thus Lutte found himself at the helm of what was little better than a mob. His officers were a mixed bag, a handful of other Bozandari who had fallen from favor like himself and the rest nothing more than the strongest and the cruelest, those willing to murder rivals and control their men by force of terror. Such men enjoyed giving orders, but were ill-suited to taking them.
Worse, men like these were the least affected by the witchcraft of Ardred's enslaved Ilduin. Lutte could hope for little more than to point these men in the direction of an enemy, fire their hearts with the prospect of looted treasure, and release them as one would a pack of wild and hungry dogs.
No, he could count on one hand the number of officers he could rely on to rally their men after a local defeat, or reform them as they plundered an enemy camp, and offer a cohesive unit that was prepared to return to action. Men he had in abundance, for there were many who had bristled under Bozandari or any other rule. But men without leaders were little more than grist to be ground down and scattered in the winds of battle.
Given the force at his disposal, Lutte's options were limited. He could not hope to conduct complex maneuvers, and most of his units were little more than arrows in a quiver. He could aim them, draw the bow and loose them. After that, he must consider them spent. The handful of comparatively reliable units he would keep in the rear, both to preserve his greatest strength and to act as a bulwark against those in front who might otherwise flee.
Battle, he decided, would be much like a hand pushing forward piles of sand, with his more skilled officers the fingers and the rest a mass to be pressed forward against the desired target. Some of that sand would inevitably slip through those fingers, and Lutte knew he must discount his numbers accordingly. Once the sand had worn down the Enemy's line, Lutte would look for opportunities to use the fingers to punch through and deliver the critical blows.
These were hardly the elegant, precise tactics he had learned in the academy. They were little more than the application of brute force. He would have to depend on Ardred and his witches to sustain the army's mettle, and his own observation and timing to transform the crude cudgel into a dagger to the Enemy's heart.
It was not a proper way to make war. Lutte saw little hope that his men could withstand a determined assault by Bozandari legions, let alone deliver a riposte that would deliver into Lutte's hand the imperial scepter his lord had promised. For that to happen, the Bozandari must be divided, scattered, their allegiances torn, their officers pitted against one another.
Certainly there were rivalries aplenty among both the imperial court and the officer corps. The task of fueling those rivalries fell upon Ardred's spies and minions in Bozandar. If they were equal to that challenge, then Lutte would be equal to the challenge on the battlefield.
And he would be Emperor of Bozandar.
Ratha carefully rolled Giri's sword in the bedroll Giri had carried on campaign, and tucked it within his own pack. He could not have said why, save that it felt as if the sword were his last connection to his brother. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to see Tom standing in the doorway.
"Welcome back," Tom said quietly.
"And my blessings on your marriage," Ratha replied. "I am sorry that I could not share more at the wedding."
Tom extended his hand, and Ratha grasped it. "There is nothing to forgive, my friend. Sara and I were honored that you interrupted telzehten to attend. She and Cilla are with Tess at the temple now. Archer and Jenah are preparing for tomorrow's maneuvers, and Erkiah seems to need more rest with each passing day."
"And so you came to me," Ratha said.
Tom nodded. "I would have come regardless. I sense there is much that we can learn from each other."
Ratha smiled. "I am no prophet, Tom Downey."
"Perhaps not," Tom said. "But you can be much more than a mere prophet. You can be a priest."
Ratha paused for a moment, then laughed. "Unless much has changed since last I undressed, I am not eligible to join the ranks of the priesthood. Or have you forgotten that all Anari priests are women?"
"I have not," Tom said. "But not all priests serve at the temple. Your women, bless them, know less of war than you. And in these ill times, the fate of the Anari, indeed the fate of the world, lies on the field of battle. But the war will end, my friend. And what then?"
"If we are defeated, nothing," Ratha said.
Tom nodded. "Aye, but if we are not? Must there not be those who can create peace in hearts hardened for war? Who can be among men who have shed blood, who have swum in anger and fear, and coax them to the shores of forgiveness and hope? Your men have followed you into battle, Ratha Monabi. More will follow you into battle again. Will you not lead them into peace when the battle is over?"
Ratha shook his head. "That is too heavy a burden for any man, my friend."
"Yes," Tom said. "It is not the burden of a warrior. It is the burden of a priest. But will men who have walked with a warrior suddenly turn to a priest who has not known their pain and horror, of one who has not seen in the night the faces of those he has slain? They will not, friend. They cannot. They will need a priest who has borne their burdens and who carries their scars."
Ratha felt the truth in Tom's words, even as he doubted his strength to fulfill them. This war would not, could not last forever. And if the gods should bless them with victory, then he and his men would have to return to their homes, to the stones of their Telner, and find again the beauty and joy in the simpler things of life. They would have to bear the daily trials of life with the warmth of husbands and fathers, and not with the cold hearts of warriors. They would have to step out from under the dark cloud of war into the sunlight of peace.
Could he lead them thus? How could he himself emerge from that darkness and be a man of peace, when he had never known the life of hearth and home, of wife and child, of sowing seed, nurturing field and gathering harvest? It was as if Tom were asking a blind man to teach color to those who had shut their eyes from too much.
"I am not the priest you seek," Ratha said. "Call instead upon Jenah, who at least has lived among the Anari all of his days."
"Had this war ended in the canyon, that might be," Tom said. "For that was Jenah's war, the war of the Anari to shake off their shackles and live as free men. But this war to come is more than that. It is a clash of brothers, of Annuvil and Ardred. The Anari will look to you, because you have walked beside Annuvil longer than any among us. You must be that priest of peace, my friend. For if you cannot, I fear the Anari can never again be as they were."
"And how would I do this?" Ratha asked. "It is not enough to be willing. I doubt that I am able."
"The power of one is the power of many," Tom said. "And the power of many is the power of one. Begin with the one, my friend. Begin with yourself."
When Tess emerged into the morning sunlight surrounded by her sisters and the clan mothers, she felt a lightness of spirit that had long been missing. It was as if spending the night surrounded by protectors had lifted her out of the dark place into which she had been steadily slipping since her battle with Elanor.
The sunlight seemed particularly clear and bright this day, paining her eyes until they adjusted. It seemed to her that she was seeing the beauty of Anahar afresh, almost as if she had never seen it before. Everything looked cleansed, almost purified, as if by a heavy rain.
Yet it had not rained.
She lifted her gaze to the cloudless skies, feeling the touch of Cilla's and Sara's shoulders against her own, and waited to see if anything would happen.
Something had changed. She felt it now in the chilly air. It was not only as if the darkness within her had vanished, but as if it had been driven out of this part of the world. Only in its absence did she realize how much Ardred had overshadowed everything.
She turned to look at the clan mothers who were arrayed behind her. Their dark, aging faces revealed fatigue, but a kind of shining joy as well.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you all."
As one, they bowed to her. Then, as they straightened, Jahila, the youngest of them, spoke.
"Long have we awaited you, my lady. Your burdens are heavy and many, and what little we can do to help is gladly given."
Tess returned the bow, but could feel her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Despite all that had happened, she didn't believe she was even half what these people believed of her. She was certainly no savior, although they seemed to think otherwise.
"I am," she said quietly, "only a woman like all of you. I hope I will not disappoint your hopes."
She turned to walk away with Cilla and Sara. Behind them, the clan mothers drew bells from within their robes and shook them. A tinkle of almost unearthly music followed the three Ilduins' departure.
"You look ever so much better, Tess," Cilla commented. "I did not at all care for how you looked when I arrived yesterday."
"Nor I," Sara agreed.
Tess felt herself smile for the first time since the wedding. "Something has changed. Can you not feel it? Anahar is cleansed of his presence."
Her sisters paused, closing their eyes as if sensing their surroundings. Then they, too, smiled and linked arms with Tess.
"If it be for only a short time, still will I enjoy it," Sara said. "For tomorrow the armies march, and we with them."
"And our most important task at the outset," Cilla said, her voice tinged with foreboding, "will be to keep the peace among them."
"We shall," Tess said, feeling more positive than any time in a long while. "We shall."
That night Cilla and Sara disappeared with Ratha and Tom. Tess sat outdoors in the gardens of Gewindi Tel, deeply wrapped in her cloak, entranced by the stars above. So many stars, more stars than one could count in a lifetime, she thought. In the cold air they shone brightly, illuminating the bare branches of the trees around her, silvering them with light. No moon filled the sky tonight, but the stars were beauty enough.
Ordinarily at this time of year, Cilla had told her, this garden would be full of blooming flowers and shaded by a leafy bower of trees. But the evil winter had browned everything, and what it had not been content to brown, it had killed.
But tonight Tess had no thought for that. Instead she lifted her head to the beauty that the Enemy could not smite, and drank it in. It was almost as if the pale light from so far away filled her and illuminated her within.
She felt as if a transformation were taking place, a transformation that had begun with the protective circle the clan mothers had created around her yesterday. The feeling was a good one, so she let it happen.
But she also found herself thinking absently of the gods. There were how many? Nine? Twelve? For some reason she could not remember the children's poem that she had heard months ago, a poem that listed the gods.
But their number did not matter, she supposed. What mattered was that if Elanor was helping her, then Ardred probably had a god helping him.
Playthings of the gods. An apt description. Dragged into some inscrutable diversion as if they were but chits on a game board. An answer, perhaps, to an eternity that would otherwise be intolerably boring. Or even pawns in a power struggle of some kind.
But how could a mere mortal ever know? All a mortal could know was that the survival of this world and all that was good in it depended on the outcome of their struggles over the next few weeks or months. The gods could always create another world for their own amusement. The people of this one could not.
A small sigh escaped her, but her spirits did not diminish. The shift taking place deep within her was filling her with something warm and good, something hopeful, and she wanted to cling to it.
A sound alerted her and she looked quickly to her left. Archer was approaching, clad in his usual black from head to toe. He looked tired, and very much worried.
"My lady," he said, approaching on swift, light feet. "How do you?"
"Much better." She smiled, and was glad to see an answering smile appear on his weathered features. "For a little while I have been granted peace."
"It pleases me to hear so." He sat on the stone bench beside her. "Are you not cold?"
"The cold cannot touch me tonight. Little can. I wish this would last."
"As do we all. You know we march on the morrow?"
"Aye. Thus begins another stage in a journey that seemed so small when first we left Whitewater in pursuit of a few thieves who had slaughtered a caravan. Did you guess this awaited us?"
"I am not so prescient. Yet with each step, this moment has drawn closer."
"So it has." She tilted her head back again and looked up at the stars. "Have they changed much since your youth?"
"What?"
"The stars?"
He looked upward. "A bit. The constellations have slowly shifted, but only someone who studies them would note it."
"Or someone who has lived as long as you."
"Aye."
She looked at him, saw that he was studying the diamond-studded sky above. "I am sorry your life has been so hard."
He turned toward her. "I earned such a life. Perhaps now I can finish paying my debt."
Impulsively, she reached out and clasped his hand. "I think you have already paid a thousand times over."
"I doubt it." He shook his head once, quickly, and squeezed her hand. "But you are enjoying a respite, so let us speak of happier things. I would not destroy your mood, my lady. Tomorrow will bring us enough difficulty."
"Aye, that it will."
Once again she tipped her head back to look at the stars. "I have been thinking, Archer, and it seems to me that the gods would be bored if we were perfect. I think they enjoy making a game of us, and part of that game is for us to make mistakes."
"You may be right."
She glanced at him with a smile. "Can you think of any other reason?"
At that he chuckled. "It makes sense in our terms, but who can know what gods think?"
"Or perhaps we know better than we think. You were made to be immortal. How can you think you are so different than they? You even helped create the race of Anari."
"It was that which brought about the fall," he reminded her. "It was the sin the gods would not forgive."
"Or perhaps it was the sin the gods provoked."
He turned his body so that he faced her directly. "What do you mean?"
"You had warred, and wanted to create a race that would never war. Instead you created a race that became enslaved until they learned how to fight. Now the Anari will be free, but through the horror of war."
"Do you say the gods think war is good?"
She shook her head. "No. But I think they will not abide perfection."
Ratha sought out Cilla in the wee hours, well before dawn, while most slept. He could not sleep, nor could she, evidently, for he found her sitting in the gardens of the Monabi Tel, wrapped warmly in cloak and blankets. He joined her on the stone bench and stared at the blackened stumps of frost-slain shrubs.
"It begins," he said.
"Aye." She sighed and leaned into him. He felt no urge to draw away. "I hope our children will not know such evil times."
He squeezed her and let out a small laugh. "You leap ahead of me, cousin. You have me fathering children with you, and we have not yet even kissed."
A little chuckle escaped her. "I spoke in general, cousin, not in specifics. Although I cannot say that I have not often thought of such things with you."
Ratha smiled. "I would that we could focus only on such dreams, cousin."
Cilla nodded. "Yet without such dreams, how have we the courage to press on? Without a dream of the dawn, how would we endure the night?"
"You are right as always, cousin," Ratha said. He winked impishly. "It seems that I must grow accustomed to being wrong."
"But of course," Cilla said. "It is the way of things that men must learn to be wrong in the presence of their women. The gods have decreed that your fate in life."
Ratha burst into quiet laughter. "What cruelties they work on us."
"Yes," Cilla said, smiling. "But tender cruelties they are, my cousin dear."
"Unlike the greater cruelties we face."
Cilla nodded. "Yes. I will say again, we must make the world better for all children."
"'Tis an honorable task."
"Aye, but a pity we must go about it this way."
Ratha nodded. "The cost will be high."
"I have decided, cousin, that the cost of anything we hold dear is high. Else we would not hold it dear. What we purchase in blood will be the dearest of all."
"You sound like Tom Downey," Ratha said.
"I am a priest," Cilla said. "Not a prophet."
"And I am neither priest nor prophet, but rather a warrior. Yet Tom tells me that I must become a priest." He saw the look of surprise in her face, and quickly continued. "He said that not all priests serve in the temple, and that I must be as ready to lead my men into peace as I have been to lead them into war."
"He speaks the truth," Cilla said.
Ratha shook his head. "How can I do this, Cilla Monabi? How can I soften the hearts of men who have known war, and lead them back to their hearths, when I have known nothing but struggle and war in my life?"
Cilla seemed to consider this for a long moment before she replied. "Do you know what it is to kiss a woman?"
"No," Ratha said. "I do not."
Cilla leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Ratha fought down the urge to flinch, and let her lips linger for an instant. When she broke the kiss, she looked into his eyes. "Now, cousin, you know of something more than struggle and war."
To Ratha, lost in the sensations and wanting more, her words seemed jarring. In the instant of that kiss, he had put thoughts of battle out of his mind. Now she not only revived those thoughts, but reminded him of the task that Tom--and apparently she as well--had set for him.
"One kiss cannot a priest make," he said.
"Would you like another?"
The divergent streams of desire and inadequacy swirled through him. "No...I mean, yes, but..."
"But?" Cilla asked, smiling, her face nearly touching his, her deep eyes holding his gaze without flinching.
"I do not know if..."
She kissed him again, just for a moment, then held his face in her hands. "Ratha Monabi, I am sorry, for I know it must seem that I toy with you. And yes, I am. But also I am not. For yes, I long to kiss you, and for no other reason than that your lips taste of morning dew in my heart and stoke a longing in my loins. Yet I am also trying to show you that what you have known of life need not be all that you ever know. It is our challenge to learn from each day the lessons it offers us. Your lessons can change, my cousin. Your past is not your fate, but only what brings you to this moment."
She kissed him again. "And it is in this moment that you must live, Ratha. That is all we have."
Her words danced lightly through his mind. His lips like morning dew? Her loins longing? Her other words, however true, melted into the background as he felt his own stirring, and drew to mind the taste of her lips. Was this what love felt like?
"Speak no more," he heard himself say. "Only kiss me again, please."
