Deborah Hale (31 page)

He grimaced as if remembering the injury that danger had driven from his mind.

Broken bones would take time and skill to set, but at least the man was in no immediate danger. Maura rummaged in her sash and pulled out a leaf of summerslip. “Chew on this. It should ease your pain. Once you’ve caught your breath, go take refuge in the old castle… I will look for you later to tend your hurts.”

The man took the leaf with his good hand and stuffed it into his mouth with only an instant’s hesitation. “Thankee for all, mistress. Or ought I say
Highness
? May ye be our queen?”

Maura patted his leg. “So I may.”

Drawn by the kind of screams that had haunted her nightmares for many months, she scrambled up and headed back toward the battle. More men had managed to break through the line of Hanish riders and stagger into the shelter of the forest. Maura longed to stop and tend the wounded, but there was something she must do first, though she shrank from it.

She glimpsed a knot of death-mages clustered to guard each other’s backs as they dealt pain and terror at will upon the rebels. One in particular drew Maura’s gaze. She recognized his wand of the hard greenish metal called
strup,
and the menacing glitter of the poison gem imbedded in its tip.

She had no stolen wand to turn against him as she’d done twice before when confronting his kind. But she had a weapon that might prove even more potent. As she strode onto the field of battle, she reached back and plucked the cord that held her long, thick braid together. Then she fanned the hair out in loose ripples down her back and over her shoulders—the way she had seen her mother in her buried memories.

She wanted to protect Rath’s men from the torment of those vile wands, and to do her part in snatching an easy victory from the Han. But there was more to what she was about to
do than either of those. Maura needed the death-mage to know what she had found out about their shameful connection and she needed some acknowledgment from him. Preferably a hostile one, to confirm they were enemies even if she shared his blood.

For a wide area around the death-mages, the ground was empty. Having witnessed the torment they could deal out, the rebels would rather take their chances against the blades of ordinary Hanish soldiers. Those, at least, they could return in kind. And if they did take a blow from one, it might be a swift death. Merciful compared with mortcraft.

Maura marched as near as she dared to the path of the poison gem, then she advanced toward the death-mage who held it.

He paid her no heed at first. Perhaps he was concentrating too hard on the victim whose hoarse cries rang in her ears, urging her to end his pain even at the risk of suffering it for herself. Or perhaps he could not believe anyone would be daft enough to approach him when he had only to twitch his wand a few inches and make them bitterly regret their folly. Or was it possible he glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye but feared she might be another trick of his failing mind?

Closer and closer she drew to him, so he would be certain to hear her, even over the din of battle.

“Pravash!”
she cried. In Hanish it meant
father.
Maura could not have addressed him by that name in Umbrian, even if he’d understood it. The Umbrian word for
father
would always make her think of Langbard.

“Look at me, Father! See what you begot with your conquest of Dareth Woodbury?”

The poison gem wand quivered and sank a little. The screams behind Maura stopped. The black-hooded head shook in denial. The hard, cruel mouth below the hood moved, but whatever words came out were too faint for Maura to hear. She could guess what the death-mage was saying, though, and to whom.

“If you are trying to dispel me, save your breath!” she cried.
“I am no delusion. But I am the cause of all you see around you and I will be the means of your undoing.”

“It cannot be.” In spite of his denial, the death-mage spoke loud enough for her to hear. “
You
cannot be.”

“Why not?” With deliberate steps, Maura continued toward him. “When a man and woman lie together as lovers, is it not likely for a child to come of it? Even if that is not their intent? Even if they are bitterest foes? Even if their union makes traitors of them both?”

The death-mage shrank back, as if her words were as deadly as his wand. The two Echtroi on either side of him seemed to notice something amiss at last.

“What is the lowling wench blathering about?” demanded the one armed with an ice gem wand.

“Silence her!” ordered the one on the other side. “Then get back to work. These lowlings are putting up a vicious fight, curse them! If too many get in among the trees before the rest of our force comes, some may slip through our fingers.”

The death-mage raised his wand and aimed. Maura braced for the pain to gnaw at her in its particular way. Having felt the torment of an ice gem and a shadow gem, she had hoped never to endure another. But if that was the price for this confrontation, she was willing to pay it.

