Reader and Raelynx (36 page)

Valri nodded sorrowfully. “One of the reasons I left the Lirrens was because there was so much conflict between the clans,” she said. “So many feuds between families—all of them pointless. But, Amalie, I believe there are times you must defend not only what is yours, but what you have been called upon to protect. Gillengaria has been put in trust for you—the land is your responsibility. You think you could save it by walking away, but instead you would betray it. And I know you could never bring yourself to do that.”

Amalie sniffled and shook her head and looked around for a handkerchief. No one had one immediately handy, so she sniffled again. “No. I won’t. I’ll be strong. I just—I want to be strong in whichever way is
right.
”

Kirra leaned over and handed her a square of lace and cotton, clearly manufactured on the spot. “Here. Blow your nose on that. And I’ll calm your stomach so you can handle food. You need to eat, Majesty. We all do. We have another grueling day ahead of us tomorrow.”

T
HEY
dispersed quickly enough after the meal, some of them instantly seeking their beds. Cammon had hoped Amalie, too, would try to sleep for a while, but she said, “I want to go with Justin to see the wounded.” Naturally, Cammon accompanied her, and Kirra came with them.

The hospital consisted of two tents, each about the size of Amalie’s, and a few acres staked out by a fence of slow-burning torches. The light was poor, but this wasn’t a sight that invited close inspection. The gravely wounded were housed in the tents, both of which glowed with their own interior firelight. Those who needed less care had been assigned pallets on the ground outside. There were hundreds of them.

Moving through the rows of injured men was almost as bad as watching the battle itself, Cammon thought. All of them,
all
of them, were wracked with pain, horrified by memories, nauseated, wretched, afraid. Some were thirsty, some were delirious, some were desperate—and even those who lay on their blankets mute and miserable seemed to be yelling and moaning in Cammon’s ears. There was a clamor in his brain; he held his breath and tried to shut down, close them out, but they were still hammering at the edges of his mind.

“Sweet gods,” Kirra muttered, and just sank to the ground beside one of the suffering soldiers. She put her hand on his forehead and spoke a few words. Cammon felt the shouting in his head grow quieter by a single voice.

Justin glanced around. “I thought we brought Ghosenhall doctors with us, as well as mystics.”

“We did,” Amalie said in a soft voice. “I expect they’re in the tents with the men who are the worst off.”

“Well, I’ll go see if they need any help holding down someone who needs surgery,” Justin said, and picked his way carefully through the bodies.

Amalie stood still for a moment, as if gathering her strength, and then stepped up purposefully to one of the wounded men. “What’s your name, soldier?” she asked, bending over to see his face better in the bad light. A lock of her red-gold hair fell over her shoulder and brushed his cheek.

The soldier opened his eyes. He looked about Cammon’s age, but beefier and rougher. His eyebrows were knitted together in pain, but when he saw the princess stooped over him, his expression cleared and he seemed touched by awe. “Majesty,” he whispered. “You came to see us.”

“I did. Tell me your name.”

“Benton, Majesty.”

“I’m proud of you, Benton. You fought well for me today. I am lucky to have soldiers like you in my army.”

“Majesty, I was glad to fight.”

The man was filthy, and streaks of blood still colored his face, but Amalie impulsively put her palm against his cheek. “Heal quickly,” she said in her soft voice. “May your pain be gone.”

As if he were that soldier lying on the ground, Cammon sensed the heat of her touch, experienced a jolt of magic along his bones, a golden sparkle, then darkness. Benton’s voice was thick with wonder. “Thank you, Majesty.”

She nodded, straightened up, and moved to the next bed. Again, she asked for the soldier’s name; again, she laid her hand against his skin and offered a quiet benediction. Again, Cammon felt that flare of magic, felt the pain ease back, grow tamer, more bearable. This soldier turned his head and pressed his lips against her wrist. “Thank you, Majesty,” he whispered.

At the third pallet, it was the same. At the fourth, Cammon caught her before she could speak to the soldier. “Amalie, what are you doing?” he murmured in her ear.

She turned toward him; the footing was so tricky that she practically had to lean against him to reply. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t even
realize
it. “Your touch. It’s acting like a narcotic. You’re taking away the pain—and I think you’re helping the healing begin. You’re dusting them with magic and it’s having a true effect.”

She was pleased. “Really? Is that why my hands tingle?”

“How did you learn to do that?”