Again their lips touched, and this time all thoughts of duty and destiny were lost in the soft contact, the taste and scent of her, the sound of her quiet sigh, the brush of her fingertips on his cheek. His arms drew her closer and he felt the softness of her breasts pressed to his chest, the gentle hollow of her waist, the fullness of her hip, the warmth of her, spreading through him, filling him, as if the entire world were reduced to tingling nerve endings and an urge deeper than any he had ever known.
Somewhere in the kiss their lips had parted, oh so slightly at first, but then more, as tongue sought tongue and that graceful, gliding dance began. He heard a moan, whether hers or his he could not tell, for in this moment it was as if they were one being. Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck, her body turned even more into his, the blanket having found its way around them both as if by its own strength. When finally she paused to draw breath, he saw the pinpoints of starlight reflected in her eyes, the entire universe living in her, offered to him.
"Oh, my," she whispered softly.
Ratha moaned softly. "More..."
But Cilla touched a fingertip to his lips. Her soft eyes and tender smile cushioned him as he felt himself tumbling back to earth.
"I tease you not, love," she said. "I wish for nothing more than to lie in your arms and kiss you until the end of days. But we cannot, and that pains me more than any hurt we have borne so far."
Ratha felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he saw them grow in hers. He knew the truth of what she said, and the hurt as well. "Promise me, Cilla Monabi, that we will find a time that is ours."
"I promise you that," she said. "On my heart do I swear that we will find that time."
In that moment, in her eyes, he saw the faintest glimmer of hope that life could bring beauty. He saw the hope of dawn.
Leagues away in the capital city of the empire, Bozandar, a slave named Mihabi slipped silently through an elegant house. He had come from the slave quarters in the rear yard, but the high walls with their many spikes could not be climbed, and the only gates from the yard were barred and bolted. He could not open them without waking everyone.
But to escape through the front entrance of the house would be comparatively simple. The house was not yet barred to the slaves, although there had been outbreaks of violence caused by other slaves since the news had arrived that a Bozandari legion had been defeated by an Anari army. Those who had never considered hope now whispered of their deliverance. And Mihabi dreamt with them.
But this family trusted its slaves. Or perhaps more important, this family could not begin a day without slaves to make them their first meal and tend their young.
As slave owners went, Mihabi felt this family was better than most. Mihabi had never felt the bite of the lash or the weight of chain on his wrists. But the Anari were still their slaves. It was a condition that burned its way into the soul no matter how well treated a slave was. He felt the weight of chain on his heart, and that weight wore heavier than any shackle.
Mihabi had been born here in this household. All he knew of his people were other slaves and the tales his mother told him of his kind in the lands to the south. Yet those tales had fed in him an innate need to be free, to learn to commune with the rock, to stand tall and proud as only a free man could.
He paused in a tiled hallway, listening. Nothing. He took another silent step forward.
The news of the defeat of the Bozandari legion had upset his masters and all the Bozandari including the emperor, whose beloved cousin had led the defeated troops. The general outcry for a rescue mission had overborne even the fear of the restless slaves who grew more and more threatening. The mothers and wives of the missing soldiers wanted their men home, and the emperor wanted his favored cousin back safely.
So a legion had marched forth. Other legions were being recalled, but for this brief space of time, the capital city was relatively lightly protected.
And the growing restlessness and anger among the slaves had turned into a plot. All who could were to meet tonight, and the uprising would begin with the dawn.
Mihabi slipped toward the door, a sliver of torchlight from outside lighting his way through an uncovered window. Soon he would be free, and if that freedom came in the form of death, then so be it.
Suddenly an arm grabbed him from behind, wrapping tight under his chin. He felt the prick of a knife against his side.
"Mihabi!"
It was the voice of Ezinha, his master.
For the first time since deciding to join the revolt, Mihabi was glad he carried no weapon. He could claim innocence in his passage through the house.
"Master." Mihabi spoke the word, though never had it burned in his throat more.
At once Ezinha released him. The Bozandari, a tall, pale man, was clear to Mihabi's gaze, while Mihabi must have been nearly invisible to his master. Between them the knife glinted red from the torchlight, but Ezinha made no threat with it.
Ezinha spoke. "You go to join the rebels."
Mihabi wanted to deny it, but suddenly found it impossible to lie.
Ezinha nodded. "I thought this would come. How can you do this? Your mother nursed us both and raised us as brothers. We played together as children. I have always treated you well."
"You have done such," Mihabi said. "But I have always been a slave."
Ezinha stiffened. "I have loved you as one of my own family."
"Yet still I have had no freedom."
"I thought you loved me as well."
It was then that Mihabi felt his determination waver, as his chest suddenly tightened and his eyes began to burn. Now, truly, he was facing in the depths of his being what he was about to do. It no longer seemed exciting. It only hurt. His voice was hoarse when at last he replied. "I have loved you, master."
Ezinha looked down at the knife in his hand, then slowly lowered it. "I would not hurt my brother."
Mihabi swallowed hard. "I have never been your true brother. Had I been, I would have been as free as you. I could choose my own place in life, rather than having it chosen for me. I could have chosen to love and serve you."
Ezinha nodded slowly. "You will die out there, Mihabi."
"Perhaps. But I will die free."
Ezinha stepped swiftly forward. Before Mihabi could react, his owner used the knife to cut a slash through the slave brand on Mihabi's arm. It was the mark of a freed slave. Blood ran down from it onto the tile floor.
"You are free now, my brother," Ezinha said. "Do what you must as a free man. But mark my words, Mihabi. If you threaten me or mine, I will treat you as I would treat a thief in the night."
"I would expect no less."
"Then, I pray you, do not come here again. For your life's sake. For if I see you again I cannot trust you."
Mihabi turned toward the door, still dripping blood, but then he paused and faced his owner once more. "You have never trusted me. Our stations have forbidden true trust. If we meet again, let it be as equals. And if we both survive, then perhaps trust will be born."
Then he slipped through the door, into the night. Aye, he was free now, the stinging wound on his arm protecting him from any roving night patrols. But the blood price of freedom paled beside the ache in his heart. For what did it mean to be free when he had lost the only brother he still had?
As he walked through the city, tears stung at his cheeks. Tears and blood were the currency with which freedom was purchased. And he knew the cost was not yet paid in full.
More tears, and more blood, would be shed.
Dawn barely limned the eastern mountains as the armies set out in the morning. Given the latest reports from their scouts, it was determined that the Anari should lead the way through the mountains, then circle around until they were in the rear of the rescue legion. The remnants of Tuzza's legion would approach head-on.
Most of the Anari felt better about approaching in this manner than approaching head-on with Tuzza. Trust between the groups was still tenuous, and neither group cared to be in a position where they must rely on the other.
It was also a good tactic, a "hammer and anvil" as Tuzza called it. The Bozandari had been successfully applying this tactic for generations, and the Anari had only just used it against them for the first time.
At the head of the column rode Archer, Tuzza, Jenah and the three Ilduin. They had hardly traveled half a league when Archer saw Ratha galloping across the plain to catch them. As soon as he saw the lightness in Ratha's face, he knew something had changed.
"Welcome, brother," he said as Ratha rode up beside him. "It is good to have you at my side again."
"Thank you," Ratha replied. "It is my honor to march with your company, Lord Archer."
"My company?" Archer asked.
Cilla laughed. "He speaks of me, I think, Lord Archer. Though he would never say as much."
"But you would," Ratha said, trying to fight the smile that spread across his face.
"Of course she would!" Tess said with a chuckle. "But fear not, my friend, for whatever she has said was spoken genuinely and with kindness."
"And we did not believe the rest," Archer said.
"What did you...?" Ratha began, before Archer put a hand on his shoulder.
"Fret not," Archer said, laughing. "We jest at your expense, my friend."
Ratha nodded, joining the laughter. "Three kisses and I am the talk of the camp, it seems."
"I had not told them about all three," Cilla said.
"Good that you did not!" Ratha said. "Or they would have dragged us to the temple at sword point!"
"Now, cousin," Cilla said, squaring her shoulders. "Let us speak no more of this."
Archer laughed again, and moved his horse to Ratha's other side, placing Ratha beside her. "Let me not be between you."
"Perhaps it is better that you are," Tess said. "It sounds as if they need a chaperone."
"Sister!" Cilla cried.
"You sowed this seed," Tess said, shaking her head. "I merely note the harvest."
"Enough," Ratha finally said, his expression one of mild embarrassment. "We are an army on the march, and not children."
But, Archer noted, Ratha took Cilla's hand as he spoke and did not release it. That small gesture warmed Archer's heart. And he would take any warmth he could find on this march, for he feared there would not be enough.
Archer saw that Tuzza kept silent throughout. While he had noted Ratha's arrival, he seemed to feel no impulse to greet the brother of the man he had killed. This did not surprise Archer, but neither did it please him. There were too many in this column who had shed one another's blood. He hoped that they would shed no more of it, but he knew too much of men to take comfort in that hope.
Nor did he take comfort in the way both Anari and Bozandari expected him to lead this campaign and somehow quell the inevitable stirrings of anger. The weight of military command was heavy enough without the added burdens this placed upon him. Sooner or later, he knew, the impulse to peace must come from the Anari and the Bozandari themselves. He could not impose it from above.
"You are troubled," Tess said, having moved to his side as if she had read his thoughts.
"There is trouble afoot," Archer said. "And we are marching into it. There can be only so much laughter in such times."
"Aye, that is true. But it is the laughter which buoys our spirits and renews our courage."
"Only to a point," Archer said. "When the true test comes, it will not be laughter that carries us forward. It will be each man's implicit trust in the men next to him. And this we do not have yet."
"No, we do not," Tess said. "But we will."
After a long moment, Archer set his jaw.
"We must," Archer said. "Or all is lost."
Ezinha Tondar had not slept since his slave Mihabi had slipped away into the night. At first he had tried to sleep on a sofa in the drawing room, but failing in that he had gone to the kitchen to make himself his first meal. He had abandoned that plan when Ialla--his cook and nanny--had awakened to his stirrings and insisted that she prepare it for him. On any other day, he would have seen this as an act of kindness by a woman who had been with his family for nearly forty years. On this day, however, he saw it for what it was: the act of a slave who feared she had disappointed her master by not rising in time to have the meal ready.
Ordinarily he would have left her to the task with hardly a word spoken between them. On this day, he found he could not. He sat at a table in the kitchen, searching for the right words to open a conversation he knew Ialla would find uncomfortable at best, if not insulting. Failing an elegant approach, he opted for directness.
"Have I been a good man, Ialla?"
She paused in whipping the eggs that would be his breakfast and looked at him. "You have been an honest and fair master, sir."
She had obviously chosen her words carefully, and the mere fact that she had done so said much. He thought for a moment before continuing. "That is kind of you to say, Ialla, but that was not my question. I have striven to be a fair and honest master, for you and your kin who are in my household. And I believe I have done such. But have I been a good man?"
"I am not sure what you ask, master," she said.
"Mihabi left in the night to join the uprising," Ezinha finally said. "I was shocked that he would do so, for I had considered him a brother. Yet I now wonder if I truly had. You raised me as much or more than my own mother, yet you do not think of me as a son."
Ialla said nothing while she poured the eggs into a hot skillet, one seemingly frail but sinewy strong arm shaking the skillet to spread them in an even layer. Only after she had set the skillet over the low flame did she finally turn to him.
"No, master. You are not my son. The time has long past when I could scold you, and even in your youth I could do so only because your mother entrusted you to my care."
"Did you love me?" Ezinha asked, cringing inside as he asked the childish question.
Ialla smiled. "Of course I did. How could I not? You were a good-hearted child, and if you were prone to mischief, it was a mischief you shared with Mihabi and his cousins rather than playing against them."
"I remember," he said. "We tried your patience far too often, I fear."
"No more so than any child, and less than most," she said, now using a flat instrument to press the edges of the eggs as they solidified. She sprinkled a handful of chopped onions into the pan, seasoned with snippings of fresh brown peppers from his garden. "That your mother left was not your fault, master."
"Oh, that I know," Ezinha said.
He had long since come to terms with the bitter day when she had walked out the front door with nary a word to anyone, never to return. Rumors that she had taken up with another man were rife, but Ezinha's father had never found her or the man. In the years after, Ezinha had come to realize that his father was a very hard man. Surely his mother had grown weary of his father's dark moods, rages that Ezinha himself had felt the sting of more than once. Ezinha had felt more relief than sadness at his father's funeral. He had sworn that he would never be his father's likeness, yet had he not done exactly that with his cold words to Mihabi?
"I told Mihabi that if I ever saw him again, it would be as an enemy," he said.
Ialla froze in the act of turning his eggs and looked at him. "Surely you did not, master."
"He has gone to join the rebellion," Ezinha said. "Anari are slaying Bozandari in the night. Could I doubt that he would do the same to me?"
Ialla kept her silence as she served his breakfast. While her cooking was nothing short of outstanding, on this morning he could barely taste his food. She cleaned the skillet and bowl as he ate, and finally he pushed the plate away.
"Speak to me, Ialla. Not as a slave to her master, but as a wise woman to the man she raised."
"You were a fool, Ezinha," she said. "Mihabi would no more harm you than I would. Are you a good man? Do you want me to tell you that Mihabi and I and your other slaves think of you as one of us? How could we? You own us. You sold Mihabi's brother to another man, because you had no work for him. Would you have sold your own brother?"
Ezinha's face fell as he remembered that day. He had not considered it a great thing. Bozandari often offered Anari on the auction block when they had more slaves than their work required. That he had separated two brothers seemed to him little more than what would happen if two Bozandari brothers chose different employers. But now, as Ialla confronted him with the reality of what he had done, he saw that it was something else entirely.
"How could I have been so blind?"
"You were raised to think of us as property, master. Individually, you may have loved Mihabi as a brother. But he was still Anari to you. Still a slave. Still property that you inherited from your father, as you inherited this house and your gardens."
"And you, Ialla, who have always been my truest mother..." He paused, nearly choking on the words. "I took from you your son."
Ialla folded her arms across her breasts and stared off into space. "Do you truly want me to answer your questions?"
"Help me to understand who I am, Mother!"
Ialla's face softened then. Reaching out, she touched Ezinhar's hair as she had often done in his childhood. "Then I will tell you. You will not like it."
"I already do not like any of this."
"Then hear me. When I was but a young woman of scant more than twenty winters, I was seized by slavers. They are ugly people, engaged in an evil business. Their only purpose is to enrich themselves. At the time I was taken, Mihabi's brother was little more than two years old, and I was heavy with child. They took me from my husband. I know not what happened to him, not even to this day. I fear they killed him."
Ezinha bit back instinctive words of sympathy.
"The day I was taken to be sold, your father sought a wet nurse, for you were about to be born. My eldest son was proof that I could amply provide, and so we were bought. I still do not understand why your father troubled to buy such a small, useless child, nor yet to allow me to raise him. Often, I learned since, once the older child has proved that a woman can produce sufficient milk, the older child is slain. Your father, for all he was a hard man, did not do that. Perhaps he thought I would be kinder to you if he did not exact that evil."
Ezinha nodded, head bowed. "Instead I did it in a different way."
"You did what slave owners do. I was able to learn that my son lives, though in a household where he is beaten for even small mistakes. I suspect that he has already joined the rebels. Perhaps that is why Mihabi left."
Ezinha looked at her. "And you, Ialla? Will you also join them?"
The woman shook her head. "No. Who else will look after you and your children?"
The question pierced him because she was right. He and his family had become dependent on their slaves. The Anari were a background to their lives, rarely noticed. Yet, in their absence they would be sorely noticed. Little, he suspected, could function without them.
"You humble me," he said.
"You have humbled us. But ever it has been thus. It is the revenge of those forced to serve: to make ourselves indispensable."
Ezinha sat in silence for a long time, pondering as his self-assessment shifted to one far less flattering. He had been blind to his sins for no better reason than that it was easier not to think about them.
"I am not a good man," he said finally. "You have answered me truly."
