Shadow's End (Light & Shadow) (8 page)

“And then what?” I looked at her. “I promise you, you don’t want to do that. You don’t want that on your conscience.”

“I want you to be free,” Miriel said stubbornly, and I sighed.

“Let’s see if we can manage that without you killing anyone.”

When we finally crawled into makeshift beds by the kitchen fire, too exhausted to be frightened any longer, I gave myself up to sleep gladly.
I wanted to sleep before the memories returned, before the horror of what I had done set in. But that night, as I had hoped against hope they would not, the dreams returned.

My mother, for the first time in my memory, did not look frightened. She was not a woman close to death, speaking with the voice of the Gods. She looked like a mother, indeed, weary, but offering comfort. She patted the edge of the bed and I came to sit, hesitantly, fearing what she might say. I smiled when she did, but there was pity in her eyes, and she reached out to touch my cheek. I was looking into her eyes, as grey as my own, like winter storm clouds, when she said,

“I would have spared you this. But you will not need to fear for much longer, my daughter. It will be done with soon.”

Chapter 8

We made ready to march in three days. On the face of it, it was an insane proposition, but one to which we grimly devoted ourselves. Any small comfort the men might take with them was put aside; there was no time to pack anything beyond what was absolutely necessary, no time to organize a great wagon train to carry supplies. The plain facts were that our chances of stopping the Ismiri army were laughably small, and they grew smaller each day.

I worked myself to the bone, falling into bed so exhausted that I woke just as I had gone to bed, and remembered nothing of the night before
save winter winds and the echoes of my mother’s voice. I worked half in hope that Miriel might be right, and that this final charge might end the betrayals I faced, and half in despair, sure that nothing I might do might free me from this fate. I had thought, once, that perhaps Miriel was right, but that the betrayals would be ended by my own death—and I had prayed that my death came not as a dagger between the ribs, or poison in my food, but instead as a fair fight. When I realized that that was my prayer, and not that I survive, I had escaped into the darkest of the Merchant’s wine cellars, hidden behind one of the great casks of wine, and sobbed so hard that I thought my throat might bleed.

I had never told Miriel of these thoughts, but I sometimes saw her watching me, and I thought that she suspected. She was kind to me, stopping the sharp retorts that came so easily to her lips. She was careful to make sure that I ate; she brought me food herself, and I noticed that she stayed until I had eaten it. Even as she herself grew pale, and the skin under her eyes became darker and darker with fatigue, she looked after me, and I had no words to thank her for it. If I acknowledged it, I acknowledged the fear that lay, always, at the back of my mind.

That fear was easy enough to forget when I could keep my mind focused on the march, on the strain of the men, on the fear of the invasion. As we outfitted men and prepared rations, we all kept an ear cocked for the sound of a galloping horse, we all cast an eye to the road to see the telltale cloud of dust. We received new reports of the Ismiri army every day, the network of spies sending information whenever they had it. There was always a messenger taking his rest and a meal, it seemed, ready to take a horse and ride back to the capital for more news.

The news was
only ever grim. The King had been warned by one hard-riding scout, but by the time that man had seen the Ismiri army, they had been leagues into Heddred. Now they were traveling as if the hounds of hell were at their heels, and each day the news trickled in: first they were close to Castle Derrion, the DeVere family seat, and then past it. When our own scout had seen them, they had cut north, making for the road that would lead them to Penekket—and that had been two weeks ago.

Late in the evening before we were to march, a small group of us clustered around the Merchant’s great map, studying the markers that showed the army’s progress. I, who had spent more time with the men than the commanders of our group, was frowning at the map and wishing that I had paid more attention in my history lessons.

“We’re planning to sweep south around Penekket, and approach them from the marshes,” the Merchant said. There were shadows under his eyes, and new lines around his mouth. As Miriel had predicted, he had grieved heavily for Aron, the servant he had trusted for years. To my surprise, he had channeled his grief and his pain into activity, sending for supplies to be sent to our forces as they marched, paying for all the weapons and food he could lay his hands on. He was outfitting the army as if he had no need of a fine house or rich furnishings, and I rather thought that the man did not expect to return home. He reminded me of an animal who knows that its time has come, who will disappear into the wilderness without a goodbye.

“What’s that?” I pointed to a strange trail behind the main front.

“The foot soldiers,” Jeram said. “It’s only a guess, but at the speed they’re driving the horses, the men won’t be able to keep up. The last scout reported that the army stretches farther than it should.”