“I don’t know. I saw Kirra lay her hands on a soldier’s face, so I thought I would just try it. I didn’t think it would do any good.”

He was indecisive. “I don’t want you to wear yourself down, using up magic you don’t even know you have.”

“Yes, but if I can give a few soldiers some comfort—after they have earned their wounds fighting for
me
!—I should do that, don’t you think? For as many as I can?”

“Maybe for the ones who hurt the most.”

She glanced around. “How can I tell that?”

He smiled a little grimly. “Oh, I can help you there.” He thought a moment. “Give me your pendant.”

Willingly, she reached up to unclasp it, but her expression was inquiring. “Why?”

“I have a strange kind of power,” he said. “Sometimes I can feed it to others. Especially when I hold something that belongs to them. Well, it worked once with Kirra. Maybe it’ll work with you.”

“I bet it would if I had my moonstone necklace,” she said, handing him the pendant.

His fingers closed around the braided circle of gold. “I bet it would, too.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! I felt that! What did you do?”

He smiled in the half-light. “Just—directed a little energy your way. I think if you use my magic in addition to yours, you won’t be so exhausted by the end of this exercise.”

She turned away from him. “All right. Tell me, then—who needs me the most?”

A
MALIE
spent the next hour moving through the ranks of wounded men as Cammon directed her to those who were experiencing the most severe agony or the deepest hopelessness. Cammon felt a fresh charge against his skin every time Amalie put a hand to another man’s cheek; he felt her draw upon the core of his own power. But it was peculiar, it was unexpected—the expenditure of magic did not seem to be draining her at all. In fact, every time she spread her glittering gift along another man’s wound, she seemed to brighten a little, to expand. Her candle-flame hair held a richer color. Her pale hands seemed to be touched by stray moonlight.

It was the response of the soldiers, Cammon decided—their awe, their appreciation—these things were filling her up, making her glow. She basked in their adoration and grew stronger.

Amalie had visited the beds of maybe forty soldiers when Justin pushed his way out of one of the tents and joined them. “Majesty, if you have the strength, there’s a man inside who I think would like to meet you. I saw him fight today, and he was unstoppable. Not particularly well trained, but he just wouldn’t give up. Saved two of his companions when they were overmatched. But he’s in bad shape now, and I’m just not sure—” He shook his head. “If he saw you, it might give him heart.”

Amalie instantly turned toward the tent. “Of course. What’s his name?”

Justin glanced at Cammon, grinning. “I don’t want to tell you. I want to see if Cammon remembers him.”

Cammon was surprised. “This is someone
I
know?”

“Well, you only met him once, but it was a memorable experience.”

They stepped inside the tent. Instantly, the scents, sounds, and emotions of wounded men were intensified; Cammon had to pause a moment to fight for balance. A dozen men moaned and thrashed on low cots, or lay dangerously still. The air smelled of alcohol and wet linen and blood. Three branches of candles offered more than enough light to see by. Cammon wished he couldn’t see—or hear—or hear with his inner ear.

Justin pointed toward one of the sickbeds, and Amalie went to her knees beside the cot, surveying the soldier. He was maybe twenty years old, with thick black hair matted with blood, a wide peasant’s face, a full mouth crimped with pain. His eyes were shut tightly; his whole face was creased in an effort to hold on to consciousness.

Cammon stared at him, frowning. Familiar, and yet—

“I hear you fought very bravely today,” Amalie said in a coaxing voice. “Won’t you open your eyes and tell me your name?”

The young man’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Cammon looked over his clothing to see if it held any clues to his identity. Not really. He wore a black-and-white checkerboard sash, so he’d ridden in with the Merrenstow contingent, but he had a black-and-gold scarf tied around his upper arm. An indication that he rode for the royal army, or a leftover dressing from rough battlefield medicine? His uniform bunched up under his arms to make room for the great swaddling of bandages that covered his lower torso. Gut wound—unlikely to live.

“I know you must hurt a great deal,” Amalie said. “I’m not much of a healer, but perhaps my touch will bring you some peace.” She leaned closer and spread her fingers gently over his bandage.

Cammon felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach; he actually made a little
whoofing
noise as air punched out of him. He caught Justin’s questioning look but didn’t pause to explain. He was too absorbed in watching the patient’s face as that infusion of magic raced through his body. First the lips pursed in surprise, then the clenched muscles of the jaw relaxed. Then slowly the soldier’s eyes opened, and he looked straight up at Amalie, dazed and dazzled.

“Majesty,” he whispered.