The poison gem was pointed straight at her, yet Maura felt no pain. It must take an effort of will to trigger and channel that terrible power. It appeared the death-mage was unable to make that effort against his own flesh and blood. Perhaps she reminded him too much of the woman who had made him feel tenderness and passion, back when he still had a heart.

“You cannot do it, can you?” Maura challenged him. The last thing she wanted from him was leniency.

He shook the wand and glared at it, his mouth clenched in a rigid line. Still Maura felt nothing.

She raised her hand and held it out. “Give me that thing.”

Now he glared at her. “You are immune to it, somehow.”

“I am as vulnerable as anyone else.” An unwelcome notion took stubborn root in her mind. “Perhaps you are, too.”

She wanted to hate him for being who he was and doing the things he’d done to keep her people in fear and bondage. Most of all she wanted to hate him because he had tainted her and made her question everything she’d believed herself to be. That hate would be a measure of her identity as an Umbrian and her loyalty to her people.

Hate could be a potent and terrifying weapon. But suddenly Maura found herself disarmed, unable to summon its potency any more than her father could summon the power of the poison gem against her.

“Give me…” Her outstretched fingers began to tremble and her eyes prickled with tears she scorned to shed, for they would make her look weak.

Reeds bend before the mighty rage of the storm.
Langbard’s words welled up from the depths of her memory to remind her of a long-ago lesson.
Does that make them weak? When the storm passes, they rise again and flourish. Let your heart be supple as a reed, dear one, and as strong.

“Give me…your hand.”

She stood near enough, now, that if he leaned over the neck of his mount, he could do what she asked. But would he be able to bend so far?

Behind the black hood that hid his identity and humanity, his eyes glittered with what looked like terror. By refusing to bend, would he be broken by the tempest raging inside him?

The wand that was both his weapon and his shield lowered, and he swayed in his saddle—falling more than bending. Then his hand thrust out toward her, as if some potent force of restraint had suddenly snapped under pressure.

Maura lunged forward to catch his fingers in hers. But the tips no more than brushed when his jerked back and he let out a howl of pain that startled both Maura and his mount.

It stopped almost as quickly as it had begun and Maura
heard the death-mage beside him growl, “Don’t be a fool! Give the little wretch what she deserves.”

She had stumbled several steps backward when his horse reared. Now the pain she had invited moments ago engulfed and consumed her. Every fiber of her body seemed to burst into flame at once. She drew breath to scream, but before a sound could escape her lips, the fire in her flesh extinguished, leaving her limp and shaken. Another cry rang out, deep and rasping, with a shrill edge of shock and rage.

When her vision cleared, Maura could see her father and one of the other death-mages pointing their wands at each other. Having engaged in two such duels, she knew if it lasted very long there would be no victor.

“Stop!” She struggled up from the ground and moved toward her father.

She had taken only a single stumbling step when she heard the pounding of hooves behind her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist to pull her off the ground and onto Rath’s horse. They galloped toward Aldwood.

“Don’t scare me like that,
aira
! When I spied you walking toward that death-mage, I near spewed my guts right then. The Han I was fighting might have taken my head off if Tobryn hadn’t jumped up and grabbed him by the hair.”

“Please, Rath.” Maura struggled in his arms. “I must go back to my father. He saved my life.”

Unless she acted swiftly, he would pay for it with his own.

“Your who? He what?”

“The death-mage. My father.” Maura grabbed the reins higher than where Rath held them and pulled to bring the horse about. “They told him to use his wand on me, but he couldn’t. And when one of the others did, he…”

“I will do what I can.” Rath wrested control of his horse back from Maura, then slowed the beast and eased her to the ground. “If you promise to stay in cover and see to the wounded. Will you?”

This dangerous task would require the horse’s speed unencumbered by an extra passenger. It would also take a man’s kind of strength and Rath’s quick wits.

“I will.” She nodded so hard, her whole body quivered. “I promise. Now go!”

There were no Han near by, but still she retreated behind the closest tree, in case a stray arrow flew her way or a mortcraft wand pointed at her. Peeking out from behind the broad trunk, she watched Rath speed back toward the death-mages.

But it was too late.

Some of the other rebel warriors had seen a chance to remove the greatest obstacle between their beleaguered army and the refuge of the forest. They fell on the dueling death-mages, hewing them down with quick strokes before taking advantage of the unguarded backs of the others.

