Reader and Raelynx (42 page)

“We’ll be fine,” Kirra told Tayse at last. “I won’t even take human shape. We’ll be back in a couple of hours, and no doubt we’ll have a gory tale to tell.”

Donnal had already taken the form of a bat, adept at night travel. More slowly, Kirra transformed herself to a very similar creature, and they both took off without a backward glance. Cammon dropped beside Senneth. Tayse stood awhile, watching the night sky as if he could actually still see their winged shapes, and then he, too, took a seat before the fire.

“You can follow them, of course,” Senneth said quietly.

Cammon nodded. “Of course.”

“Let us know when anything happens,” Tayse said.

The four of them were silent for the next fifteen minutes. Cammon’s attention was focused so tightly on Donnal and Kirra that he could almost feel the lift and caress of wind as they darted through the air. Below them, he could see the dense pattern of sleeping armies, divided by a dark trench of muddy, torn-up ground. Occasional campfires sparkled on both sides of the demarcation line. From the air, in the dark, the world seemed peaceful; every sign of battle was erased.

Finally Senneth stirred. “I wonder how Donnal will bring himself to kill an unarmed man in his sleep,” she said.

“
I
could do it,” Justin said.

Tayse turned his head to appraise the younger Rider. “No, you couldn’t.”

Justin flashed his careless grin. “Maybe not. But I could wake him up and then kill him before he had time to say a word.”

“They’re at the camp,” Cammon said abruptly. “Hovering above the tent they believe is Rayson’s.”

“How do they know?” Justin asked.

“Fortunalt flags. And there’s—” Cammon tried to convey Kirra’s sense of bewilderment. “Singing? Men outside the tent having some kind of celebration?”

“A wake for Halchon?” Senneth suggested. “Or maybe Rayson’s actually glad that Halchon is dead. He wanted the throne all along.”

“I don’t know,” Cammon said. “But Donnal is pleased. The singing will cover any sounds they make.”

He fell silent for long enough to make Senneth impatient. “Well? What’s happening?” she asked.

“Oh. They landed for a moment to change to smaller creatures. I can’t tell what—moths or something.” Donnal could alter shapes so quickly that he could transform himself in flight, but Kirra’s shifting took too long for such midair maneuvers. “Now they’re aloft again—and seeking a way inside the tent—and in.”

He was silent again, unprepared for the swift backlash of emotions he was picking up from both Kirra and Donnal. Fury, disgust, hatred. He frowned.

“What?”
Senneth demanded. “Why do you look like that?”

He shook his head. “They’re—oh. They’re witnessing Rayson—in bed with some girl—a very young girl, from what I can tell….” His voice trailed off. Kirra’s anger was so hot that he thought she might have tried to rip out Rayson’s eyes herself if she had been some kind of predator.

Senneth said something, and Justin replied, but Cammon scarcely heard them. The scene before him was so clear it was as if he was standing in the tent, watching it unfold by candlelight. The girl in Rayson’s bed couldn’t have been much more than fifteen, dark-haired, terrified, shrieking. The heavy red-faced marlord was laboring over her, grunting with pleasure, pinning her arms back against the rough wool of the blankets. The men outside finished one drunken song and began another one.

Donnal had shifted smoothly into human shape—and beside him, Kirra, reckless Kirra, had assumed her own form as well. The girl caught sight of them and shrieked even more loudly.

With his left hand, Donnal jerked on the marlord’s neck, causing him to cry out in alarm and roll off his victim. In his right hand, Donnal held a sword. The naked marlord scrambled to his feet, snatching up his own weapon, and they immediately began a furious battle. Kirra ignored them both. She had gone directly to the bed and began whispering something in the girl’s ear while she wrapped the top blanket around her shivering body. Outside, the singing went on undisturbed.

Donnal shouted something—Cammon couldn’t tell what—and Kirra reached up, knife in hand, to slash a hole in one side of the tent. Then she put her arms around the sobbing girl and both of them melted into much smaller shapes. Cammon could barely see them on the rumpled bed.

On the instant, Donnal shifted again, transformed himself into the deadliest of all creatures, a red raelynx. Now Rayson Fortunalt showed true horror, but not for long. Three swipes of those huge, ferocious paws, and the marlord was turned into strips of bloody flesh quivering on the floor.

Outside the tent, the singing had stopped. Maybe someone had seen Kirra’s knife cutting an escape route through the canvas; maybe someone had heard Rayson’s shrieks of agony. A voice called, “Marlord?” at the tent flap, and then the door was ripped open. Three men pushed through, blades drawn.