"Nor are you all bad," Ialla said. She reached for the food he would not eat, but before she touched the plate, he grasped her wrist gently. Then, pulling his knife from its sheath on his belt, he cut a slash through the brand mark on her arm. "You are free, Ialla."
She stared at her arm, then looked at him. "Do you want me to leave?"
He shook his head, fighting the tears that threatened his eyes. "I do not. But to stay or to leave is your decision. As it should always have been."
She straightened, leaving the plate, and reached for a towel to press against her bleeding arm. Then she kissed his forehead. "I will stay, my son. I fear you will need a mother in the times ahead."
Near Anahar, a hawk soared on the morning's rising thermals. The armies reached the mouth of the pass where they had fought each other so bitterly only weeks before, and it was as if a lurch passed through the columns. The memories of these soldiers, men and women alike, was still fresh with memories of comrades slain, of ugly killing and maiming done.
In an instant the air began crackling with tension. Not a soldier, not even an officer, failed to feel a thirst for revenge. There was no one in either army who had not seen his fellows fall, no one who could honestly deny a desire to turn on his former enemy and exact retribution.
The Ilduin were the first to pick up on the change. Where at the outset the troops had been joking among themselves to avoid thinking about the dark journey ahead of them--to avoid thinking that they might never return from it--now all thoughts grew dark with memory.
None of the three women failed to notice the encroaching darkness or the feeling of barely restrained violence. At once they brought it to the attention of the commanders.
"We must take care," Tess said. "There may be trouble at any moment."
Archer rubbed his jaw. "I feared this. The wounds are still too fresh, and passing through this canyon will only rip barely formed scars."
"Is there no other way?" Sara asked.
Cilla shook her head. "Not for an army that wants to leave the valley."
"Then we must find a way to separate the two columns or distract everyone."
"Or a way to keep control," Archer said, looking at Tuzza and Ratha. "If we lose control now, 'twould be best to abandon the campaign, for there will be no hope."
The two officers nodded, and without further discussion spurred their mounts back toward their separate armies.
"And that is the problem," Archer said. "Making one of two."
"'Twill be easier once we have passed through the canyon," Sara suggested hopefully.
"The entire route to Bozandar is littered with the slain, buried though they be. These men will never forget. We can only urge them to overlook anger for the greater good."
"They understand that," Sara said. "Have they not sworn fealty to Tess?"
Cilla viewed matters far less positively. "Half of them previously swore fealty to the Emperor of Bozandar. I fear they are remembering that even now."
Archer looked around. "Where is Tom?"
Sara answered. "He said he would ride in the rear for a while. I asked why, but he did not answer. Mayhap he felt an omen. But what could he do?"
Tess spoke. "All of the men of both sides know Tom is a prophet. Word of that spread swiftly. Mayhap he can do more than any of us might think."
Archer caught her eye. "You can do something, my lady."
Tess raised a brow, suspecting she would not like what he was about to say. "Do not ask me to use my powers. They are wild and I cannot guarantee the outcome."
"They are less wild than you think. But no, I do not ask it. I ask only that you ride up to that cliff." He nodded toward a promontory that would be easily visible to the marching columns. "Take a standard bearer with you. Let them see you. It will remind them."
Tess felt quite certain that she was not the sort who liked to stage a show, certainly not one that placed her at its heart. But she had long since realized that events moved her as much as she moved them, perhaps more. If this would help prevent trouble, then she would do it.
Archer signaled to the nearest standard bearer, one carrying a flag diagonally divided into the red of Bozandar and the gray the Anari had chosen for their color. Atop the triangles a white wolf with golden eyes looked down on the world.
Tess nodded to her companions, then with the standard bearer, an Anari of very few years, headed up to the cliff Archer had chosen. When she reached the crest, she looked down into the valley below. The awful memories of that last morning of battle flashed through her mind. The heaps of dead, lying in windrows where they had been cut down. The cries of Bozandari who had fallen into the Anari pit traps, pit traps that later became mass graves and still showed as freshly turned earth.
The magnitude of their mission hammered her with renewed force. "Raise the standard," she said.
"Yes, m'lady," the boy said.
The boy planted the butt of the staff in the ground, using his foot to brace it, and held it upright. Tess knew what she needed to do, and almost in the thought of it, a gentle breeze came across the crest, lifting the pennant to its full length.
"Look upon me, Snow Wolves!" Tess cried in a voice that rolled down the slope and cut through the valley like rushing water. "Look upon your new standard! Fail it not, or Ilduin blood will judge!"
Mihabi found his older brother, Kelano, in a darkened wood that lay within a huge city park. Normally a place for Bozandari children to play with their mothers, the park had been all but empty since the bitter winter had fallen upon them. Now its winding paths and secret hollows were an ideal base for the Anari rebels.
"It is good to see you again, brother," Mihabi said, grasping Kelano in an embrace. "I feared we would never again meet face-to-face."
"It would be a cold fate that we should not," Kelano said. "A fate the gods have spared us. How is mother?"
"She is well," Mihabi said, "though she remains in Ezinha's house. I did not tell her that I was leaving."
Kelano nodded. "We must get her out. Ezinha will kill her, as many other masters are doing to the families of those who leave. As if by spilling the blood of our mothers and sons and brothers, they can break our will."
Mihabi considered that prospect. He had heard that some Bozandari were exacting reprisals, but strangely he had not considered that possibility when he had made his decision to leave. Surely Ezinha would not kill the woman who had nursed him? Yet he had sold Kelano, had he not?
"You are unsure," Kelano said, reading his eyes. "Have no doubt of the evil of slave owners, brother. You may have played with Ezinha in your youth, but he is no better a man than any Bozandari. We must get mother out of his house, and quickly."
"I cannot believe Ezinha would kill mother," Mihabi said, trying to imagine his former owner's arm falling, the glint of a blade plunging into his mother's throat. He could not force the image into focus. "He could not."
"He would and he will," Kelano said. "He is his father's son, and his father was a cruel man. Cruel to his wife. Cruel to his children. Would his son not show the same cruelty to a mere slave?"
Mihabi remembered the stern warning Ezinha had issued before he left. If he returned to Ezinha's house, he would be treated as a thief in the night. While Ezinha had freed him, there had indeed been a hardness in his eyes. Perhaps Kelano was right. Perhaps even now his mother lay dead, her body flung through the doorway of the servants' house as a brutally plain message to any of the others who might consider leaving.
Kelano held Mihabi's gaze until finally Mihabi nodded.
"You see the truth of my words," Kelano said. He put a hand on Mihabi's shoulder. "Come, brother, and quickly. We must gather a company of our brethren and forge a plan. You know Ezinha's house and grounds better than any, and we owe our mother a debt that only this can repay."
Tess had watched the army's march through the valley with a mixed sense of sorrow and hope. Each company, both Anari and Bozandari, had saluted her standard as it passed. But the anger still simmered as they made camp north of the valley that night. More than a few fights had broken out, the largest because a group of Anari had wanted to return to the valley to offer prayers at the graves of the fallen, while the Bozandari had no desire to see Anari both in front of and behind them in that valley of death. While the senior men quickly quelled the disturbances, the sense of fracture was imminent.
It was Cilla who had come to Tess with the germ of an idea, although Cilla had known that she lacked the means to make it happen. Now, as Tess approached Ratha's tent, she wondered if her powers of persuasion would be any better.
"Come in," Ratha said when she announced her presence.
"Hello, my friend," Tess said.
Ratha quickly gathered maps and other papers, tucking them into his knapsack, then invited her to sit on the low bench that functioned both as his cot and his map table. He sat beside her, the strain of the day evident in his dark eyes.
"What can I do for Lady Tess?" he asked.
The formality of the question left little doubt that he had some inkling of the reason for her visit. She chose not to evade the issue. "There is trouble in the camp."
He nodded. "Yes, I know. I cannot say that I am surprised. These men slaughtered one another in this same valley only a few weeks ago. Such memories burn deeply in the belly, m'lady."
"Both Anari and Bozandari look to Archer, and to me, to make peace between them."
"I envy you not that task. I know in my head that we must march together or fall to the Enemy. I think both of our peoples understand this." Ratha pointed to his chest. "But here, in our hearts, there are wounds that cannot be ignored. And the chasm between what we know and what we feel is...all the wider as we see each other arrayed as for battle."
Ratha knotted his hands together and Tess reached out to cover them. "I am so sorry, Ratha. But unfortunately it seems the gods will not give us time to grieve and lick our wounds. We must bring this army together swiftly."
His face tightened yet more, then with visible effort he relaxed. "Aye. What would you have me do?"
"There must be some way you and Tuzza can be seen by everyone to unite and put aside your past wounds. Everyone knows Tuzza killed Giri, and everyone knows that he did so because Giri killed an officer for whom Tuzza felt a great deal of affection. You have both suffered grievous harm...but pray do not misunderstand me, Ratha. I do not seek to minimize the loss of Giri. It is still a knife in my heart as well."
"I believe you." He closed his eyes tightly, as if to deny his eyes access to the world. Or to memory. "I can still see him killing my brother. It is etched in my brain with acid. The sword swinging, glittering in the sunlight, and my brother's head..." He shuddered, keeping his eyes closed. "You have no idea what you ask of me. Ask me to make peace with any other. But with Tuzza..." He shook his head.
"I understand, Ratha. Believe me, I understand. All our minds are filled with horror since the battle. Not a person among us escaped the loss of someone we loved. But the future demands that we ignore our hurts for now, else there will be endless war."
Her gaze grew distant and she rocked a little, as if she were caught in a vision. "Few of us have any idea," she said in a voice barely above a murmur, "how awful it can be. And it can be so much worse than anything you have yet seen, Ratha."
He stared at her, tugged from the sorrow that angered him as much as it hurt him. An eerie feeling settled over him, as if he could sense that the woman beside him was bridging the veil somehow. As if she were seeing beyond this world.
Then she looked at him, and her blue eyes were dark. "You can make peace with any man you choose, but only peace with Tuzza will make a difference."
A chill crept along his spine, reminding him that there were far greater forces at work in this world, and in these events, than he had allowed himself to think of since Giri's death. The rightness of what she said filled him as much as his grief. Still, the internal struggle continued. It was a time before he could bring himself to make the promise.
"Much as I am loathe to make amends with Tuzza, it must be done for the greater good of all. So give me a while, my lady. A while to think on this. Then I will go to Tuzza and we shall make a plan."
"Thank you, Ratha." Tess squeezed his hands. "These times demand so much of us, my friend. I fear that in the end our hearts will be nothing but worn-out husks." She spoke as if she knew, as if she had seen.
Slightly unnerved and worried about the way she looked, Ratha unknotted his hands and clasped hers. Yet still she rocked, as if caught in the grip of something beyond herself. "If that passes, then the Enemy will win. We must keep heart. We must always care. Even if we must at times numb our pain so we may do all that is needed, we must never sacrifice it. Armies will fight in the next weeks, but our spirits will wage war also."
"You speak wisely, Ratha. Very wisely. And only with unity can we sustain each other."
He sighed. "I will think of something, my lady. The stakes are far too high to allow hatred to rule us. I have buried Giri. Now we all must bury our dead."
Outside Ratha's tent, Tess sagged on legs that didn't want to hold her. She had seen, and what she had seen had shaken her to her very core. She did not know if she had glimpsed the future, or glimpsed the past, but either way horror gripped her.
She steadied herself against a tent pole, trying to clear her head enough to think. She needed to be alone, to absorb what she had just seen in her mind's eye, but finding solitude had become ever more difficult. Her sisters were very often with her, and since both armies had sworn fealty toward her banner--to her--everywhere she went someone wished to speak to her.
Strange how it was that the wounded hearts of these men seemed to want a few words from her, or a moment of her time to mention someone who had died. She understood their need, but she felt wholly inadequate to the task. She was the Weaver, but she was no healer of wounded hearts. The only gift she had lay in healing flesh, and causing terrible death.
Finding some strength, she headed for the edge of camp, thinking that somewhere in the no-man's-land between the farthest tent and the sentries who had been placed as a screen to alert them before any attack could come near, she would find a place of solitude.
She was wrong. No sooner did she leave the edge of camp when the phalanx of Bozandari who had first sworn themselves to protect her, surrounded her. Since she had been moving through the Anari camp, she was even more surprised.
"Odetta," she said to their commander.
He bowed deeply.
"I need solitude."
"We will ensure you have it, my lady. We will position ourselves far enough away that you shall not know we are there."
As he spoke, he made a gesture with his hand. At once the men around her melted into the darkness. "You have only to lift your voice, m'lady," Odetta said. He saluted her smartly, then also vanished into the night.
In spite of herself, Tess smiled. Alone but not alone. It was undoubtedly the best she could hope for now, when they were two days' march from another Bozandari legion, one more likely to attack them than to talk first. Their scouts would likely be ranging out well ahead, and contact could be made at any moment.
She found a flattened rock of just the right height to serve as a seat. Her trembling legs were glad of the relief, but it only seemed the anxiety she felt moved from them into the rest of her.
She was not accustomed to having visions outside the temple, yet this one had seemed exactly like those she saw within the temple walls. Even with her eyes open and the stars casting their silvery light everywhere, giving the rocky desert a beautiful argent sheen, she could still see the horrific images.
Weapons that flew and sprayed fire, bodies hewn open in ways no sword could accomplish, in ways the mind could scarcely believe. A screaming roar, and then earth erupting around her, scattering men and women and children in parts around her, torn remains sticking to her clothes and her face and her soul.
Was this her past or her future?
Perhaps solitude had not been a wise choice. There was no answer to her vision, nothing that she could pick out of it to point a way to either her forgotten past or the dreaded future.
Rising, she started back toward the camp. Moments later the phalanx surrounded her again. This time she found them comforting.
Past or future, what difference did it make? she wondered finally as they approached the nearest tents. One way or the other, it was part of her.
Much as he hated the company of the crone he kept secreted in his fortress, Ardred needed, at times, to avail himself of her powers directly. He entered the Ilduin's small cell and tried to ignore the odor of decay that hovered in the air. The woman was nearly a walking corpse, yet she seemed unable to die, much as she might wish it.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, she was afraid to die. The punishments of the gods, as he himself knew, could be as diabolical as their games. The quarrel between Elanor and Sarduk played out here in this world, and for all they were the cause of everything, they freely punished those who displeased them.
Elanor's punishment of both Ardred and Annuvil had been harsh, but Sarduk had saved Ardred from the worst of it. And so he should have, Ardred had always believed. After all, it was the creation of the Anari that had so infuriated the gods. The war that led to it, between Annuvil and Ardred, had merely been a part of the game.
But the creation of a new race...that had been treading into territory the gods reserved for themselves. And Annuvil had been part of that, while Ardred had not.
Ardred's lip curled as he thought of his older brother. The folly, the sheer arrogance, of thinking any being could escape the wiles of the gods only showed Annuvil's failings. And as a result of those failings, the world had been rent asunder, Annuvil left here on this plane to wander like the lost sheep he was, and Ardred on another plane under Sarduk's protection. Ardred had used the time to learn what he must do to reunite the world.
While Annuvil had simply waited for events to unfold.
Well, Ardred thought, staring at the living husk of the Ilduin, events were certainly unfolding now. Rebellion in Bozandar--that must be quite a surprise to his brother, who had wanted the Anari to be peaceful to a fault--a legion marching toward Anahar to rescue its brothers, an emperor who was losing control of his empire though he did not yet know it, a people weakened by famine and harsh winter, all in turmoil....
Now it was time to wake his hives. The stupid overmark he had hired to train his ragtag army had no idea what other tools lay at Ardred's command. Nor did Ardred want him yet to know. If anyone looked, they would think Ardred weak, not worthy of concern.
It was good. It was as it must be. For out of this turmoil, the worlds would be reforged.
But far more important than that, the Weaver would be brought to heel. His heel. Only that, he knew, could avenge the way his brother had stolen Theriel those many years ago. White Lady for White Lady.
When he at last spoke to the woman he had come to see, he actually smiled.