Maura’s legs felt like slender twigs, straining to hold her upright. And the great open space around her suddenly seemed lacking in air.

She told herself not to be foolish. Why should she care what became of a man she had wanted to hate until a few moments ago? Just because he’d resisted the urge to harm her, then come to her aid when someone else had tried?

Even that did not explain the sense of loss that engulfed her.

I
t was all over by the time he rode back.

Part of Rath rejoiced at the destruction of the death-mages. A vital path to Aldwood now lay open for his army. Besides that, he hoped the loss of so many Echtroi might make the Han hesitate before attacking Vang’s stronghold, thus buying him some desperately needed time.

But his satisfaction was tainted with regret, as well. He had come to believe in the way of the Giver enough that he could not exult in the taking of life—not even of his worst enemies. Besides that, he felt a vague sense of waste. These had once been men of power and ability. What might they have accomplished in the service of some better cause? Now they would never have that chance.

“Gather up those wands!” he ordered the men who had done the grim deed. “Take them to Aldwood Castle for safekeeping. I do not want them falling back into enemy hands.”

Though these rebel fighters would not recognize him without his trappings of the Waiting King, they responded to his air of authority and quickly obeyed his orders.

Rath leaped from his saddle and knelt beside the death-mage whose gaunt hand still gripped the green wand with fierce will. Though he did not appear to be bleeding much, he had neither pulse nor breath. Rath pried the wand from his cold fingers, then closed his unseeing eyes with a gentle touch.

This man embodied all the cruel domination of his people…and yet… If not for him, Maura would never have been. Rath had neither the time nor the wisdom to cipher the complicated riddle of his feelings.

Hefting the body up, he found it surprisingly light for its size, as if it had never been a whole man at all, but only a hollow shell of one. He slung it over the back of his horse, which he towed back toward the spot where he’d left Maura. She darted out of the woods when she saw him coming.

“I’m sorry.” Rath nodded toward the body. “I was too late. If you don’t want to bother about him, I can—”

“No!” Maura’s face betrayed some of the contrary feelings that battled within her. “I don’t
want
to…but I owe him something.”

“I know.” Rath lifted the body off the horse’s back to his own shoulder then set off into the woods.

Not far in, he found a flat grassy spot that was strangely quiet. There he laid down his burden.

“You’ll need water.” He handed Maura his drink skin.

Whether or not he agreed with what she was about to do, it would keep her off the battlefield. That might be the third best service this death-mage had ever done.

Rath gathered Maura into a swift embrace, pressing a kiss to her furrowed brow. “I’ll come looking for you once we get our forces under cover. For now I must go find Delyon. If only I’d known…”

His voice trailed off, but she replied with a brief nod of understanding and reassurance. “Go. But be careful.”

She glanced toward the long, black-robed form on the grass. “If I ever had to do this for you…”

The ache in her words brought a lump to Rath’s throat. He’d
had to do this for her once, though the Giver had granted them another chance. There was a limit to how many such chances a body could hope for.

“Don’t fret about me. I’ve spent my whole life wriggling out of tight spots.” Still, it was not easy for him to let go of her, stride back through the trees and climb into his saddle to rejoin the battle.

What he found there heartened him. The fall of the death-mages seemed to have inspired the rebels. Most of the Hanish riders had been taken down or driven off and the ragtag army now streamed toward the welcoming arms of Aldwood as night began to spread its protective cloak over them.

But far too many of his men staggered toward the forest, hauling wounded or slain comrades with them. Each one Rath passed gave his heart a pang. He wished he had Idrygon’s detachment to think of them as nothing more than pieces to move in a game. But to him they were comrades who’d placed their faith in him—trusting him to make their blighted dream of freedom come true.

How would he live with himself if he let them down? Even if he died trying, he was not certain he would find peace in the afterworld if he failed his people.

“Wolf!” a familiar voice hailed him. “Leave it to you to show up when there’s trouble afoot.”

“Anulf!” Rath reined his horse to a halt and scrambled down. “I heard you were here making a nuisance of yourself. And Odger, too. The Han will be shaking in their iron boots!”