“Rayson!” one of them shouted, and they all surged forward.

Donnal had already blurred and reformed into the shape of a feathered owl. He swooped across the bed, snatched up the tiny creatures huddled there, and dove through the fresh rip in the side of the tent. In seconds he was free, winging his way silently back to camp, carrying a most precious cargo.

Cammon took a deep breath and felt the vision fall away from him. Abruptly, he was back before the campfire, aware of the tense regard of his three companions. “They’re on their way back,” he said, and realized those were the first words he’d spoken since Kirra and Donnal breached the tent.

“What happened? Is Rayson dead?” Senneth asked fearfully. “Are they safe?”

Cammon nodded. “He’s dead, they’re unharmed. But they’re bringing a passenger.”

That caught them all by surprise. “What does that mean?” Senneth said.

Cammon felt himself almost smile. “Kirra had to rescue the girl in the tent, of course. Justin, I think you’d better go wake Ellynor, for the girl is in pretty bad shape.”

Justin was already on his feet. He said, “And that’s how you bring yourself to kill an unarmed man.”

K
IERNAN
was hoping for a surrender flag, he told them at dawn, as their own troops were stirring and they prepared themselves for the day. They were all in Amalie’s tent, both exhausted and elated, having listened to Kirra’s somewhat edited account of the night’s slaughter and trying to guess how it changed the fortunes of war. Even Ariane Rappengrass and Mayva Nocklyn had been invited in to hear the news. Cammon was yawning through the meeting, since he had returned to bed quite late. He had woken Amalie to tell her the story, but the others hadn’t learned it till now.

Romar said, “I don’t know if we can count on surrender, but at the very least I would expect some of the foot soldiers to run. Rayson and Halchon dead! They will be thinking about what they have given up to fight for their marlords. They will be thinking about their families back home, undefended now. They will desert in droves if they believe the war cannot be won.”

“I would let those common men go,” Amalie said in her soft voice.

“Amalie, they’re traitors to the throne,” her uncle said. “Not to be trusted.”

She shook her head. “Conscripted by their lords. Ambitious, maybe, and hopeful of reward, but peaceful enough men in the general run of things. Let them escape under cover of night. We won’t chase them down.”

Kiernan shrugged. “But any Thirteenth House noble who threw in his lot with the traitors deserves either a quick death on the battlefield or imprisonment in Ghosenhall,” he said. “You want the common men to go free—very well. I disagree, but I will back you. But the nobles should be punished. They could have more easily supported you than betrayed you.”

“And there will be the matter of Gisseltess and Fortunalt,” Ariane said. “How shall we keep their heirs in check? Shall we assign advisors to Halchon’s sons and Rayson’s daughter?”

“Don’t savor your victory before the enemy has laid down his arms,” Tayse warned.

Kiernan turned his gaze on the Rider. “There is no one left to urge them to fight,” he said somewhat impatiently. “Nothing left to fight for.”

Senneth spoke up. “The foreign mercenaries are still being paid,” she pointed out. “But as for our homegrown rebels, don’t forget that some of these soldiers rode to war with no hope of political gain or riches.”

Tayse nodded at her. “Men will fight for faith sometimes harder than they will fight for a king.”

Senneth was watching Amalie. “And who knows what stories have started to circulate about the princess?” she said. “If any of our own soldiers were spies and have run back to tell tales—well, clearly Amalie has some odd powers. Coralinda could have capitalized on that. ‘Look, your princess has a strange kind of magic! This woman will sit on the throne unless you fight her to the death!’ A fanatic is always more dangerous than a mercenary.”

“Then let’s go slipping into the camp tonight and slit Coralinda’s throat,” Ariane said. She sounded serious. “Anything to be done with this!”

“Magic won’t serve us this time,” Senneth said regretfully. “I don’t think even Donnal could get close to her undetected. Too many moonstones.”

“Well, I have some archers who are very good,” Ariane said. “I will have them train their arrows on her.”

“In any case, we still have a fight on our hands,” Kiernan said.

That, unfortunately, proved to be true.

Cammon could sense a renewed sense of purpose emanating from the upstart Gillengaria men during the day’s long and ferocious fighting. Coralinda must have whipped the soldiers to a frenzy that morning as she sent them off to war.
Another of your marlords felled by magic! Are you not afraid of a princess who commands power like that?