"Snow Wolves, form ranks!" Archer cried.
His voice echoed off of the canyon walls, booming with an authority that made hearts quiver and muscles respond with trained precision. The host had returned to the site of the battle, the Anari along the eastern face of the canyon, the Bozandari to the west, facing one another with wary eyes. Between them lay the mass graves of those who had fallen.
Ratha and Tuzza received the salutes of their men, then turned and marched toward each other, moving between the graves. Murmurs rippled through the ranks as the two men stopped two yards apart. Above, on the rim of the canyon, Tess watched with growing concern.
"Surely they are not planning to duel?" she asked.
"I do not know, my lady," Archer said. "Ratha came to me, asking that the men be formed thus. I assumed that he and Tuzza had reached some accommodation."
Tess nodded, trying to force her eyes away from what was happening beneath her on the canyon floor, but she knew she could not. This had been her idea. Now she could do nothing but watch, and trust in the essential goodness of Ratha's soul.
Mihabi moved with three Anari through the quiet back gardens of Ezinha's estate. Kelano, he knew, was moving around the other side with three more. Unless Ezinha had changed his household routine, his wife would have taken his children to the market, leaving Ezinha at home alone to work on his ledgers. The Anari would be in his home before he had an opportunity to react.
If everything went well.
Mihabi looked up, shielding his eyes. The sun was nearly overhead. Soon the bells would ring, calling those few Bozandari who still honored their gods to their midday prayer. That would be their signal to move.
Mihabi was not happy being here. He had a promise, and whatever Ezinha might be, he would be true to his word. Mihabi would be nothing but a common thief in his former master's eyes. That thought troubled him more than any other. He had seen anger in Ezinha's face more than once. He had seen it the night he left Ezinha's estate. But it had always been the anger of a brother. An anger that he had known would pass.
This would be something else.
In the distance, the bells pealed midday.
Mihabi and the three Anari moved quickly and silently toward the kitchen door. As he stepped through the door, Mihabi froze.
Ezinha was in the kitchen with Ialla.
And he had a knife in his hand.
Ratha studied the eyes of the man who had killed his brother. The brother who had not only killed but had also mutilated Tuzza's cousin. It had been a calculated act of brutality that Ratha could not imagine Giri ordering, and yet he had. Giri's soul had grown much darker than Ratha had believed. Whatever pain Ratha had felt as he watched Giri fall, Tuzza's anger had been all the greater. Ratha considered how difficult his path to this point had been.
Ratha wondered if Tuzza was capable of the task that now lay before them. He was not certain that he could do it himself. And Giri had not been mutilated.
Ratha placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, watching as Tuzza grasped his own. As they drew their weapons, a gasp passed through the watching men.
But Ratha did not hear it. He could hear only the pounding in his own chest.
"I warned you, Mihabi," Ezinha said. "Had you come alone, perhaps I could have forgotten our last words. But to come like this, armed, and with your brethren. You are no more than a common thief."
"We come for my mother," Mihabi said. "You know what has happened in other households."
"And you think I would harm the woman who nursed me when I was a babe, and loved me ever after?" Ezinha asked.
"Why would you not?" Kelano asked, having crept through the house and who now appeared in the doorway behind Ezinha. "You sold me to a man who has done thus."
Ezinha nodded and looked down. The sight of the brother he had sold, the scars of the cruelty that this brother had borne, sickened and shamed him to his very soul. "I did, Kelano. I was a fool, though the cruelty you felt is no less for that. I was wrong. No one could judge you for wanting to strike me down. But look at your mother's arm before you do."
Mihabi saw the wound first, a wound that matched his own. Ezinha had freed her. And yet she remained here, in Ezinha's house.
"Mother..." Mihabi began.
"This is my home," she said.
"You are a fool," Kelano said, bitter anger in his voice. "Why would you remain with the man who sold your own son?"
"Because he is also my son," Ialla said firmly. "You are all my sons, and yet you stand here with daggers drawn. A mother can feel no worse pain than that."
"We are your blood," Kelano said.
"And my blood has been spilled," Ialla said, pointing to the scars on Kelano's body. She took the knife from Ezinha's hand and held it to her wrist. "Will a greater pool of my blood make old wounds heal? If so, then let me shed it."
"Mother, no!" Mihabi shouted. "You have done no wrong!"
"Have I not?" she asked. "I raised Ezinha, and more than once did I scold him when he erred. But never did I scold him on the greatest error of all. I spoke not of the evil of one man owning another. I spoke not of the anger that simmers when men are property. I warned him not of the danger that some day--this day--a vile crime that he thought normal would rise up and smite him. How can you say I have done no wrong, when I did not teach my child that most important truth?"
Ezinha heard her words as if through a cheesecloth soaked with bile and guilt and sorrow. "You could not have spoken thus. My father would have beaten you, or worse."
"Aye, he would have," she said, tears rising in her eyes. "And fearing that, I said nothing while my own son was taken away to the auction house like a pig to the market. To spare my own pain, I let one son hurt another. What kind of mother does thus?"
"A human mother," Mihabi said, his knife lowered, his voice gentle. "A mother as flawed as her sons, yet no less loving for her flaws."
Ezinha gently took the knife from Ialla's hand and placed it on the table. "Mother, spill no more blood on this day. Nor will I."
He looked at Kelano. "As to whether you will spill my blood, Kelano, I cannot decide that for you. I pray that you will not, for I believe I can help your people in their time of need. But that is a choice you must make."
"How could you help us?" Kelano asked, his own dagger still clutched tightly.
Ezinha spread his hands. "You brought armed men into my house. Have I called for the city guard?"
"You have had no chance," Kelano said, eyes narrowed.
"Oh, yes, my son," Ialla said. "He did. Did you think your mother a fool? I had heard of the reprisals against the families of Anari who joined the rebellion. I knew you would fear Ezinha's vengeance. I told him you would come for me. We watched through the window as you stole onto his estate and waited in his gardens. He knew. I knew. He could have called for the city guard. He chose not to."
"But why?" Mihabi asked.
"Wherever you are hiding," Ezinha said, "the Bozandari will find you. Even now, a legion marches from the north toward the city, to crush your brethren here. They may not arrive for days or perhaps even a fortnight, but what of the people in the city who have taken to the streets with swords and bells to summon the guard? How long until they track one of your parties back to your base, and fall upon you with red in their eyes and black in their hearts?"
Ezinha paused to let the question sink in before continuing. "You need sanctuary, and I have both a walled estate and good standing in the community. Neither guard nor mob will assail this place."
Ezinha walked over to Kelano and stood before him, his arms at his sides, his hands open. "Shed my blood if you will, Kelano, but waste not the blood of your people. This was once your home. Let it be so again."
"And how do I know that you are not merely drawing my brethren in so that they may be slaughtered?" Kelano asked.
"Because he swore to me," Ialla said. "He swore to me on pain of keh-bal. And I will hold him to his oath."
Tuzza's hand rested on the hilt of his sword and hesitated there. He knew what must be done, yet he couldn't quite bring himself to make the first movement. The laughing face of his young cousin floated before his eyes, then dissolved into the mutilated corpse he had last seen.
The man before him was the brother of his cousin's killer. In keeping with customs of ahwesa, Ratha's life should be forfeit for his brother's deed. Not the slaying in battle. That was battle. The mutilation was not, and for that a penalty should be paid.
But this was not a time for ancient customs and honor claims, he reminded himself. He could, with a mere swing of his sword, exact his family's due. It would be so easy that his heart rebelled at his refusal to do so.
Yet...not only was he aware of his army ranged behind him, but also he could read the face of the Anari facing him. Ratha found this no easier than he, yet Ratha had been the one to come to him and suggest this, that they end not only their own bad blood, but the bad blood between the armies.
A greater threat awaited them, one they could not afford to ignore, and certainly not for a few moments of satisfaction.
From behind him he could feel the pressure of anticipation, and he spoke quietly to Ratha. "They think we are about to fight to the death."
"Aye." Ratha's voice was heavy. "And it is that specter that we must end. I understand your reluctance, Tuzza, for I feel it as well. But for how long can we stand here and postpone our duty?"
"Are you eager?"
Ratha looked down at the ground. "Nay," he said. "I still grieve. But not only for my brother's death."
"No?"
Ratha looked at him. "My brother was as close to me as if we had emerged from the womb at the same time. He was my other arm, my other half. He is gone. It is where he is gone that I fear."
Tuzza felt his brow crease. "What do you say?"
"I saw that my brother was caught up in the lust of battle. I knew what he did to your cousin. My cousin Cilla swears that in his last moments, Giri recognized the wrong in what he did, that in the last moments of his life he regretted his errors."
Tuzza nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral.
"But, Tuzza," Ratha continued, clearly finding it difficult to speak of something so personal, "I have a fear."
"Fear?"
"What if Cilla is wrong? What if he did not have time to repent? What if, instead of crossing the veil, he wanders this world as a dark shade, forever barred from comfort and rest?"
The muscles in Tuzza's neck jerked, and he felt something chilly run along his spine. "Those who die in battle are guaranteed to cross the veil, for they have died bravely and in service."
Ratha shook his head. "Those are your beliefs. Ours are different. I cannot say who is correct. But I do know one thing. There is a difference between fighting for a cause out of necessity, and fighting because one gains a personal satisfaction from it. Giri began to thirst after blood. That was his sin. Did he repent it? I pray so, else he will never cross the veil, and I shall never see him again."
"Then let me offer you some measure of comfort," Tuzza said. "You have no reason to trust me in this, and many reasons to think me a liar. But listen, I pray you. Your brother's mission was not an easy one. He could not risk open battle with my legion, nor was that his task. And so he was reduced to pinpricks, drawing me along the path you had chosen, watching his men die, and exacting what revenge he could.
"A war such as that can produce no heroes, Ratha. It is too cold and too cruel. It produces cold, cruel men. The gods will know this when they meet your brother. They will look at how close you and Giri were. They will look at him. Then they will look at you. They will see that the differences in your hearts lay in the different battles you were forced to fight.
"And they will forgive him," Tuzza concluded.
"It would be blessed if that were true," Ratha said.
Tuzza nodded. "My people have a saying. The gods are gentle when the devils are cruel, and the gods are cruel when the devils are gentle. The devils were cruel indeed to your brother, Ratha. The gods will be gentle."
Ratha looked down for a moment, blinking away tears. "Many have spoken to me of Giri's life and his death. My friends. My kin. Even my beloved cousin. None of them spoke as you speak, Tuzza. And only in your words have I found the truth that reaches my heart."
Tuzza extended his free arm and grasped Ratha's shoulder. "One warrior to another, my friend."
Ratha shook his head. "No, my friend. One man to another. Men who long for an end to war."
"Yes," Tuzza said. "One man to another. Let us make peace, Ratha."
"Let us make peace," Ratha echoed.
They sheathed their swords and knelt to pick up two shovels Ratha had laid in this spot during the night. Wordlessly, for there was no need of words, they dug in the freshly turned earth. When they had dug a hole almost half the height of a man, they put the shovels aside and drew again their swords.
They brought the blades to their foreheads in a salute as old as time.
Then they tossed their swords into the hole.
Neither heard the gasps or the cheers that spread through their men. Neither heard Tess's quiet tears, high up on the rim of the valley, nor Archer's oath of wonder. It was as if a veil of silence had descended around them.
They heard the muted chunk of spade digging into earth, and the thud as that earth landed in the hole. They heard each other's quick caught breaths. Later, each would swear he could hear the other's tears wetting the soil.
In a final gesture, each snapped the handle of his spade over his knee. Their swords were buried, never to be unearthed.
Tuzza considered whether to embrace Ratha, and finally decided upon a crisp, formal salute. Ratha returned it. Each spoke only one more word.
"Brother."
"Uneasiness everywhere," Ardred told Overmark Lutte. "The crone sees all, and it is well."
"Well?" Lutte looked at his new liege and pondered the word. "Well would be victory. Uneasiness is naught."
Ardred smiled, superiority in every line of his face.
"You doubt me, Lutte."
The overmark felt a distinct chill run down his back. He still had not taken the full measure of his new emperor, and he often had the feeling that the man had powers no Bozandari emperor had ever claimed. "I merely do not understand," Lutte replied.
"Nor would you." Ardred's smile broadened. "My plan proceeds. The capital of Bozandar is in the grip of a slave revolt that is spreading to outlying areas. They are thus weakened. The only threat marching their way is a small band of survivors of the battle between the Anari and Tuzza's legion. They will be crushed when Alezzi's legion meets them."
Lutte stiffened. "Alezzi is cousin to Tuzza."
"Do you think that will make a difference when Alezzi learns Tuzza has thrown his lot in with the Anari?"
Lutte knew enough of Bozandari officers to answer quickly. "No."
"Exactly. And most likely Tuzza will seize the opportunity to rejoin Bozandar regardless of whatever promises he may have made. So either way, that annoying little group will be eliminated. Then we will move."
Lutte thought of his own army coming up against a Bozandari legion, and he didn't like the assessment he reached. "We are not ready, my lord."
"You are ready enough, Lutte. Do you think I count only on you?"
That stung a bit, but Lutte managed to conceal his response by bowing his head. Yes, he supposed he had considered himself essential. Or at the very least he had wanted to think so. Why had he thought it should be any different here than it had been in Bozandar? He quelled the disappointment and annoyance he felt.
Ardred hummed for a moment, an unfamiliar tune, and rocked back on his heels, while clasping his hands together behind his back.
"They are doing exactly as I want, Lutte. Soon my brother will pay the price of his transgressions."
Ezinha's house had filled steadily over the past few days. His wife and children had gone to visit his wife's family in the country some thirty leagues away and were not expected to return until he sent for them. He had wanted his children to be away from the capital city at this time, to be at her father's large country estate where a private militia would be able to protect all of them.
But never had he imagined the threat would venture this close to his own door. Or that he would be risking his life--and ultimately those of his sons--by protecting rebels. And yet, he could not escape the justice of it. He had been blind to too much that he should have seen, and now he would pay the price. In the balances of eternal justice, he suspected that he owed a very heavy price indeed.
As the number of Anari within his walls grew, however, he noticed that many of them were children and women heavy with child. As if the rebels themselves were reluctant to overtax Ezinha. As if they wanted his offer of shelter and protection only for those who most needed it.
Which was not to say they didn't have any armed men and women standing secret guard. They weren't trusting him to provide all the protection they might need. Nor could he. Other than secrecy, he had little to offer. He had never had his own militia, nor felt the need for one. As physician to the emperor, he was nearly untouchable. As a man of influence, few would think of crossing him.
But now he was crossing his own people, and rightly or wrongly, he felt uncomfortable about it. Since Mihabi had first left, Ezinha had undergone a radical transformation in his outlook and identity, and it still sat uneasily on his shoulders. Helping these Anari escape Bozandar, he realized, would have felt less like a betrayal. But instead he was harboring people who might well set out to kill others.
And there things began to stick in his throat.
Troubled, he went to the kitchen to find Ialla, and there he found Mihabi as well. Ialla had just finished directing a number of the women in preparing a meal, and relative silence reigned throughout the large house as everyone within dined. Everyone except Ezhina, who ignored the plate Ialla put in front of him.
"Mother," he said finally. "Brother."
They both looked expectantly at him.
He spread his hands on the table and looked at them. Like every Bozandari male, he had taken military training and was expected to retrain several times a year. But despite the nicks and scars, his hands retained the look of a healer's.
"My son?" Ialla prompted.
Ezinha sighed. "I find myself torn. I feel a strong need to help your people gain freedom, but if one of you should go from my house to kill my people...how am I to live with that?"
Mihabi stopped eating. After a few breaths, he said, "I feel much the same, Ezinha. When I heard the song of Anahar and made my decision to leave, I was full of anger and hatred toward you and your people. Now, in the light of day, that anger dims, and the hatred seems misplaced. I do not know if I could kill Bozandari, and yet Anari blood runs in the marketplace. How am I to live with that? Anahar has called to us. My people must be free."