A chuckle caught in his throat when he spotted a wounded man slumped between them. “Theto?”

Anulf shook his head. “A farmer from a ways north. A good fellow, but he should never have got caught up in all this—him with a pretty wife and a fine family back home.”

“Newlyn?” Rath fumbled at the farmer’s throat for a pulse then let out a shaky sigh of relief when he found it.

“Aye, that’s his name.” Anulf pulled on Newlyn’s arm to
bring it tighter around his shoulder. “Friend of the lady’s. Shame she couldn’t have talked some sense into him.”

“Is he bad?”

“Not good. Lost some blood. I bound it the best I could, but…”

Then from up on the ridge Rath thought he heard someone call out, “The king!”

Oddly, he didn’t feel strange that they meant someone other than him. But he didn’t like the tone of the call—it sounded like trouble.

“Take Newlyn over that way.” Rath pointed toward the western edge of the forest. “Maura’s there. She will help him, if anyone can.”

With that he remounted. “I must go to the king’s aid.”

“Watch your back, Wolf!” Anulf called after him. “I want a pint with you after all this ruckus settles down!”

“So do I!” In spite of all that weighed on his mind, Rath laughed. “If you’re buying!”

He threaded his mount through the shadowy throng making their way toward the forest. Once he reached the edge of the crowd he was able to make better speed up the slope. What he saw when he reached the crest made him want to turn and race for Aldwood with the rest.

The setting sun had fallen below the barrier of clouds, but not yet disappeared behind the peaks of the Blood Moon Mountains. Now its dying rays reached out to glint off Hanish armor. Rank upon rank upon rank of it.

Rath hadn’t thought there could be this many soldiers in the whole empire! In a massed battle, the rebels would be overrun and butchered. Given how fast the Han were coming, Umbrian stragglers were in danger of being overrun before they got up the hill, let alone down to Aldwood itself.

Rath rode up to a mounted Vestan soldier paused at the crest of the ridge. “The king—where is he?”

“There.” The fellow pointed. “In a bit of trouble, I reckon.
I’d go to him but Lord Idrygon ordered me to stay here and keep these men moving.”

Gazing into the distance, Rath squinted against the glare from the Hanish armor. He thought he could pick out one figure larger than the rest.

“Not that the likes of us would be much use to a great hero like him,” said the Vestan.

“Oh, he needs us, all right.” Rath gave his horse a nudge to head down the far slope. “Nobody’s that great a hero.”

His entrails tied themselves in knots as he rode toward the Han. He had told Delyon to keep as far away as possible from his brother. Clearly he should have told the young scholar to give the Han a wide berth, too.

The ragged rear of the rebel force seethed with chaos. Teams of riders grabbed the hindmost marchers and carried them farther up the slope before coming back for their next load. Vestan archers covered the disorderly retreat, firing arrows to discourage the boldest of the pursuing Han from drawing any closer. An answering hail of arrows fell like lethal rain upon the rebels, now and then finding a target. The heath was littered with bits of gear men had cast off to make better speed.

Here and there, parties of horsemen burst from the Hanish ranks to make swift, violent strikes against the fleeing Umbrians. Each time they were beaten back by rebel riders, including one giant warrior who scattered the Han with every plunge of his massive mount and every swipe of his huge sword. Rath hoped the enemy did not guess what he did—that Delyon was having trouble controlling both the beast and the blade.

A qualm of shame gripped him for having put the young scholar into a dangerous situation for which he was unprepared. He spurred his horse toward Delyon. The next while passed in a desperate, darkening blur as he helped fend off a series of attacks and herd the last remnant of his army toward the temporary safety of the forest.

By the time they reached sight of Aldwood, most of the
clouds had blown away and the moon had risen, nearly full. That silvery white moon was the rebels’ heavenly ally, shining off the armored Han to make them easy targets for bow fire. Meanwhile, their shadowy leather-clad foes slipped with ease into the friendly darkness of the wood.

Rath feared the Han might pursue his men into Aldwood, in spite of the dark and their distaste for forests. To his vast relief, they stopped and withdrew out of bow range. Their commanders must have decided to wait until morning when they could see to attack and savor their victory.

Would the time that bought for the rebels be enough for them to recover the magical staff? And if it did, what manner of wish should Rath make with it to gain his people’s freedom? After all, he would only get one chance.