Cammon shivered a little. Perhaps it was even more frightening. Perhaps she didn’t even need words. Perhaps her own magic was so powerful she could inspire men to fight,
force
them to fight, enflame them with a battle lust they could neither resist nor comprehend.

If so, they were in for a long and grueling war.

“This has been our deadliest day so far,” Kiernan said heavily that night as they all convened in Amalie’s tent. “Coralinda is proving to be a better general than her brother, even—or at least a more reckless one, with more power to sway her troops.”

“And yet, as far as I know, she does not want the throne,” Romar said thoughtfully. “Maybe there is something else we can offer her. Would she be open to a parley, do you think?”

Cammon almost laughed when “No” came from so many people all at once—Senneth, Tayse, Kirra, and Ariane. He suspected that if Ellynor had been in the tent, she would have repeated the negative in an even more heartfelt voice. Coralinda was not the kind of woman who negotiated. She was used to having everything her own way—and she had no qualms about destroying anyone who opposed her.

“Then what do we do?” the regent demanded.

Kiernan stood up, resettling his weapons belt around his waist. “We fight again tomorrow.”

A
S
it turned out, Romar Brendyn had not been so far off in his suggestion. For the very next day, Coralinda
did
come to the royal camp, looking for a way to end the war.

It was mid-afternoon. Cammon had escorted Amalie to the hospital tents, where wounded men were being brought in by the dozens, so fierce was the day’s fighting. Valri, Ellynor, and Kirra traveled slowly between the pallets, kneeling beside each fallen soldier, laying their hands on the flushed cheeks, the gouged rib cages. Four of the Carrebos mystics could also be glimpsed moving inside the tents or kneeling beside the hurt soldiers.

Another woman, a stranger, paced between the beds and paused at each one to bend down, touch her fingers to a man’s face, and move on without speaking.

“Who’s that?” Amalie asked. “She hasn’t been here before.”

Ellynor, who was close enough to hear, stepped over to answer. Her dark hair was plaited into a long braid down her back; the bright dye of the clan pattern showed through in random snatches. “I don’t know her,” Ellynor replied, “but she was here this morning when I arrived. I think she was here all night.”

“Is she a mystic?” Amalie asked.

Ellynor nodded. “Oh, yes. But she has a kind of skill I’ve never seen before—very different from mine and Kirra’s. It’s like she places her hand on a man’s body and his cuts instantly start to heal over. They brought a man here this morning—his head was practically severed, and I know they just brought him here to die. She put both her hands around his throat and it was like the flesh just knit itself back together. We were all gaping. A few hours later, he was sitting up and drinking water.”

“What’s her name?” Amalie asked.

“I asked. She didn’t answer.”

But Cammon knew. He was watching the placid, thick-limbed, brown-haired woman make her way slowly down the avenues of fallen soldiers, her face so expressionless as to seem entirely indifferent. “Lara,” he said.

Amalie glanced at him quickly. “You know her?”

“Met her once last year. She has a strange kind of magic, all right—very powerful. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before, either.”

Amalie gathered up her skirts. “Well, then, I’m glad she’s here tending
our
soldiers. I’m going to thank her.”

“I don’t know if she’ll actually hear you,” Ellynor warned. “She seemed very distant. Almost not present.”

“I understand,” Amalie said. “I will thank her anyway. It would be rude not to.”

Soon enough, Amalie and Ellynor were back among the soldiers. Cammon loitered nearby uncertainly, ready to run errands if necessary, ready to relay information if any came. Sensing the grimness in both Tayse and Justin, he could tell this day’s battle was not going well. Once again, the rebels were flinging themselves into combat with zeal and abandon.

Cammon glanced at the sky. The half moon was already out, more proof that the days were rushing by. They had been engaged in war a week and a half already; how much longer would they have to endure?

He turned his eyes back toward the battlefield, as if from this distance he could actually see the swipe and clash of blades, and instead he saw Coralinda Gisseltess.

She was standing a few yards away from him, a short, stocky figure dressed in black and silver. Her form was insubstantial enough that Cammon knew it wasn’t her true body. He had never heard of someone sending her spirit walking through the world, but obviously such a thing was possible—and Coralinda had mastered the trick. He could see the solid shapes of tent poles and supply wagons through the shimmering outline of her body. She was not strictly corporeal, but she was definitely there.

On her square face she wore a frown. She swept her gaze around her, seeming to dismiss everything she encountered, and pivoted slowly on her heel. She lifted one hand and tapped a finger to her mouth, as if considering.