"Aye, you must. I agree. But I would that I might think of a means to do so without more bloodshed. I am sure there are those among both sides who deserve to die, but I am equally certain that there are even more among us who do not. But how is this thing to be stopped?"
Ialla sat on the bench facing both of them. "It cannot," she said simply, looking at Ezinha. "The Bozandari enslaved the Anari. We want our freedom. There are those among the Bozandari--many of them, in fact--who want things to stay as they are. We cannot petition your emperor or your judges to set us free. Already they have declared that it is legal to kill Anari slaves who flee their masters. We have no choice but to shed the blood of those who would keep us enslaved. And it is folly to wish it were otherwise. The Bozandari created this trouble. If the emperor will not end it, we must end it in blood."
"Mother," Mihabi said. "Surely you have not become so hardened that you can see no other path to peace?"
Now she turned to Mihabi. "Surely you are not so naive as to think we can simply put down our swords, plead our case, and be set free? Ezinha is a good and brave man, but he cannot speak for all of Bozandar. He knows this."
"Our mother speaks the truth," Ezinha said. "We have no choice but to be soldiers now. Our only choice is under whose banner we will fight. As for me, I will fight for my mother. I will fight for the Anari."
The army of the Snow Wolves marched north through the winding valleys. Tom found himself keeping his distance from Archer, looking at Archer with a suspicious eye, as if he were waiting for Archer to fail them. Yet Tess and her sisters, Cilla and Sara, walked with Archer every step of the way. Only at night, after they had made camp, could Tom spend time with his wife.
Even then, there was little time for talk. It was inevitable that some should be injured in the course of a day's march. Each evening, the Ilduin tended to those, as well as to those who had taken ill. By the time Sara could come to their tent, she was exhausted by the day's march and the evening's duties, ready to fall into sleep. While Tom recognized the necessity of their situation, it was not a proper honeymoon. Nor was it what he had considered when he had thought of marriage.
Now he was pitching their tent again, working alone as she and Tess and Cilla moved through the camp. The mood in the army had changed since their march through the canyon, and the reconciliation of Ratha and Tuzza. Distrust no longer dominated, and only a handful of brief scuffles had marred the peace of the past days. This, Tom thought, ought to have given him greater confidence in their cause. Instead, he simply felt alone.
"Sara stays busy."
Tom turned to see Archer at his side. "Aye. There is much work for the Ilduin."
"Aye," Archer said. "Let me help you pitch your tent, my friend. I have lacked for your counsel of late."
Tom simply nodded his assent, trying not to let his thoughts wander back to the dark warnings of the Eshkaron Treysahrans. And yet he could not escape them as he stood in Archer's presence.
"You are quiet, Tom," Archer said.
Tom nodded. "I am, my lord."
Archer's brow furrowed for a moment. "Have I hurt you in some way, Tom Downey? For you are ill at ease with me, and have been since we left Anahar. If I have given you any cause for offense, I know it not, but I offer you my apology regardless."
"You have done nothing," Tom said. "It is I who should apologize."
"Accepted," Archer said. "Still, I know you, young Tom Downey, and you would not act thus without reason. I entreat you, not as your lord, but as a longtime friend to your father and, I hope in these past months, to you as well. Tell me what darkens your face, prophet."
"You have been a staunch friend to my father, and to me," Tom said, choosing his words carefully, mindful of Erkiah's admonition that Tom not discuss the prophecy with anyone. "Fear not that you have failed in that."
"If I have failed not in that, then in what have I failed?" Archer asked.
Tom looked up at him. "Do you need my blessing, Lord Archer? You know you are a strong and good man. You have fought to liberate the Anari, and even now we fight to free the world from the icy grip that your brother has wrought. For time out of legend you have traveled this world, doing right wherever you found yourself. You are Firstborn, yet now you come to the lowly foundling son of a gatekeeper, seeking forgiveness for wrongs you have not committed?"
Archer seemed to study him for a moment, as if stung by Tom's words. Finally he spoke. "Yes, Tom Downey. I, Archer Blackcloak, Annuvil of the Firstborn, come to the lowly foundling son of a gatekeeper. For no man is lowly, save for the man who thinks himself or others to be so. I think not thus. Do you?"
"No," Tom said, looking down. "I am sorry, Archer. I miss my wife and spill frustration on you. I am sorry."
"Trust not your wife," Archer said. "For in hope did she take you, in hope to remake you, and great her regret in the dark of the night."
Tom's jaw dropped as he heard the words. "That is..."
"The Eshkaron Treysahrans," Archer said. "It is an old poem, thought by some a prophecy, though many a wiser man has deemed it merely the bitter rambling of a bitter soul. It speaks nothing of your love for Sara, nor hers for you. It foretells no betrayal by her, nor you of her. It speaks only the darkest anger of a man who cannot feel even a glimmer of hope or love or goodness in his soul."
"You have read it?" Tom asked.
"As have you, apparently," Archer replied. "And now I know why you feel ill at ease."
"The final stanza--" Tom began.
"Is no more to be trusted than those before it. The bitter rambling of a bitter soul, Tom. Nothing more."
"You did not read it," Tom said, realization dawning. "You wrote it."
Archer paused for a long moment, then nodded. "Yes, Tom. I wrote it in a time when I could see no good in the world, and even less in myself. I have not always lived the life of my legend. Often, I was less than the lowest beast, drowning in sorrow and pain and shame. It was in such a moment that I put quill to parchment and wrote those words. I have long wished I could find every copy ever made and destroy them, for too many have sought wisdom in the ravings of a madman."
The camp had settled into quiet by the time Archer and Tom finished erecting the tent and Sara's few conveniences. Then Archer did something that sent a shiver through Tom.
Squatting beside a stack of wood and kindling prepared for the night's fire, Archer didn't bring out his flint and striker to ignite the tinder. Instead he passed his hand over the wood, murmured a few words, and in the blink of an eye a fire arose, burning as if it had been so for hours.
Tom gasped. Archer looked over his shoulder. "I wondered if I could do that again. It seems I can."
Tom edged closer and squatted beside him. "You have magicks?"
"I used to have more than such simple ones. After the great war, I lost the abilities. Not that I much missed them. I can build a fire without it. I can do many things without the old lore. And perhaps that was part of the lesson."
"That may be."
"Or, perhaps, the world is changing in such a way that magicks are growing more powerful again."
"I thought the Ilduin were the only ones who could do such."
Archer sighed and sat with his legs crossed on the cold desert ground. "They always had the greatest magicks. But in the first times, many of us had minor powers. Powers that helped lead us into trouble."
"What else can you do?"
"I know not, nor am I sure I want to." He frowned. "You do realize, Tom, that if the world is changing in such a way that my powers begin to return, my brother's powers will return as well."
Tom felt another shiver of fear. "What powers did he have in the past?"
"Have you ever met someone who, when they spoke, could persuade you to believe almost anything?"
"Not really. I have met some with great powers of persuasion, but not such that they could overcome my sense."
"Ardred could persuade you the sky was green if he bothered."
Tom turned that around in his mind, trying to grasp that kind of ability. "And you? Could you not?"
"No. It was not my gift. Nor am I sure that much would have changed had it been. The gods know I have had ample time to think on it. Ardred's persuasion helped lead us to paths that divided our people and our cities, but I am not sure that had it been otherwise the outcome would have been so very different. The Firstborn were inherently flawed."
"How so?"
One corner of Archer's mouth curled, and he reached for a stick to poke at the fire. Sparks showered upward toward the inky sky, where an unexpected flash of lightning explained the lack of stars. Rain in the driest of Anari lands? Surely that was remarkable.
"Well," Archer said slowly, "I allowed myself to engage in war with my brother, to the detriment of all. And many joined both sides. Is that not a flaw? And of course there were others, lesser ones, but flaws all the same."
"And thus the Anari."
"And thus the Anari."
Tom stared into the leaping flames, trying to imagine all the things that must have led to the attempt to create a perfect race in the Anari. Trying to imagine how awful it would be to find oneself in a war against one's brother. Trying to imagine even a small part of the horrors Archer had been through.
Horrors that must have changed him, some little voice in his head whispered. Horrors that gave rise to the Eshkaron you just read. Were they not an unguarded glimpse into this man's mind?
A shudder passed through Tom, like a frosty wind passing through dessicated leaves. He was not at all happy with the direction his thoughts were taking. "So if you and your brother regain your powers, what will that do to the rest of us who have none?"
Archer's gray eyes, reflecting the dance of flame in the eeriest way, settled on Tom. "I wish I had an answer for you, Prophet. But I cannot see beyond the dark veil of the next moment in time. Had I been gifted with prophecy, none of the evils that befell the Firstborn might have happened. Certainly I would not have contributed to them."
He turned his attention back to the fire. "Theriel..." he murmured quietly. "My Theriel. The first White Lady so pure of heart and soul. She warned us. She warned me. She begged me not to yield to my brother's provocations, nor to try to create a better race. She asked me, If the gods could do no better than us, what makes you think you can do better? But I was so convinced we could make a world without war."
He gave a bitter laugh. "You see how well I succeeded. Theriel would have no part in the creation of the Anari, save to bless them with long life and the gift of great art. Then she walked away and told us we must come to our senses. It was her death in the end that provoked the final battle. That caused her sisters to blast Dederand, the Second City, into a plane of glass."
Tom shivered again. "So terrible."
"There are not words for it. Theriel's death...I know the stories say my brother killed her. But he did not. He captured her, and sought to make her his own, just as he now seeks to enslave the Weaver, Second White Lady. My Theriel died by her own hand rather than break her vows to me. And with her died our son."
"I am so sorry...." Everything in Tom constricted as he thought how he would react if such happened to Sara. He doubted he could remain sane.
"I lost the best part of myself when I lost Theriel," Archer said. "I have heard many say that, but it was most certainly true in my case. Her gentle hand and words ever sought to guide me to righteous paths, to the good that I could do. I should have heeded her better. Instead I fell into the pit my brother set for me, allowed myself to become angry, and once I was angry it was but a small step for him to provoke me and my fellows into the war that he wanted."
"But why did he want a war?"
"Of that I am not certain. I suspect the gods had a hand in that. Certainly our father treated us as equals. He was the high king, and I was the firstborn son, but he gave us each dominion over our own city and lands, and while one city was called Samarand, the First City, and the other Dederand, the Second City, they were merely names. But, of course, he desired Theriel. Perhaps that was the thing that most insulted him, when Theriel did not choose him."
"But doesn't the story say she chose neither of you?"
One corner of Archer's mouth lifted in a bitter smile. "Our father would have been a far wiser king had he not hidden Ardred and me where we could hear the lady's words when he asked her which of us she would marry."
"I remember the words from the story," Tom replied. "She said, 'If I marry Annuvil, Ardred will kill him, and I cannot marry Ardred.'"
"Aye, 'tis as she spoke. The words are graven on my heart as if by a hot brand. The joy that filled me that day made me blind to the insult my brother felt. And yet, as I repeated her words over the years, I have realized the wisdom they evinced. Had we not been able to overhear her, my father might have simply let her go on her way, and ceased pressing her to wed either of us. In that, as brothers, we would have shared an equal loss, and perhaps that would have eased matters between us. Instead we heard, and knew, her preference. What had before been difficult, thereafter became impossible."
"But yet, should that not have been simply between the two of you?"
"As I said, we were flawed. Ardred had long built a faction to support himself. It gave him weight in council, and made it clear that if anything happened to end our father's reign, he would be the one to take the role of High King. I thought I did not so much care, for Samarand was quite enough to occupy me. As was my beautiful wife, once we wed. But my father, unbeknownst to me, had noted Ardred's desire for the high throne, and because Ardred desired it, my father felt him unfit. So it was that another faction was raised at my father's behest, though I did not know it. Many gathered around me, and added the weight of their words to mine. We soon found ourselves at odds over many public projects.
"Then Ardred persuaded the people of Dederand that Second City did not simply mean that it was the second city the Firstborn built. No, with his silver tongue he persuaded them that they were considered to be second in every way, that their influence was less than that of Samarand, that their wishes meant less.... Need I go on? Before long, jealousy and envy became the bane of the Firstborn. And between them they led to wars. At first the skirmishes were brief, a handful of fighters here and there trying to make a point. But as the conflicts became more common, it was as if the Firstborn developed a taste for them. Or if not a taste, at least a numbness to the horror."
Tom nodded. "I hope that never happens to me."
"I pray it will not, Tom. For men become worse than the worst of beasts when they no longer care how they slaughter others. War grew like a fevered illness, fed by unreasoning jealousies and resentments, and eventually by revenge. And I was no better than the rest."
"I think you undervalue yourself."
Annuvil shook his head. "I have learned my lessons painfully, Tom. And I learned them when it was too late. Theriel argued in councils, telling us how foolish we were. She tried to persuade us back to sanity, but no ear seemed to hear. I even think...I even think I lost a part of her then." He shook his head as if to drive out a pain. "I know I failed her. I was not the man she thought."
Impulsively, Tom reached out and gripped Archer's forearm. "How many times have you and the others kept me from bloodying my own hands? Sometimes I wish still that I were a warrior, for I feel so useless with nothing to offer but an occasional riddle of prophecy. But you must not count yourself less than others, for we have all made war in our own ways, have we not? To this day the fight goes on. And now we have a chance to right a very old wrong."
"Time will show us. But rest assured, Tom, I am not the man I was meant to be. Nor am I certain that I can become that man, a man who would have been worthy of Theriel."
Rising, Archer strode away into the night, just as a misty rain began to fall, hissing and spitting on the fire. Tom stared into the flames, the slits of his leather mask making their light tolerable, and had the uneasy feeling that he could see a laughing face within the fire.
His mind drifted back to the horrible images in the Eshkaron Treysahrans, and once again he knew unease. A mind that could create those images, and hold forth such despair and bitterness, and even hatred...That wasn't the Archer he thought he knew now, but yet that was still Archer.
It would be wise, he decided finally, to watch very carefully. At this time he could not guess who would be the betrayer he foresaw in his dim visions of things to come.
It might well be Archer.
During the night, heavy sheets of rain fell. Men who had no tents huddled beneath shields and any other protection they could find. The desert rarely saw more than an occasional light rainfall, and this night's storm, crackling with thunder and lightning, caused a lot of uneasy comment.
The desert thirsted, of course, but not even its dryness could suck up the torrents, and soon small rivers and pools had formed in every hollow.
Together in Tess's tent, the three Ilduin listened to the hammering rain on the cloth above and bent their heads together, trying to sort through a welter of feelings and images that had begun to flit into their minds.
"I feel others reaching for us," Sara said. "Other Ilduin. I cannot tell if they are corrupt or not. Yet I feel that they are being stirred by events."
"I, too," agreed Cilla. "I wish there was some test we could apply, for if we ally with the wrong sister, we could abet the evil that comes."
Tess nodded, and poured a hot, bitter herb brew into stone cups for her sisters. It reminded her of something she had forgotten, but as usual she could not summon the memory. She had virtually given up trying to remember, certain only that Elanor would reveal what she chose when she chose. Until then, she, Tess, was a pawn in a game the gods played.
"This rain is unnatural," she said as she put the pot down on the folding table. "Do you feel it? It is no more natural than the winter has been."
The other two nodded.
"But it is more than unnatural," she continued, folding her hands and closing her eyes. "It is..." She trailed off, caught by some sort of strange image. "I see something."
Rising, she went to the door of her tent and stepped out into the deluge. Raising her gaze to the heavens, watching the flashes of lightning, she tried to grasp what it was she was sensing, seeing.
"Tess?" The other two had followed her and now stood beside her, their robes growing drenched. "What is it?"
"I see...I see..."
And indeed she did see something, though exactly what it was she could not be sure. It was as if a golden net were cast over the sky, but while it should have been even and beautiful, it was blackened and twisted in places. Some part of her rebelled violently at the ugliness, and she tried to imagine it whole and beautiful again, unscarred by whatever had damaged it.