“What purpose does that serve?”

“None,” Miriel said. She was smiling. “Kasimir is driving them so hard that they’ll be exhausted when they reach the city.”

“But why?”

“Ah, that I don’t know.” She tapped her mouth with one finger. “At this rate, the men will have to stop and rest before they make their final approach on Penekket. But you saw him at the village—he’s not subtle, and he’s not patient. And that’s an advantage to us.” The men exchanged one look. They forgot sometimes that we had been at Court, that we had spent time with royalty; first they had forgotten that I had done so, an easy enough task, but then, gradually, they had even forgotten that dainty, perfectly elegant Miriel had been a noble lady of the Court. When we reminded them, the men tended to be overawed and uncomfortable.

“Why doesn’t Dusan put a stop to it?” I tried to remember Dusan as he had been at the Meeting of the Peacemakers: older, now, in the twilight of his years, but still sharp-eyed, clear-minded. And weary of war. Willing to take a chance on an untried boy, for the possibility of a lasting peace. I could hardly believe that he would hold with Kasimir’s invasion plans, and most of all with this relentless march.

“We’re beginning to think Dusan isn’t there at all,” Miriel said, biting her lip as she looked at the map. She cast me one look, meaningful, and I gaped back at her. I knew from her sardonic smile that there was more to this than Dusan’s absence.

“You think…” I could not even put it into words. Treachery in one court—why not both? And yet, we had heard nothing. If Dusan were dead, surely we would know. The world, for a moment, seemed vast and terrible, frightening. At my silence, the Merchant spoke.

“No statement has been made,” he observed. “There has been no declaration of war. Dusan is of the old line of Kings, very formal. He’s honorable to a fault, that man. Whatever the advantage, he would never have moved without first trying negotiations.”

“We don’t know that.” Jeram raised his eyebrows at my dour mutter, and the Merchant fell silent. Miriel gave me an exasperated look. “I apologize,” I muttered.

“Catwin is…overcautious,” Miriel said sweetly, laying her hand on the Merchant’s arm. She looked over at me. “I think our host is correct,” she said firmly to me. “If Dusan were betraying us, I think he would believe strongly enough to lead his own army. It is considered a duty of a King, he would hold to that. And…” Her eyes got a faraway look. “Even if he wanted to conquer us, he’s a cautious man. He’d rather a surrender than a battle. He’s practical. He’d have sent assassins rather than an army.”

“He sent his assassins first,” Jeram objected, and Miriel and I exchanged a quick look. We had never spoken of Garad’s death with these men, being more concerned with the present King and his army, and s
o we had never voiced our doubts about the assassins’ origins. Neither had we shared that Aron carried the twin blade to that held by the commander of Garad’s killers. We had simply accepted, the two of us, as we always did, that things were likely not as they seemed. There were plots, so many and so confused that we might never know who had caused Garad’s death; of all things, we were the surest that Kasimir, the one implicated, was the least likely to be guilty. Clearly, however, the citizens of Heddred had had no such doubts.

Jeram and the Merchant saw the look that passed between me and Miriel, and misinterpreted it. “You think it was the Conradines!” Jeram said eagerly. Miriel flushed, and this time it was I who shot her a quelling glance. I responded myself, to keep her from speaking.

“The King’s father, perhaps, might have done such a thing. We’ve come to doubt that it was the Ismiri, though we have no accusations in mind.” Indeed, we worked very hard to keep such accusations out of our thoughts. Neither of us wanted to wonder, and neither of us wanted to know.

“Why do you doubt?” The Merchant was more measured than Jeram. “Sit, tell us.” He saw my hesitation. “If we are going to where the King is, it is only right that we should know where enemies and traitors might wait.” I nodded, and we sat, all of us leaning together as I outlined my suspicions.

“Kasimir first.” I held up one finger. “The men carried orders, supposedly signed by Kasimir. But why would he be so foolish? I thought it was possible that he might try to tempt us to invade. Eight wars, in our history, and never has the invading country won. If he could have tempted us to come over the mountains…but now we see that was not his plan. Not only that, he’s exhausting his men. It’s a poor plan, unless he has some trick up his sleeve. And even more—who would choose the Warlords for an enemy, when they could have had Guy de la Marque instead? He’s a commander, surely, but not as skilled as the Duke, not as skilled as Gerald Conradine.” The Merchant and Jeram were both nodding, thoughtfully.