Now Cammon could sense Justin’s intense curiosity, for the Rider had witnessed enough magic to realize when it was being worked in his presence. An even stronger emotion emanated from Amalie: fierce delight that her touch had eased this man’s pain. But she kept her voice in a soothing register. “You fought valiantly on the field today,” she said. “I want to thank you for riding to war on my behalf.”

“Princess,” the soldier said, still in a weak and thready voice. “I joined your father’s army to make reparation.”

She kept one hand on the bandage and used the other to smooth the dark hair back from his face. “And what were you atoning for?”

“I was stupid. I believed false promises. I—I joined the soldiers at Lumanen Convent because I believed the Daughters of the Pale Mother were good.”

That was the instant Cammon recognized him. “Kelti! You were with the Lestra’s soldiers the night Justin and I found you—”
Found you torturing a mystic.
“Found you near Neft,” he finished lamely. “So you left the convent and became a king’s man!”

“I told him to,” Justin said, sounding pleased with himself, that he had given advice, and it had been accepted, and it had turned out so well—unless you considered getting a blade through the belly a bad thing. He came a step closer and bent over a little. “You fought well,” he said to Kelti. “At least two others are alive today because of you.”

Kelti looked straight back at him, trusting the other soldier to tell him a hard truth. “Am I going to die?”

“Might,” Justin said. “It’s a bad wound. But we have some mystic healers here who can bring a man back from death’s doorstep.”

“I don’t mind dying,” Kelti said. “If it’s for something that matters.”

“It is for the noblest cause imaginable,” Amalie told him, stroking his cheek. She had not seemed so sure just an hour ago, but to reassure this young man, she had managed to summon true conviction. “To keep the kingdom safe and whole. To keep cruel men and women from gaining the power to kill and destroy at will.”

“I never did anything that mattered before,” Kelti said.

“And when you are recovered, will you still want to be a soldier in the royal army?” Amalie said. “Or have you seen enough of fighting?”

His dark eyes were shining with fervor—or possibly fever, Cammon wasn’t sure. “As long as you have need of me, I will fight for you,” he said.

“Then heal quickly, and come see me when you are whole again,” Amalie said. “I have need of a few more Riders. I would invite you to be one of them.”

Cammon heard Justin’s quick intake of breath, but when he looked over, Justin was grinning. This must be how it was done; suddenly, the monarch just
knew.
And if that wasn’t a kind of magic, Cammon had never seen a spell cast in his life.

“Majesty, I will be well in a few days. I’m sure of it.”

She smiled and came to her feet. “Look for me then, Kelti. I’ll be waiting.”

It was late, and tomorrow would be another punishing day. “Amalie, you have to go back to your own tent now,” Cammon said, leading her outside. She didn’t even protest; she was too exhausted.

Justin followed them, still grinning. “Good to see that you’re planning to quickly fill up the ranks of Riders again, Majesty,” he said.

She gave him a searching look. “Did I choose wisely? Will you be willing to ride alongside him?”

“He proved his courage today. His fighting skills need some improvement, but training is something we can give him.” Justin glanced at Cammon. “When we met him, he struck me as a man desperate to find a cause to give his whole heart to.”

Cammon nodded. “I agree.”

Justin continued, “And you’ve just offered him that cause. I believe he would be loyal to you to the death.”

She sighed. “Which I hope does not come tomorrow.”

Justin shook his head. “He won’t even need magic now. Someone has faith in him. A boy like that, faith’ll keep him alive for a long time.”

“You speak from experience, of course,” Cammon said in a polite voice.

Justin laughed. “I absolutely do.”

Justin stayed behind to coax Ellynor to take a rest, but Cammon and Amalie returned to her pavilion. “You’ll feel very tired when I give you back your pendant,” he warned. “You’ve been pulling magic from me, and it’s buoyed you up, but I think you’re going to feel pretty bad when I hand it back. So promise me you’ll just go to bed and worry about war again in the morning.”

“I promise,” she said, and held out her hand.

He laid the gold necklace in her palm, and she actually staggered. The glow that had seemed to sustain her flickered out. She dropped to the bed as if her legs suddenly could not support her.

“Ohhhh,” she breathed, “I didn’t think it would be quite so severe.”

“Just take off your dress and your shoes,” he said. “And I’ll pull up the blanket. Go straight to sleep.”

But she forced her eyes open. She hated anyone to think she might be weak. “What about you?” she asked.