Because in her deepest being, she knew those scars were unnatural.
"Tess?"
She hardly heard her companions. The part of her that had healed so many wounds seemed to leap from her heart and reach out to that scarred web. As she stared at it, it gradually began to heal, growing golden and straight once again.
The rain stopped. She didn't notice. The sky cleared. She didn't see. She saw only the web above her, and suddenly knew she had revealed herself. A blackness began to spread out from the far end of the web, to the north, approaching...approaching.
Terror filled her and her essence snapped backward, returning to her physical form, seeking to hide therein from whatever sent that blackness crawling toward her.
Weakness filled her and she began to sink to the ground.
"Tess?" Sara and Cilla caught her, their grips painfully tight. "Tess? Talk to us!"
The bite of their fingers kept her conscious just long enough to say, "I have seen the warp and woof. I have seen how he blights it. I have seen that he comes for me."
Then blessed darkness claimed her.
Archer arrived as soon as he received Cilla's summons. With him came Ratha and Tuzza. "What ails the lady?" Archer demanded as he stepped into the tent.
The rain had ceased abruptly, but the skies, which had cleared so suddenly, now dumped their endless burden once again. A river ran under the tent now, and at this rate would soon wash it away.
"I am not sure," Sara said. "We saw her step into the rain and stare up at the sky. We felt...power emanate from her, although it was unlike anything we know. Then she collapsed."
"Did she say anything?"
"Something about seeing the warp and woof, and that he is coming for her."
Archer's head jerked. "She spoke of the warp and woof?"
"Aye."
Ilduin and commanders alike stared at him. It was Cilla who spoke first. "You know what it means."
Archer knelt swiftly beside Tess and touched her cheeks. "More blankets. She is wet and growing cold."
The women immediately obeyed as best they could. It wasn't as if this army carried huge supplies with it.
"Archer," Sara demanded, "what did she mean?"
"She is indeed the Weaver."
"Most of us already knew that."
He lifted his face and looked directly at his four companions. Every line of him was stamped with anguish. "She has seen the warp and woof. The fabric that underlies our world, the fabric upon which the gods built all of this."
"And?"
"Of course Ardred wants her. If she can manipulate the warp and woof, then she is as powerful as the gods themselves."
Sara hastened to shake her head. "I think she stopped the storm, then she collapsed. She is limited by her own strength."
"But what if her strength grows? No one would be able to stop her, not even the gods themselves."
Silence filled the tent, except for the renewed drumming of the rain. Archer bent and brushed his hand gently against Tess's cheek before rising to face the rest of the group.
"Hear this and obey," Archer said. "Whatever else is at risk in the days to come, she must never fall into the Enemy's hands. Never."
He scanned their faces and saw horror, discomfort, a mixture of unpleasant feelings.
"I repeat," he said, "she must never fall into the Enemy's hands. Not even should it cost her her life."
Then he strode from the tent, leaving the others to exchange looks and wonder if he was right.
Or if he could even be trusted.
The morning dawned clear and cool. The air, denuded of dust by the nighttime rain, was unnaturally crisp, and even with aging eyes Tuzza could pick out details in the column of men descending from a distant ridge. The gold-and-black lion's-paw pennants were clearly visible.
"They are Alezzi's men," Tuzza said.
Beside him, Ratha, Jenah and Archer stood silent. The Bozandari relief force was traveling faster than they had anticipated. Though contact was still a day away, it was clear that their final preparations would have to be made quickly. Too quickly. But such was too often the nature of war.
"I had hoped to meet them three leagues farther north," Jenah said, pointing at the map he had placed on the ground, each of its corners held by a rock. "There is a pass where we could have held a defensible position. But they are already descending from that pass."
"Alezzi would have seen the same situation on his map," Tuzza said. "He is a gifted commander and not to be underestimated. Do not expect him to walk into any defile with his main body in the lead. He will have scout patrols ranging far to the front, as well as on his flanks."
"And we can't use his patrols against him as we did with you," Jenah said. "We want to avoid combat if at all possible."
Tuzza nodded. "We cannot afford to contact his patrols. His patrol commanders will have authority to make probing attacks, to determine our strength and positions. We must parley with him before that happens."
"You fear your men will not fight, brother?" Ratha asked.
Tuzza studied Ratha's face. There was no indication that the Anari was speaking with contempt. If he doubted the courage of Tuzza's men or their loyalty to him, there was no sign of it. He simply recognized what they all knew: whether Tuzza's Snow Wolves would be willing to kill their Bozandari brethren was an open question, and one best not put to the test.
"There are likely many in my legion who have blood brothers or cousins in Alezzi's legion," Tuzza said. "He himself is my blood cousin. I would grieve at his death, and whether it was my sword that felled him would matter not at all in my heart. To slay his own is not a weight I would wish upon any man."
Ratha seemed to study him before nodding. "You are right, my brother. Such a battle would offer no hope of victory, for there would be no victors. There would be only the dead and those whose souls have died while their bodies remain alive."
At this, Archer visibly winced. "I need to consult with Lady Tess," he said before walking away.
Tuzza exchanged looks with the two Anari who remained, but their faces were unreadable. Either they knew not what lay in Archer's mind, or they declined to share it. And it mattered not which at this point. Tuzza studied the map, trying to estimate how many patrols Alezzi would send out, and their likely routes of march.
"In terrain this rugged, Bozandari doctrine would call for Alezzi to break one of his foot regiments--a quarter of his force--into patrol groups of one or two companies. That would yield six such groups. Our standard practice is to have one to the rear, one each on the flanks, and three fanning out to the front."
Jenah nodded. "He would not use his horses for such?"
"He would if he were campaigning in the Adasen Basin, to the north," Tuzza said. "But he will have learned, as I did, that horses cannot move swiftly in these rocky lands. Too many of my men's mounts had to be put down with broken legs. However, he will have several mounted couriers with each patrol group. One or more of them will break off immediately when the patrol makes contact, to report the news to Alezzi."
"So we cannot risk even to ambush a patrol," Ratha said, his brow furrowed. "I must tell my men to avoid them completely. This limits their capacity to scout for us."
Tuzza nodded. "That is precisely the purpose of our patrol doctrine, my brother. There is a saying in our officer academy--'He who wins the skirmish wins the main.' And now we are forced to concede the patrol skirmishes, to retreat and evade, even at the risk of permitting him to find and calculate our main body. If we cannot carry the parley, I fear for our prospects in battle."
"We must disperse our main force," Jenah said.
Tuzza shook his head. "We risk too much. Alezzi can fall upon each camp and defeat us in detail."
"You have forgotten the Ilduin," Jenah said. "That was our advantage in the prior campaign. We separated our columns then, and communicated through our three Ilduin. Thus were we able to coordinate our columns, and bring them together quickly when needed."
"My brother is right," Ratha said to Tuzza. "You say that we cannot win the skirmish, but we can if we create an illusion for his patrols to report. We must evade them for only one day, yes?"
Tuzza nodded. "Yes. By tomorrow his main body will be close enough that we can approach for a parlay."
"We withdraw now," Ratha said. "We withdraw in three separate groups, each far enough that his patrols cannot reach us until nighttime. Then we tell each squad to pitch three tents and build three campfires."
Tuzza smiled. "Alezzi's patrols would not attack so large a force. Instead, they will report to him that he is outnumbered. We both avoid the skirmish and give him more reason to avoid the main. It is a brilliant stratagem."
"Then it is agreed," Jenah said. "Let us issue the orders. The Snow Wolves will not fail."
"No," Tuzza said, feeling more comfortable than he had in some time. "We will not fail."
Ezinha's hand gripped the sword tightly, betraying the tension that filled him with dread. While he had served his required time in the Bozandari army, he had done so as a healer and not as a soldier. He had never killed a man, and he was not certain that he could. Yet on this night, he knew, he might well have to do just that.
Count Drassa Langel, the emperor's minister of war, had urged the court to declare the Anari rebels guilty of treason. All rebels now lay under sentence of death, and in the absence of the rebels themselves, the sentence was to be carried out on their families. The emperor had issued a declaration of martial law, and Langel's troops were now moving through the city with brutal efficiency, rounding up Anari whose kin were suspected of participating in the rebellion.
The rebels had until tomorrow at noon to surrender themselves. If not, well over a thousand Anari--including women and children--would be impaled on stakes throughout the city, to die slowly of thirst and exposure and agony, their bodies left for birds and then animals to pick clean, as a symbol to anyone else who might consider challenging the Bozandari throne. Not a single street corner in Bozandar would escape the screams of the dying, nor the stench of the dead.
Ezinha had long known Langel, for the count had been a friend of his father's. And, like his father, Langel was a cruel and hard man. This was no idle bluff. Nor, Ezinha suspected, would the surrender of the rebels forestall the executions. If the Anari would not be docile and loyal slaves, then Langel meant to exterminate them to the last.
Mihabi and the other rebels knew this. They would not surrender themselves, and Ezinha had not challenged their decision. Nearly three hundred now sheltered on his estate and he knew there were at least five other Bozandari homes that held an equal number. Their leaders had convened at Ezinha's house for a council of war. He could see no other option. Better to die in battle, fighting for their lives and freedom, than to hang for days, dying by inches on a wooden stake.
Lacking military training, the rebel attack plan was born of simplicity, aided by the dispositions of Langel's troops. They had established a dozen camps throughout the city, each with a hundred or more Anari prisoners guarded by a company of Bozandari legionnaires.
But not all of the Bozandari would be guarding the prisoners, all of whom were bound and helpless. Instead, many were busy erecting the stakes upon which the condemned would be placed, rounding them so that the victims would slip slowly down onto them, screaming as the unyielding wood pushed up through their bowels until, days later, the pressure would make it mercifully impossible for them to breathe.
It was the most brutal form of all the Bozandari methods of execution, and Ezinha was ashamed that his own people were capable of such cruelty. He could almost grasp how the legionnaires themselves, hardened by the privations of battle, could perform their tasks. What he could not fathom, and what truly sickened him, was how other people could bear to watch such a horror. And yet he knew they would come out by the thousands, fueled by a bloodlust that repulsed Ezinha, jeering at the victims, cheering at their agonized screams, groaning with disappointment when death finally relieved the suffering.
He had overcome his qualms about fighting such a people. They might be his own in blood, but he could not place himself among such men. If his choice was to stand with the crowds and delight in the pain of innocents, or to take up a sword and join the Anari in battle, it was an easy choice indeed.
The rebels had split into groups, each group assigned one of the compounds where the Anari prisoners were held, each man carrying two swords, one with which to fight and another that he might arm those he freed. Then rescuers and rescued together would fight their way out of the city, taking with them any other Anari who sought freedom and were willing to join the march. They would assemble on a hilltop two days' march west of the city, and there they would prepare to march south to their homeland.
Although Ezinha was no soldier, he believed it was a good plan. He also recognized that it was the only path left open to them. Now--as he crouched in the darkness and watched two legionnaires joke between them as they slathered suet over the end third of the stake, explaining to a young Bozandari boy that they were making it slick to ensure that, once impaled, its victim could gain no purchase with his or her feet--he realized it was also the right path. The boy was nodding eagerly. Ezinha had never felt hatred until this night, watching these two men. He felt it now.
Mihabi grasped his arm and nodded into the darkness. Ezinha could barely see the three Anari in the alley across the way, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
Ezinha looked in his brother's eyes and saw the same fury. Boys should not be taught such hateful skills, and whether these legionnaires themselves were taught as boys did not matter. They were men now, not merely performing but rejoicing in their duty to inflict agony and death, passing their twisted hearts on to a child who could not be more than six years of age.
If there was ever to be peace, if the Bozandari were ever to return to their noble roots, such legacies must end. And this one would end tonight.
The sound of hammer against cymbal, beginning in the center of the city, was too faint to hear at first. But it spread quickly, as a woman at each signal post stood poised to repeat it as soon as she heard it. Within seconds, the sound of clanging cymbals had rippled through the city, to be joined immediately by the sounds of battle.
Ezinha leapt from the alley where he had crouched, with Mihabi at his side, both with swords at the ready, closing on the two legionnaires with shouts of fury. The Bozandari, suddenly outnumbered and surrounded, had no choice but to fight and die where they stood.
And die they would.
They were trained, while Ezinha and his companions were not, but training can go only so far. Ezinha saw an opening as one of the Anari slashed the back of the man in front of him. The man turned, for an instant, his focus on Ezinha broken. The instant was long enough.
Lifting his sword with both hands and swinging with all his might, Ezinha caught the legionnaire in the side of the neck. The force of the blow carried the sword down through the man's shoulder and into his chest, but the deadly damage had been inflicted almost immediately. Blood geysered from the man's throat, spraying Ezinha's face with its thick, coppery taste. Ezinha lifted a foot and pushed the dying body off of his sword, then turned to the other legionnaire. But the other soldier was already falling to the ground, Mihabi's sword buried in his chest.
Only then did Ezinha see the head of the young boy, rolling past his own foot. Part of him hoped it had been hewn off by a stray blow. And part of him did not care.
"Come," he said. "There are more and we must work quickly."
The Night of the Black Sword had begun.
"Ratha's scouts have identified a Bozandari patrol west of his camp," Tess said, repeating the information that Cilla had sent.
Tuzza smiled. They were sitting in Archer's tent, a map spread below them, a dim lantern the only light. Tuzza placed a wooden disk on the map, indicating the location Tess had described. "That is the second of Alezzi's three forward elements."
"If indeed there are three," Archer said.
"There will be, my lord," Tuzza said, his voice full of confidence. "Alezzi will not rest this night until he knows, or believes he knows, the precise location of each of our bodies. Indeed, he will not rest then, for once he has that information he will hold a council of war with his senior commanders. They will finalize their attack plans, issue their orders, and prepare a report to the emperor, to be dispatched by rider at first light. Then, and only then, will he allow himself a few hours' sleep."
"First the horse, then the saddle, then the man," Tess said, instantly wondering whence the phrase had come. Yet another grain of dust from her past, blown into her present consciousness.
Tuzza looked at her, surprise etched on his features. "That is a saying among our cavalry, my lady. Its meaning is plain for them, for that is the sequence in which they care for their mounts and themselves at the end of a day's march. But I can see how you apply it here. Our academy instructors would say 'Duty before comfort, and comfort before sleep.'"
Tess smiled sadly. "In many respects, the ways of war are universal, Topmark. Those who forgo duty accomplish nothing. Those who forgo comfort, in the form of hot meals and dry clothes, will quickly fall ill. But those who forgo sleep for too long are no less useless than the rest when the time of battle comes. And we have forgone much rest on this march."
"Aye, my lady," Tuzza said. "But I would not rest if I lay there wondering about Alezzi's plans. The third of his patrols will be spotted soon. Then I can rest with the peace of a commander who has done his duty."
"Then let us use the time wisely," Tess said, "and not simply sit here waiting. What do you intend to say to your cousin on the morrow?"
"I will speak of justice," Tuzza said simply.
Archer looked at him. "Not of the Weaver?"
Tuzza shook his head. "My cousin is a brilliant overmark, but a very practical man. From the time he was a child, he cared naught for the games of the gods and those who professed to know them. But he is a just man."
"Tell me more about him," Tess said.
Tuzza laughed. "Where to begin? With the boy who could work his numbers before I could count? Or should I tell you of the young rearmark who knowingly took his men into the teeth of a bandit ambush in the Deder desert, to draw away their strength so that his regiment could cross a gully and form ranks before its final attack?"
"Both," Tess said.
"And I will say much of neither," Tuzza replied, "for neither is the measure of the man. The former was a gift, albeit a gift to which he dedicated himself. The latter was an act of desperation, assigned him by an overmark who lacked the discipline to patrol properly on the eve of battle and looked upon his enemies with scorn. Too many of Alezzi's men did not live to see the fruits of victory, and forever after he swore never to repeat that mistake."
"Too many of life's lessons are purchased in blood," Tess said.