Cammon glanced back at the tents, but Amalie and Kirra were out of sight. No one else was close enough to call.

He pressed his lips together, then strode over to the apparition, which had already moved a few paces on.

Cammon planted himself in her path. “Looking for somebody?” he asked.

By the way she jerked upright to stare at him, he could tell she was startled. Her face showed no alarm, however, merely narrowed to a look of calculation. “You can see me?” she replied.

He nodded. “I’m probably the only one who can.”

She sneered. “A boy with mystical ability, no doubt.”

He almost laughed at her. “You have mystical powers of your own, it seems.”

“No,” she said sharply. “The Pale Mother has lavished gifts upon me, but they are not magic. Magic is an abomination.”

“All magic flows from the gods, even yours,” he replied. “It is all sacred.”

Her face showed revulsion, and she waved a hand as if to brush away his words. “The Pale Mother reviles creatures such as you,” she declared. “You and all your sorcerous friends.”

“And is that what you have come here for,” he asked, “to look for mystics?”

“Do you know who I am?” she demanded.

“Coralinda Gisseltess. You call yourself the Lestra of Lumanen Convent.”

“I have come here to offer a bargain.”

A chance for a parley, after all? “I can summon Romar Brendyn,” he offered.

“No,” was the instant reply. “He means nothing to me. The goddess disregards him.”

“You want Senneth,” he said slowly.

Majestically, Coralinda nodded her translucent head. “Senneth Brassenthwaite,” she repeated. “Yes. She’s the one to whom I would make my offer.”

Sen. I need you,
he sent the message out at that instant. Blessedly, she was not far, having left the battlefield for a brief respite. He knew she would receive nothing more than a vague but powerful sense of urgency that would nonetheless send her instantly running in his direction. But it took only a few seconds to send a second summons, distinctly worded in language that would be understood.

Amalie. Get Kirra. Come find me. I’m near the tents on the north side of camp.

Casually, as if he had not just called for reinforcements, he said, “And what offer would you make to her?”

She studied him, seeming to debate whether or not he was worthy of hearing her confidences. “A way to end this war quickly and decisively, taking on a single opponent.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

There was no sound, but he could feel Amalie and Kirra hurrying up behind him. From Kirra, he felt only bewilderment, but Amalie registered a sense of shock. So she, too, could perceive the spectral visitor.
Don’t come any closer,
he told her.
I don’t want her to see you.

“A duel of sorts,” the Lestra replied. “Between Senneth—and me.”

He reared back at her words. “How would that work? She would try to scald you with flame while you tried to keep from catching on fire?”

“Simpler than that,” Coralinda Gisseltess said. “We would merely try to destroy each other.”

He heard running footsteps and knew that Senneth was almost upon them. “I don’t understand.”

Coralinda turned her head; apparently she had heard Senneth’s rapid approach as well. “Tell her I will meet her tomorrow at moonrise,” she said, and disappeared.

Cammon heard Amalie’s cry of wonder, Kirra’s quick questions, and the sound of Senneth’s voice, all coming at once. They had enveloped him in a small feminine circle before he could even turn around to seek them out.

“Cammon!” Amalie exclaimed. “How did she get here? What did she want?”

“Who? What? What in silver hell is going on?” Kirra exploded. “Senneth, why are you here?”

Senneth was still breathless from her race through camp. “Cammon called me. I don’t know why. Amalie’s not in danger?”

“I’m fine,” Amalie said. “Coralinda Gisseltess was here.”

That caused all sorts of commotion, and Cammon had to raise both hands to silence the others. “It wasn’t really her,” he explained. “It was her ghost or something. I think her body was back in her own camp, and she was just here looking around.”

“I couldn’t see her,” Senneth said.

“No, neither could I,” Kirra replied. “But Amalie could.”

Amalie nodded. “Very distinctly.”

“That’s not entirely surprising,” Senneth said, “if Amalie has the same kind of magic as Coralinda.”

“I’ll have to try to learn such a skill,” Amalie remarked. “It seems most useful.”

“She says she doesn’t have magic,” Cammon said.

Senneth smiled grimly. “Let her call it what she will, it’s magic. I’m just surprised she hasn’t used this particular talent before.”

“She has,” Cammon said. “I’ve seen her here a few times before. Just glimpses. Never to talk to.”

He saw the look Kirra exchanged with Senneth, but Senneth didn’t take time to laugh. “What did she want?” Senneth said. “This time?”

“To duel with you.”

There was a moment’s silence.