“And Dusan,” I said. “He’s smart, like Miriel said. He’s practical. Why would he go to the trouble of sending men and infiltrating the palace, only to kill Garad and no one else? Yes, the men were ambushed, but he would have planned for that, I think. He would have sent a man, or a group, for any living person who could claim Warden or Conradine blood. If he wanted to invade, he would want the country in disarray—he would not have left any clear heirs.” Let alone two, who could marry and thus make the lineage o
f House Warden whole once more—but I would not say that in front of Miriel.

“So that leaves the Conradines,” Jeram insisted. “Who else stood to benefit?” I saw Miriel’s head rise, as both of us stared at Jeram and the Merchant. In their eyes, we saw only incomprehension, and honest confusion.
I felt myself let out a slow breath, relieved. Even as I had known that the men of the rebellion had no knowledge of Jacces, I had still doubted—all the more so since Aron’s attempt at murder.

But, as they had not known of Aron’s treachery, it seemed that these men, also, did not know anything of Garad’s murder. I felt the slow creep of wonder. Was it all from the rebellion, or was it someone else entirely: Gerald Conradine, Isra Dulgurokov, Guy de la Marque? But the men were waiting for an answer, and I had no heart to sow doubt.
I knew without looking that Miriel felt the same.

“Who can say?” she asked lightly, after a pause. “In the Court, grudges span centuries.
And it’s not always that—they fight for scraps. I can think of a dozen men who would kill, even kill their own kin, if they believed it would bring them closer to the throne.” The Merchant was not convinced; his eyes flicked back and forth between me, and Miriel, but she was focused once more on the map, and I could meet his scrutiny with a practiced look of incomprehension.

“Well enough,” he said wearily, after a moment. “We should all get some rest. Jeram, you should have a chance to say goodbye to your family.” With a start, I remembered that Jeram had a wife, had children. I knew from watching him that he, as well as the Merchant, did not expect to return home again, and my heart twisted as I watched him leave
; at my side, Miriel also watched him go, as if she were forcing herself to see this. Her hands were clenched, her back rigid, and she watched the door long after he had left. It was only at my tentative touch on her arm that she shook herself and bid the Merchant goodnight, starting up the stairs to bed and leaving him staring into the fire.

“Do you really think that Kasim
ir led a coup?” I asked Miriel as we walked. “Or did he just take the army and go?” Miriel was silent, thinking, as we climbed the Merchant’s great marble staircase. She held her skirts up, daintily, and the pretty turn of her feet made me wonder if she would ever forget what it was to be a court lady.

“We really don’t know,” she said at last. “I’ll be glad, at least, to know what information the army has.” As we padded down the rich carpets of the hallway, she asked, tentatively, “Are you scared?”

I looked over at her, confused. I had faced down assassins, the Duke, the enmity of a dozen nobles with deep pockets and no conscience. Unlike the men who marched with us tomorrow, Miriel and I would not be harrying supply lines, or going up against the Ismiri horsemen. We would not see the armies charge. We would be with the Court, trying to persuade Wilhelm to sign Miriel’s treaty. It meant lies, it meant sneaking about—but that had been my life, for years. That fear was nothing. When she saw my confusion, Miriel’s face changed; there was pity in her eyes.

“To see Temar,” she said, almost gently. “Are you scared to see Temar again?” It was the first time I had ever heard her say his name without anger, but I hardly noticed. The bottom had dropped out of my stomach when she spoke.

Temar. I had kept him so far from my mind in the past days that I had not even admitted to myself that I was afraid to think of him. When I woke in the mornings, I had enough tasks to lose myself in, that it was easy to forget the dreams of the past night. I did not think of him in my free moments because there were none—there was always another man to outfit, a problem with the supply lines, horses to be shod and plans to be conveyed. I had contrived to forget where it was that Miriel and I would be going: to the court, to face everyone we had left.

And Miriel had been right to ask, because I was scared. I was terrified at the thought of coming face to face with any of them again, and most of all Him. How could a man with whom I shared such an easy friendship, tell me outright that he would kill me if I stood in his way? And how could I believe
that I would do the same to him? For I knew, now, that I would do so, and so I held no real grudge. I had not told Miriel, knowing that she would not understand; sometimes, I did not even understand it myself. Temar and I had lied to each other, hidden things from each other, fought each other, and yet we understood. We knew why.