Tuzza nodded. "And worse, too few even learn those, so we must purchase the same lessons again and again with new blood. And in this, perhaps, I can come closest to sharing the man who is my cousin, Topmark Alezzi. He has no room in his life for the ways of court. Since he joined the army, he has spent fewer days in Bozandar than any of our topmarks. His place is in the field, with his men, and never has he taken a single luxury that his men lacked."
"And thus you will speak of justice," Tess said, now understanding the beautiful simplicity of Tuzza's plan.
"I will speak of truth," Tuzza said. "There are men who believe they are born to a life of ease. They purchase that life of ease with the sweat and the blood of others. But no man was born to live thus. This dark greed--this will to enslave others--is the work of the Enemy. Some have resisted that darkness. My cousin is one of those men. His father owns slaves, or did when I left Bozandar, but Alezzi did not accept the gift of them when he joined the army. Lest you read too much hope in that, he made that choice simply because his men would not have servants, and he did not believe himself entitled to anything more than the lowliest soldier in his command. And while many junior officers believe thus, rank and its privileges change most of us. They did not change Alezzi."
Archer drew a breath. "The question is whether he will believe the way of the soldier should apply in the estates of Bozandar as well. Has he ever spoken against the keeping of Anari as slaves?"
Tuzza shook his head. "If he has, it was never in my presence. But I must confess that there was a time when I kept slaves, a stain on my soul that perhaps he wished not to call to mind. I am two years older than he, and thus I was always his senior in the army. Moreover, my family ranks above his in the list of court. These are barriers that one does not cross in Bozandar, however strong the bond between cousins. And ours was strong indeed."
"I pray that it is still strong," Archer said. "And I pray that your cousin truly is a man of justice. For no man of justice can doubt the rightness of our cause."
"Jenah's scouts have found the third patrol," Tess said. "But his scouts were also found. And there was fighting. Three Anari and two Bozandari were slain, and Sara is now treating the wounded."
"We have shed blood," Tuzza said, shaking his head sadly as he placed the last of the three disks on the map. "This will make tomorrow much more difficult."
"We could not hope for a bloodless campaign," Archer said. "But we can hope that this is all of the blood that will be spilled before the gates of Bozandar."
"Yes," Tess said, fighting back tears as she watched Sara move among the bodies. Tess tried to lend her power to Sara's, but some men were beyond Ilduin touch. "Yes. We must hope."
Mihabi moved swiftly, Ezinha at his side. They and their companions had taken the four execution stations assigned to them, and were now moving toward the compound where the condemned Anari were being held. Blood flowed from a wound on Mihabi's hand, but that was a trifle when placed beside the blow Ezinha had taken. Mihabi had heard the harsh crack as the hilt of the Bozandari sword had crashed into Ezinha's side. That his former master, now his brother, had suffered a broken rib was beyond question. That he continued to fight, however, left Mihabi in awe.
The stealth of their earlier attacks was no longer a viable strategy. The whole of Bozandar had been awakened by the sounds of cymbals and swords, and lanterns glowed in every window, torches flickering in every street. There would be no surprise when Mihabi and his comrades fell upon the prison compound. The legionnaires would be ready and waiting, bolstered by citizens who had flowed out of their houses to join their ranks. More would die, and not all of them Bozandari. But the die was cast, and on this night, Mihabi had no fear of death.
"You must rest, brother," he said to Ezinha, whose wheezing sounded ever more labored with each step.
"No," Ezinha said. "I will rest when we are free."
"You were free when this war began," Mihabi said.
Ezinha turned to him. "How can a man who treats other men as chattels be himself free? He is but in the thrall of a greater and darker master, whether he knows it or not. I will be free when all are free, Mihabi."
Mihabi heard the pain in his brother's voice, and knew that gathering the extra breath to speak must feel as fire in his rib cage. "Speak no more, brother. Rather save what strength you have."
Ezinha nodded.
With each block their number grew. Slaves who had quailed at the thought of rebellion had slipped out of estates bearing makeshift weapons, and the once-scattered rebel attack groups were assembling on the march. Mihabi was surprised by how well the untrained army had performed thus far. He was also concerned, lest overconfidence give way to panic when the fight at the compound began. For it would not be as easy as what had come before.
Already he could see the makeshift prison up ahead, little more than a ragged but effective stockade within which bound Anari shouted encouragement to their rescuers. It was what lay in front of the stockade that gave Mihabi pause: nearly a full company of Bozandari legionnaires, drawn up in battle order, eyes full of cold fury.
Mihabi knew there would be no subtlety, no craft in this attack. The Bozandari streets, however wide, gave too little room for maneuver. Nor could the rebel army have performed such maneuvers; there simply had not been time or opportunity to train in the arts of war. No, this would be a headlong charge, fury against fury, sword against sword, will against will.
Mihabi lifted his sword as they closed with the Bozandari. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ezinha could barely hoist his sword to waist level, yet Ezinha did not retreat. The clang of metal against metal, the battle cries of enraged men, and the screams of the wounded soon filled the streets around the compound.
Mihabi slashed across the throat of the legionnaire before him, hardly pausing to notice the man fall before wading deeper into the melee. The street was slick with blood, and more than once a man died because his footing gave way in the midst of what might otherwise have been a killing blow to his enemy. The air was foul with the scent of killing, and Mihabi fought the urge to gag each time he drew breath.
Still, the Anari now outnumbered the legionnaires by a considerable number, and while some Bozandari citizens had thought to join the battle, many paled at the action and quietly slipped out of harm's way. Generations of pent-up rage spilled out as Anari slashed with swords, daggers, kitchen knives, spades, scythes, axes and simple clubs. Heads split open with sickening hollow cracks, and limbs and chests were hewn with the wet shuck of a butcher's blade cutting meat.
And then there was silence, save for the moans of those for whom death would be a mercy.
Mihabi wiped blood from his face, though in truth he merely smeared it, for his arms were even slicker with the coppery milk of battle. Many Anari had fallen around him. Many within the compounds would be rescued, only to grieve at the deaths of sons and brothers and fathers. But they would be free, for the Bozandari lay in the streets to a man, ragged, groaning, or with voices forever stilled.
Mihabi was the first to reach the compound, and he hacked at the heavy chain with which the Bozandari had secured the gate. Sparks flew as his sword fell again and again, his muscles moving in a brutal, incessant rhythm, his voice screaming rage and freedom with every stroke, until the chain gave way and the gate sagged open from the weight of those behind, once condemned, now free.
But not yet free.
For they still had to make their way out of the city, and Mihabi had no doubt that the Bozandari would not lie down and let them walk out unopposed. He turned, looking for Ezinha in the seething mass, but Ezinha was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had finally given in to pain, sagging in an alley. If so, Mihabi knew he must rescue his brother as well, for the Bozandari would doubtless wreak the cruelest vengeance on those among them who had aided the rebellion. The thought of Ezinha dying slowly on a stake filled Mihabi with dread, anger and determination.
As his comrades cut the bonds of the prisoners and thrust swords into their freed hands, Mihabi walked the street, calling his brother's name, searching the faces of the fallen in the guttering torchlight.
Somehow he heard a familiar moan among the hundreds of other moans, and followed that sound as a dog might follow a scent, turning his head this way and that to locate the source.
While he knew he was drawing closer, the moan seemed fainter with each step he took. And when he reached the recessed doorway of a bakery along the street, he realized why. His brother lay in the doorway, blood dripping from the stump of an arm, the rest of which lay somewhere in the carnage of the street.
"Ezinha," Mihabi said, kneeling at the side of the man who had been his friend, his master, his protector, his comrade in arms and his brother. "We will get help."
Ezinha's eyes found focus as he searched Mihabi's face. "I am beyond help, my brother."
"No," Mihabi said, tears stinging his eyes. "No, I will find a doctor."
Ezinha lifted his arm, grimacing at the pain, and placed it to Mihabi's cheek. "I am a doctor, Mihabi. I know what the body can endure, and what cannot be cured by any medicine we have."
Blood bubbled from Ezinha's mouth as he spoke, and Mihabi dabbed it away.
"Yes," Ezinha said. "The rib has pierced my lung. There is no healer in all of Bozandar who can treat that. But it is no matter."
"No," Mihabi said, tears now joining the blood that trickled down his ebony face. "No. You cannot die."
"It is no matter," Ezinha said, his voice almost too faint to hear. "For I will die a free man. As will you, my brother. And for that, I will go to the gods with joy."
"Stay with me, brother," Mihabi said, cradling Ezinha's head in his arms. "Stay with me."
"Elanor asks for me," Ezinha whispered. "Only hold my hand, I beg you, as I go to her."
"Yes," Mihabi sobbed. "Yes, I will. I promise."
Mihabi took Ezinha's hand in his, holding it to his brother's chest. He kissed his brother's forehead, willing himself not to close his eyes, nor even to blink, lest Ezinha feel alone in that last instant. Ezinha's chest struggled to rise one last time.
And it could not.
Mihabi wept.
For all of the hardships his life had known, none approached that moment. The moment when his brother's body, the body that had chased him through the woods of the estate and hidden with him under Ialla's table, the lips that had spoken in whispers and giggled as their mother searched for them, the eyes that had shone with the joy and promise of childhood, then darkened with the weight of adulthood, only to shine again these past days, the arms that had wrestled with him, the heart that had beat with glee and with sorrow...
...the moment when that body became only dead flesh.
"Go to Elanor," Mihabi whispered. "May she welcome you as a brother of freedom and truth. And, I beg you, prepare a place for me, where we will once again hide under mother's table."
Mihabi rose, hefting his brother's body onto his shoulders. He would not leave Ezinha to be a cruel signpost of the Bozandari, even in death. He joined the ranks of the Anari walking out of the city.
He joined the ranks of the free.
The morning sun glittered harshly, as if the air had turned to crystal. The sound of marching feet seemed a sharp counterpoint that might shatter the morning like a rock tossed through glass.
At last silence fell, broken only by the flap of banners on the breeze. With a plain between them, the Black Lions of Bozandar faced the Snow Wolves of Anahar.
Alezzi's scouts had told him of the banner this army carried, and in the quiet of the night, when no one was about, he remembered stories he had heard from his Anari nanny. Stories she claimed were true, some of them about the history of the Firstborn, some about the Anari, and some that had been more like prophesies. He had dismissed many of the latter as the hopes of an enslaved people.
But the Snow Wolf...that story had captured his child's imagination. The Snow Wolf, it was said, had broken with its kind to serve one person in history, the White Lady of the Firstborn. It was said that when she died, the snow wolves had disappeared into the mountains, far to the north, at the headwaters of the Adasen. It was so rare that a single snow wolf pelt would sell for enough to make a trapper wealthy for life.
It was also said that the snow wolves would return one day, no longer hiding but walking with a woman, she who would be called the Weaver of Worlds.
The old Anari woman had assured him the Weaver would come to save her people from oppression, but she hadn't told him that more than twice before his father had beaten her into silence.
But Alezzi remembered that story now, and a chill ran down his spine as he looked through his glass and saw that the banners of the legion facing him were all of a white wolf rampant. Including, to his horror, the Bozandari who stood at the very heart of this abomination of a formation.
Bozandari fighting with the Anari? The rumors had come to his ears, but he had dismissed them. No Bozandari soldier could be guilty of such treason. And most certainly not his cousin Tuzza. He had been convinced that what his scouts had seen was nothing other than their brethren being marched as prisoners, possibly as hostages.
But what he saw arrayed before him now he could not mistake. The survivors of his cousin's legion were arrayed for battle, ready to fight their own kindred.
Alezzi had been hardened by many years of service, but he was not hard enough to look at this without feeling betrayed to his core. He had been sent to rescue his cousin's legion, and his cousin who was so dear to the emperor. Instead he must now fight them as enemies.
He was about to lift his arm and signal his army to descend from the hills and meet the Enemy on the plain below--for what other option did he have?--when a sight stayed his gesture.
Descending from the facing hills came three riders: a Bozandar by whose posture in the saddle he recognized as his cousin, a man all in black with a gleaming sword at his side and a quiver and bow on his back and--most striking of all--a woman clad all in white who, to his disbelieving eyes, seemed to gleam as if she were part of the morning light itself.
They carried a parley flag with them, overlaid squares of black and white. He could have ignored it and simply attacked, but his cousin was out there, and curiosity was too strong to ignore.
"It is a trick," his lieutenant Malchi said.
"It is my cousin. I will go to meet him and see what he has to say."
"They are using him."
"Perhaps. And perhaps he uses them."
Malchi's brows lifted. "I had not thought of that."
"Which is why I command this force and you do not." It was a harsh statement, but Alezzi had always found Malchi to be of less use than trouble, a man who had risen to his present position simply by connections and money, having earned none of it himself. Alezzi's family, and by extension Tuzza's, had always scorned those who failed to understand that wealth and position carried with it great responsibility. They were not merely toys for the lazy.
"Who will you take?"
"Why, you, of course," Alezzi answered, as if there could be no doubt. In truth, he would rather have the man at his side than behind him where he could make mischief. "My standard bearer and one swordsman."
"Only one?"
"Aye. I can protect myself, but you might need some protection."
Malchi's face turned a deep hue of red, and anger flared in his eyes. Had Alezzi not already known what a powerless toad the man was, he might have become genuinely concerned. As it was, while Malchi had his faction within the legion, they numbered far fewer than Alezzi's supporters.
A short while later, he and his small band ventured forth to meet his cousin and companions. Alezzi, however, did not carry the parley flag; he carried his own black lion. Let them know that they were not safe from attack should he consider it necessary.
Tuzza watched his cousin's approach with mixed feelings. The two of them had been closer than brothers most of their lives, though the demands of their positions had often carried them hundreds of leagues apart.
It was good to recognize his cousin riding toward him. It was not good to see the banner his cousin's standard bearer carried, for it was a message of no mercy, a message of readiness to attack. They were not to be granted the ancient rule of protection for this meeting.
"It is not good," Archer murmured. "Tess, you must head back to the army. We cannot afford to lose you."
"You will not lose me." Her voice carried not a shadow of doubt.
Archer sighed exasperatedly and wondered how it was he had let the woman talk him into joining them. Hadn't he only yesterday said she must not be taken, even if it meant her life? Yet here he was, allowing her to expose herself in a way that might very well require him to slay her to keep her from capture.
But somehow it was impossible to ignore the decree of an Ilduin when she drew herself up and fire flashed from her eyes. So like Theriel, he sometimes thought, yet even greater in power, for he had, to his own sorrow, ignored Theriel too often.
Tuzza looked at the two of them, one on each side of him, then shrugged and shoved the parley banner's staff into the ground so both his hands would be free. The wind lifted it and flapped it, that dull sound that fabric made, a sound that had accompanied most of his adult life. It was rare, however, to hear it in the kind of silence that swathed the plain right now.
At last the sound of the hooves of the approaching horses could be heard. Tuzza did not misunderstand his brother's message in bringing an additional swordsman. The beginning of this talk would be difficult indeed.
Alezzi reached them and reined his steed. His eyes, very like Tuzza's, scanned the two men and the woman before him. "Who commands here?"
Tuzza answered, "In what way, cousin?"
Alezzi's brow lifted. "Who commands this army?"
Tuzza signed toward Archer. "Annuvil. Firstborn son of the Firstborn king. And the Lady Tess." He gestured toward her. "The Weaver who was foretold."
Alezzi's face reflected shock, then scorn. "Are you maddened by your losses, cousin? You listen to children's tales? You are seeing things?"
"The things I have seen I have not imagined. I was close to death, but this lady saved me. She saved hundreds, friend and foe alike. She walks with the white wolf."
Again the chill passed down Alezzi's back. "And you have become a traitor, cousin?"
Tuzza shook his head. "I have much to tell you and show you, Alezzi. But give me the time. Then, if you are unpersuaded, you may kill me and join the battle. But it is a battle you will not win, for this army is guarded by Ilduin."