Maura stared down at the still, silent figure shrouded in black that lay on the grass in that tiny glade. The drink skin in her hand felt as heavy as a brimming wooden bucket from the well behind Langbard’s cottage. Could she bring herself to do what part of her felt she must?

To perform the ritual of passing on a man who had lived his whole life in opposition to the Precepts of the Giver seemed like a violation of those sacred teachings. And how could she stand to share the memories and experiences he had collected during his life? She would rather bathe in a festering bog or eat the contents of a hog troth! It felt obscene to undertake so intimate a connection with someone she had never known or wanted to know.

And yet…she could not deny the subtle tingle of curiosity to learn how he and her mother had come together and what had passed between them. Taken by itself, that would not have been enough to make her do this.

But her spirit had once been where his might be now. And if he had gone to that place of endless, crushing, suffocating darkness, it was because he had come to her aid. Besides that,
no matter how much she might resist the idea, his blood flowed in her. If he remained forever a mystery to her, then part of her would be forever incomplete.

Maura knelt beside him and drew back the black hood that hid his humanity. She let out a gasp at the sight of his face—so gaunt and hairless. Even in death, his features did not look peaceful.

Taking the stopper from Rath’s drink skin, she dabbed a little water on the death-mage’s hands and lips and brow, all the while chanting the ritual words. Was there enough water in the whole Sea of Dawn to purify
his
thoughts, words and actions?

Reluctantly she let her spirit rove, searching for him. Calling. Would she be able to reach him? she wondered when she received no answer. Rath had almost not been able to find her when he’d tried.

Then she sensed a presence, the way she had sensed Langbard’s during his passing ritual.

“Where are we?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

“I do not know what this place is.” How could she explain to him, when she barely understood, herself? “But I may be able to put you on the path to the afterworld, if you are willing.”

“The afterworld? Dareth told me about it and about your Giver. I doubt I would be welcome there.”

Something about his apprehension stirred her sympathy a little, but she did not want to feel that for him. Curiosity and obligation were difficult enough.

“Would you rather stay here?”

“No,” he replied at last, with an air of uncertainty that seemed foreign to him. “It feels too much like the life I left behind. I have left it behind, have I?”

“I reckon so.”

“Then take me where you will. But first will you tell me one thing?”

“If I can.”

“Were you in Venard a week ago? In the High Governor’s palace?”

“Yes. That was me you saw. I followed you afterward and heard the things you said about my mother. That was how I guessed…”

Maura sensed his relief. Did it matter so much, now that he was dead, whether or not he had been going mad?

She sought to answer his unspoken bewilderment. “The spirit and the mind are not the same, you know. Langbard taught me that all ailments of mind and body stay behind when the spirit is freed of them.”

“Langbard?”

“My guardian. The man my mother entrusted to raise me when she died.”

“And when was that?”

“Before I was a year old.” She was growing impatient with his interrogation. She could not afford to linger here for hours on end. “You said only one question.”

“So I did.” There was an air of apology in his reply, but he did not entreat her pardon. Perhaps it was something the Han considered a sign of the weakness they dreaded so much.

“Come, then.” She had only to form the intent and she felt herself moving, drawing the death-mage with her.

As had happened during Langbard’s ritual of passing, his memories cascaded through her mind.

She saw his childhood, different from other Hanish boys, for he had been raised by his own mother, a stern but doting widow. Because he was an only child and often ailing, she’d indulged and protected him, sometimes even seeking forbidden Umbrian remedies. Though not robust, the boy had been clever and strong-willed. When he was old enough, he’d been sent to train as a death-mage. He had thrived on the challenge of mastering the powerful dark forces of mortcraft, but he had also been clever enough to sometimes question the ways of his people. Those questions had never found satisfactory answers until
one spring when he’d been sent to help put down a rebellion brewing on the northern isle of Tarsh. There he had captured Dareth Woodbury and she had captured his heart.

While taking her back to Venard as his prisoner, their party had been attacked by outlaws and they alone had escaped. Lost in the wild lands of the north, they reluctantly came to rely on one another. Reliance had blossomed into comradeship and she’d told him many things about her people and their ways. Things that intensified his questions and doubts about the way of the Han.