He had slept in the tent with her since it was first erected. No one had commented on the arrangement. He actually thought Tayse might even be pleased about it—not because Tayse had any romantic notions about young love, but because Tayse considered Cammon a very good sort of weapon. “Yes, of course I will go to sleep, too,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. If I’ve been stealing your magic, are you exhausted too?”

He sat beside her and began unlacing her shoes, since she seemed incapable of performing that task for herself. “You haven’t been stealing it. I’ve given it to you. A present.”

“But has that gift left you drained and weak?”

He pushed her to her side so he could undo the buttons at the back of her dress. He figured it wouldn’t be long before she was demanding to wear men’s trousers, as Senneth did. A dress was clearly out of place on a battlefield. “No. I’m tired because this has been a dreadful day and I have not been able to shut out all the cries of pain and calls for help. But it didn’t make me especially weary to share my magic with you.”

He tugged the skirts of the dress up and had to half lift her to get it off over her head. “Why not?” she asked sleepily, lying back on the pillow.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Because I have a lot of power, I guess. I’ve never yet used it all up. Maybe that will happen someday—maybe it will happen during this war. But it didn’t happen today.”

“Good,” she said, and closed her eyes. “I’ll take some more of it tomorrow.”

T
HE
second day of war was much like the first one. Brutal, arduous, tense, and exhausting. As before, Cammon and Amalie stayed well to the back, Amalie fretful and Cammon struggling to sort out the noises and emotions besieging him. He managed a little better this day. He was able to focus, as Jerril had taught him, only on the voices he wanted to hear while he shut out all the others. The various leaders of the defending army were beginning to realize what an asset he was, and this day messages came swiftly from the mystics attending Romar, Colton, Kiernan, and the captains of the other troops.

“We’re able to shift forces to any line exactly when we need them,” Romar said that night as they held another brief conference in Amalie’s tent. “Our numbers are smaller, but we’re able to deploy better. It’s almost an even trade-off.”

“I’d still like to see another thousand men ride up wearing Danalustrous red,” Kiernan said.

Senneth shook her head. “I don’t think that will happen. Malcolm seemed very certain he would not join the war.”

“Then we plan a strategy around the troops we have,” Tayse answered.

No one said that there weren’t enough troops, but Cammon could tell everyone was thinking it. They had lost more soldiers today; they were slowly being whittled down. Cammon saw Romar speculatively regarding his niece, and he could read the regent’s thought:
How soon must we send her across the border to safety?
Not that there was certain to be any safety for Amalie, even in the Lirrenlands.

That night, again, Amalie spent an hour outside the infirmary tents, moving between fallen soldiers, offering thanks and encouragement. Cammon could see two shapes inside the pavilions, shadows moving against the low interior light. One he guessed was Ellynor. The other he knew to be Valri, for he had sensed her there the entire day, moving among the wounded and the dying. She moved with a grim purposefulness, almost all of her attention on the sober task before her, but a small part of her—a tiny, hopeful, selfish part—was engaged in a celebration of joy. Cammon smiled to feel it. The reunion with Ellynor’s cousin must have proceeded rather well, he thought. He glanced around, in case he spotted the fellow lurking in the shadows, waiting for Valri to retire for the night.

There might have been a shape standing behind one of the tents, but it wasn’t a Lirren man. Cammon stared harder, trying to make out details. It seemed to be a woman, dark-haired, stocky, dressed in black and silver. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes, but she was gone and he could pick up no sense of a lurking presence. Surely there had never been anyone there.

He bent his attention instead on someone who was in plain sight: Kirra, who had spent the day tending to fallen soldiers. She had been on the move the entire afternoon, but now she sat on a stool outside one of the tents, looking tired. Still, she had mustered enough energy to scowl at Cammon as she waved him over.

“You’re doing something,” she accused. “Amalie keeps looking back at you. You’re pouring some of your power into her, aren’t you?”

He opened his hand to show her Amalie’s pendant. “Pretty easy to feed energy to a thief mystic.”

Kirra pushed herself to her feet. “I want some. Give it to me.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “Well, that’s gracious.”

She hunted through her pockets until she found a small striated stone charm shaped like a lioness on the run. Kirra had found it last year in a deserted shrine set up to honor the Wild Mother, and she’d kept it as her personal token. “There are another five men in there who are so seriously wounded that they could die tonight,” she said in an uncharacteristically grim voice. “I’m too tired to help them. But if you lend me a little magic—”