Again the chill ran along Alezzi's spine, even as his mind tried to rebel and tell him that clearly Tuzza had lost his mind. He glanced toward Malchi and saw that his lieutenant would gladly draw his sword right now and begin the fight.
Perhaps it was Malchi's expression as much as anything that made Alezzi hesitate. He never respected the wisdom of bloodlust.
He looked at the lady again, and saw a light that seemed to shine from within. Then he looked at the large, silent man in black, the one his brother had called Annuvil, and sensed something of great dignity and patience. What he did not see on any of the three faces before him was the hunger he saw on Malchi's face.
"We will talk," Alezzi said.
Malchi started to object and Alezzi turned to the swordsman he had brought with them. "Guard Malchi from all harm," he said to the man. "But at the same time, make certain he stays here and talks to no one."
The swordsman, one of the strongest and most trustworthy in the legion, a strong supporter of Alezzi, nodded. "Aye, Overmark. So it shall be."
Then Alezzi looked at his cousin. "I will give you the remainder of the day to persuade me why I should not condemn you as a traitor and wipe your misbegotten army from the face of the world."
Within an hour, a huge bonfire had been lit in the center of the plain, a sign to both armies that a parley was taking place. As long as that fire burned, none would take action against their foes.
Alezzi, and even Malchi, as it happened, learned something very important in the building of that fire. While soldiers had gathered the dead wood from the surrounding hills (and much there was, this being a desert) and laid it, it was a wave of Annuvil's hand and a few murmured words that set it ablaze.
Alezzi, sitting on a camp stool, felt awe creep into his every bone. All knew the Ilduin had possessed magicks, and one Ilduin worked for the Bozandari emperor, a woman who, to Alezzi's way of thinking, accomplished very little that couldn't have been done as well with a few spies.
But since the First Times, no man had possessed magicks of any sort. He looked at the one who claimed to be Annuvil, and began to wonder.
Then Annuvil, he whom the others called Archer, pulled from his scabbard a sword so beautiful that Alezzi wondered what mortal could have forged it.
"This is Banedread," Annuvil said. He lifted it, and in his hand it began to hum, making a sound not unlike the most beautiful of crystal chimes. "In my hand alone will it sing, and to my command alone will it come. It has accomplished awful deeds in the past, Alezzi. It alone can kill me or kill the Enemy who faces us. It alone can murder the Firstborn."
He thrust it point down into the sand and let it stand for all to see. "It alone can be used to kill me," he repeated. "If you think we play you false as we talk, take it and pierce me. I will not see another dawn."
The Lady Tess gasped, and made to move as if she would shield the sword, but then she sank back on her small stool and sighed. "Trust we must have."
"Aye," said Annuvil. "And we must have it now, or the Enemy will triumph and turn all the world to his evil ways. Only through trust can we triumph against the coming dark."
Alezzi looked at his cousin. "Speak to me, Tuzza. Tell me why you have turned against your own kind."
"But I have not, cousin. The threat facing Bozandar is greater than that of a slave uprising, or a war for independence by the people we have oppressed. What lies ahead of us if we fail now will be an oppression beyond any we have inflicted on others."
"But how can you know this?"
Tuzza looked at the Lady Tess. "She walks with the Snow Wolf. It is the time prophecy has foretold."
"You have seen this?"
"I and my entire legion, or what is left of it. The white wolves came with her like an escort, and the biggest walked beside her."
"I find this hard to believe. Those tales...they were but cautions for the nursery!"
"Would it were so," said Annuvil. "Would it were so."
Tuzza kicked at a pebble with the toe of his boot, as if to unleash a frustration beyond words. "Have you any idea what happens in Bozandar, cousin? I would have turned about to go to the city's aid were it not that our emperor loves you so much. Were it not that the mothers and wives of your legionnaires demanded their bodies be returned. The streets run with blood. A messenger has come but recently to say that the Anari slaves have revolted and killed hundreds, if not thousands. That even now they flee the city and head toward my legion. What do you expect me to do?"
"Let them flow through you as water flows around rocks. When they meet their fellows, they will know why they were called."
"Called?" Alezzi looked up. "By the gods, who called them?"
"Anahar," Tess said quietly. "Her stones sang, and her song reached the heart of every Anari. Those who were free to do so came and joined our army to withstand Tuzza's attack. The rest...apparently the rest have answered Anahar's call in the only way they could, by gaining their freedom."
"How can there be any good in so much bloodshed?"
Tess's gaze turned steely. "How can there be any good in slavery?"
Malchi snorted, ignoring the order he had been given to remain silent. "Some are meant to be slaves. It is right that the powerful should use them."
"So power makes right?" Annuvil asked, looking at Malchi.
"Aye, that it does. The strongest arm, the deadliest sword. These are what grant authority, and those who do not have them are fated to serve beneath the heel of the strongest."
Annuvil nodded slowly. "Then I am the most powerful man you will ever meet, Malchi, and it is only just that you should lie beneath my heel."
Malchi's face reddened and he took a threatening step toward Archer. The man set to guard him moved to block him, but Archer waved him back. "No, we must settle this now. This man misunderstands true power."
"I do not!"
"Aye, you do. If the ability to deliver death is power, then I have more power than you will ever have in a lifetime. If it elevates, then it has elevated me to near godhood. I have helped destroy entire cities in my time. I am the one who caused the creation of the plain of Dederand. Have you seen it, Malchi? Have you looked upon the leagues and leagues of black glass where nothing will ever again grow? That happened because of me. So let us talk of power."
Malchi stepped back, his eyes uncertain.
"Aye, think about it, Malchi. True power lies with the Lady Tess. Power beyond your imagining. Perhaps you should place her heel upon your neck right now. But the most interesting thing, Malchi, is that she would not let you do so. For all her power, she wishes none to bow to her. And when she calls upon her power, it is to save and almost never to destroy. For she understands power, Malchi. The real power is the power to help."
Malchi spat. "That is weakness, not power."
Annuvil shook his head. "I pity you."
"You pity me? You are a madman whose mind has been bent by ancient tales until you think you are immortal. There are no immortals, and you are but a pale shadow of a true man. As for her..." He looked at Tess. "She plays tricks with her white dogs. They are not the snow wolves of which prophecy speaks."
Tuzza spoke sharply. "Malchi, you do not know of what you speak. Be silent!"
But Malchi had other plans. Before anyone could stop him, he leapt toward Tess, grabbed her and held a knife to her throat. "Power? If she has power, let her save herself now."
The men had risen to their feet, as if they would act, but the knife blade pressed too close to Tess's throat.
"Let the woman go, Malchi," Alezzi barked. "Let her go or I will see you drawn and quartered and left for the buzzards."
"Then so be it, but at least you will no longer consider turning traitor to your people! You will see that these three lie to you, that your cousin is deluded."
"Malchi." Tess spoke quietly. To the surprise of the others, her eyes showed no fear, only sorrow. "Malchi, cut me not, for my blood judges."
"Tripe!"
"I have seen it," Annuvil said. "Let her go. If you so much as prick her, you will burn in a fire beyond your imaginings."
Malchi glared at him, his knife still pressed to Tess's throat.
"Malchi," she said again. This time her tone was less sorrowful, more steely. "I pray you, do not do this thing. Save yourself. Spare me, spare all of us, the horror of what my blood will do to you."
With those words, she began to glow faintly, a blue aura that crackled. Malchi was startled but did not release her. "Soft words and pale magicks. They may fool ignorant Anari, but they will not fool me."
Then, as if to prove he was not intimidated, he moved his knife, drawing it down Tess's cheek and laying it open.
Tess cried out once, but her cry was nothing compared to the shriek that issued from Malchi's throat as her blood dripped on him. Alezzi stared in horror as Tess's blood spurted freely onto his lieutenant, and everywhere it landed he began to burn. It was not a natural fire, but one that burned inward, blackening deep holes in his flesh. He dropped his knife and backed away, still screaming.
"Oh, Elanor, I cannot save him!" Tess cried, recoiling from the horror of what her blood had done. She reached out as if to lay hands on Malchi, who now rolled in the dirt in agony, but Annuvil pulled her back.
"No, my lady. You must not. Your blood has judged him. He is beyond the power of anyone to save now. You will only bleed on him more."
She turned swiftly away, covering her ears, trying to close out the gruesome scenes and sounds. Alezzi stared both in horror and amazement as the drops of her blood fell to the desert sands and small blue flowers appeared almost immediately. Behind her, Malchi's cries weakened, and finally died.
He noted, too, that where Tess's blood fell on Annuvil, it did not burn. Truly the woman's blood was a judgment. He knew then for certain: She was who they claimed she was.
In his entire life, he had bowed to no man or woman save the emperor, but he bowed now to the Ilduin. He had seen all the proof he needed.
Annuvil nodded his way, then swept Tess into his embrace, covering her shaking figure with his black cloak, holding her as if he would suck the pain from her if only he held on tightly enough.
"'Twas not your choice, my lady," he murmured. "You did not choose this. It was not by your will that Malchi died, but by his. You warned him."
She shook with sobs now. "Why must I be so cursed?"
"You must be protected until the Enemy is defeated. It is for this reason that your blood judges. And it will judge whether you will or no whoever seeks to harm you. But it is not for you that it protects you. It is for all of us."
She lifted her tear-stained face to search his eyes, and Alezzi saw with awe that the wound on her cheek had already healed, leaving nothing but the thinnest, finest of scars to tell the tale.
Tuzza caught his eye. "What think you now, cousin?"
Alezzi steadied himself. "I think we must talk. And I am fully prepared to listen."
Alezzi ordered Malchi's burial first, calling down a squad from the hills to deal with it. He made a point, though, of refusing Malchi even the smallest of military honors. If anyone else in his legion was thinking about disobeying an order, the message should be plain.
Senior officers from both sides were also summoned, and soon a dozen men, both dark and light-skinned, faced one another, some seated on camp stools, others on rocks. Denza Gruden, the officer promoted by Tuzza, once again sat almost like a bridge between the two groups.
The distrust among Alezzi's commanders was evident in every gesture, in every look. They eyed Tuzza, Odetta and Denza with something like scorn, and the Anari Ratha and Jenah with outright hatred.
But Alezzi carried enough of their respect that they opened their ears, if not their hearts.
Tuzza faced Alezzi's officers, standing in the pose of an orator. The pose signaled that he commanded nothing from them except a hearing. No Bozandari would deny him that much.
"You are wondering," he said to Alezzi's men, "what it is we are discussing here, why my legion arrays itself in those hills with the Anari. Against you."
A murmur of agreement answered him.
"We are not against you, my brothers. Not unless we must be. But we are on an important mission, one more important than any ever undertaken by a Bozandari army. We have all known our conquests over the years. The history we repeat to our children is rife with tales of glory."
Again murmurs of agreement.
"There is no soldier of Bozandar who cannot hold his head high in memory of those who came before. There is no soldier of Bozandar who does not feel the deepest of commitments to emperor, empire and people. Each and every one of us is willing to die for that commitment."
Nods of agreement answered him. But questions remained on every face.
Tuzza lifted a hand, indicating those arrayed behind him. "You are wondering at the companions I choose now. You wonder why I would join with those who so recently attacked my legion and killed so many. One might ask the same of these Anari and their companions, the Lord Annuvil and the Lady Tess, for they suffered mighty losses of loved ones at the hands of my men."
Now satisfaction chased over the faces of his listeners. He had given a good account of his legion, while reminding them that the losses had not been Bozandar's alone.
Reaching back, he motioned Ratha to step forward. "This Anari beside me watched me kill his brother, just as I watched his brother kill my young cousin. Yet we have buried our swords rather than pursue revenge and bitterness, for there is a greater enemy who threatens all of us.
"But before I speak of that, let me remind you of equally important matters. You worry because there has been a slave rebellion at home. Some of you may have lost family in that rebellion. I have no doubt that in the army of the Snow Wolves behind me, many have lost loved ones, both Anari and Bozandari. So why should we end the fight here? Why not carry it on and seek a hollow victory right now in our foe's blood?"
Some heads nodded and others murmured agreement. Even Alezzi seemed to find that idea appealing.
"I will tell you why," Tuzza said, his voice quiet. "Because if you do that, you will not be fit to fight the greater evil. And to fight the greater evil, you will need everyone, Anari and Bozandari alike, to stand together as brothers, for in this fight we will be brothers. Failure to unite now will leave us easy prey for the Enemy who even now plots against us. An enemy that will makes slaves of Bozandari as surely as we have made slaves of Anari. Think on that, my brothers. Think on how you have treated the Anari and ask yourselves if you would like your families to be treated in the same way.
"For you must decide and you must decide now. Joining us will be no betrayal of Bozandar, but instead will be its salvation."
One of Alezzi's officers spoke. "Who is this Enemy? We have seen no one."
"You will," Tuzza said. "You have heard of the hives."
The man nodded reluctantly. "But I have not seen them with mine own eyes. It is rumor."
"Not rumor," Ratha said, folding his arms. "We fought one. They are possessed by the Enemy, and they care not if they die. They act as with one mind. Have you tried to stomp out all the ants in an anthill? You cannot do it. The hive is much the same."
The Bozandari exchanged looks.
"The Enemy," continued Tuzza, "makes this winter unnaturally cold and bitter. He has caused crops to fail and thousands to die of hunger and cold. You know of this. You have heard of it or seen it. What you do not know is that it is being caused by the Enemy. He seeks to weaken us before he takes us over."
"Who is this Enemy? Where does he get this power?"
Archer stepped forward. "It is he who was foretold and called the Lord of Chaos by some. He is my brother. Ardred."
Gasps ran through the assembled Bozandari, who had not heard all. Every one of them had heard the old tales and prophecies, for all were educated men. But none had ever expected them to be real.
"These are the foretold times," Archer said. "I will fight him alone if I must, but he has armies and hives, and he will use them to gut your cities and homes all while I struggle to reach him. The only way you can protect all that you cherish is to make it impossible for him to sweep unopposed through your lands."
This comment brought murmurs of agreement, for the argument made sense.
"But how," one of them finally asked, "do we know the truth of this?"
"Is not my word enough?" Tuzza asked simply.
Everyone among them knew Tuzza's reputation and importance, but they were being asked to commit an act that might well turn out to be treason. Loyalty to their emperor demanded that they die before allowing such a thing to happen.
Many appeared almost swayed to Tuzza's side, but it was as if that last step was just one too many. They hesitated, and while they hesitated, one of them cried out and pointed to the west.
Brilliant in the afternoon sunlight, glowing white as the creature of myth it was, a snow wolf came running. He crossed the plain like the wind while every eye fixed on him in disbelief and awe. Murmurs of wonder escaped several throats. Only one man even thought of touching his sword hilt, and he was stayed by Alezzi.
"Wait," Alezzi said. "I have already seen a miracle today. I would not object to seeing yet another."
The wolf loped toward them with all the ease of an animal accustomed to running league after league. It slowed only when it came within a spear's throw. Then it walked toward them, its golden eyes bespeaking ancient wisdom.
When at last it halted, it stood beside Tess, leaning against her side as she sat on her stool. Reaching out, she buried her fingers in its thick white ruff. Then she looked around at the gathered circle. "Do you need more?"
"That is no dog," murmured one of the Bozandari.
"Nay," agreed another. "'Tis the Snow Wolf. I saw one once as a boy in the northern forest, but I thought they had long since died out."
"It is not yet their time," Tess answered. "What more do you need? Tell me, and I will try to show you. Would you like me to turn the sand to glass right before your feet? Shall I shoot a thunderbolt into the air?"
"Tess..." Archer spoke cautiously. "You must not use your strength for a mere display. These men must believe in what they do, not be cowed into it."
She looked down, then nodded. "Let them decide, then." She rose and scanned them all. "I am done with councils, done with trying to persuade men to do what is right and good. If you cannot see the way, then perhaps you deserve all that will befall you."
With that she turned and walked back toward the hills. Beside her went the Snow Wolf.