The Saints of the Sword (49 page)

“It is worse now,” said Barnabin. “Talistan’s soldiers have been drilling near the border. They continue to harass
Redburn. So far there has been no fighting, but rumors are growing, my lord. I have heard that Redburn is getting angry.”

“Is he making ready to fight?”

“I cannot say for certain. But Prince Redburn is a man of peace. He will not fight unless he must. I don’t think he understands why Talistan is harassing him.”

“He doesn’t suspect an invasion?”

The Highlander shrugged. “Truly, I do not know. Redburn is a bright man, but politics is not his specialty. He probably doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

“But Gayle is provoking him. Surely he can see that.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt he knows why.” Barnabin leaned forward, speaking in a whisper. “You will have difficulty convincing him to join you, Lord Emperor. Prince Redburn wants no quarrel with Talistan. They are too strong for him, and he knows it. He will not let them provoke a war, not if he can avoid it.”

Biagio sat back in his chair contemplating the news over his steaming teacup. As he’d suspected, Tassis Gayle was trying to push the Highlanders into a war—giving Gayle the perfect excuse to roll his troops into the Highlands. Somehow, Biagio needed to prove that to Redburn.

“There’s been no real fighting, is that right? No bloodshed at all?”

“None that I know of,” said Barnabin. “Some arguing back and forth, some disputes over land, but that’s all. Petty things, but the Talistanian troops near the border are making Redburn nervous. I know, because I hear things. We Highlanders are all afraid, my lord.”

“Then I will use that fear on Redburn. I will make him see the truth.” Biagio set down his cup and sighed. “I don’t know very much about Prince Redburn. Tell me about him. What sort of man is he?”

“Very young. A scrapper. They call him the Red Stag.”

“Red Stag?”

Barnabin ran a hand over his scalp. “His hair; it’s red, like mine. And he commands the latapi.”

“Exactly what is a latapi?”

“The elk,” Barnabin explained. “That’s what they are called in Redburn’s territory.”

“Ah, yes, the elk.” Biagio already knew about the armored elk of the Highlands. Redburn’s clan rode them instead of horses, an arrangement Biagio always thought comical. “The elk are sacred here, yes?”

“To some, my lord. To Redburn and his kin, especially. You’ll see the latapi when we get closer.”

“How far are we from the prince?”

“Redburn lives in Elkhorn Castle, a two-day ride from here. Can you ride a horse, Lord Emperor?”

“I am fully trained in the martial disciplines, Barnabin. I may not look like a fighter, but I can ride as well as anyone and handle a saber, too. Do not fret over me. Just get me to Redburn.”

“I will. I swear it.”

“Fine.” The emperor closed his eyes. “We will leave the day after tomorrow. I am too tired to leave any sooner. Tomorrow you will purchase horses for us and supplies for the trip. I will give you money to buy what we need. Now, please leave me, Barnabin. I need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”

The informant left the room quickly, bidding the emperor a courteous good-night. Biagio listened to the sound of his boots trailing away down the hall. It was just past midnight and Mistress Estrella’s little inn was as silent as a tomb. For Biagio, the place was a blessing. Soon he would set off on the last leg of his journey. He would try and convince a prince that hated Naren lords to go to war with Talistan. Wearily, he picked up another of the biscuits and popped it into his mouth, savoring its delicate taste. In two days he would be a filthy traveller again, but until then he would rest and relish the inn’s simple hospitality.

“Thank you, Mistress Estrella,” he sighed, “for making this boorish journey a bit more civilized.”

W
ind blew through the canyon, threatening a spring storm. Alazrian looked into the sky and counted the rain clouds. A thunderhead was rolling in from the west, thick and black, battling the sun for dominance. Already shadows were growing on the mountains. Flier, Alazrian’s horse, snorted disdainfully.

Jahl Rob slowed his mount to a trot. He glanced around at the rugged hills surrounding them. They were brown and ugly, and deathly quiet. This was Tatterak, Lucel-Lor’s northern territory, and the earth here was hostile and unyielding, broken only by mountains and spotty patches of twisted trees. Few rivers cut through the hills and only a handful of villages clung to the mountainsides, scraping out an existence. It was an unforgiving land, and its roads were a nightmare to travel, gutted with holes and sometimes narrowing down to snaking trails. The terrain had slowed the duo’s progress, and now the weather was threatening to join the conspiracy.

Alazrian unhooked his water skin from his belt and took a sip. For five days they had travelled, and only now were they entering Tatterak. They had left behind Ackle-Nye and Falger’s hospitality, having filled their stomachs and saddlebags with food, and had followed the map Falger had drawn for them. According to Alazrian’s calculations,
this canyon was a gateway to Tatterak. And Tatterak was the gateway to Falindar. Soon they would come upon a village. There would be water, and news—and if its Triin inhabitants welcomed them, there might even be shelter. But there was no way they would reach the village before the rain came.

“Should we stop now?” Alazrian asked. “Make camp before the storm?”

Jahl Rob shook his head. “It’s a long way to Falindar yet. Maybe the storm will pass us by.”

Alazrian gauged the wind. “I don’t think so, Jahl.”

“We’ll go on,” said the priest. “A bit more, anyway. How much farther to that village?”

“I’ve checked the map. It’s miles yet. We’ll never make it.”

“Let’s try, at least. If it rains we’ll find shelter.”

Alazrian agreed, urging Flier alongside Jahl’s horse. Jahl Rob was anxious to reach Falindar, and didn’t seem to care about the warlord that Falger had warned them about. He was driven, and Alazrian knew it was his reunion with Richius Vantran that spurred him on.

“What will you do when you meet the Jackal?” asked Alazrian.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Just curious. You’re very keen to reach him, aren’t you? I’ve noticed that.”

“Maybe I am.”

“So? What will you say to him?”

“You’re very nosy.”

“And you’re very slippery.” Alazrian grinned. “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

Jahl Rob turned his face away. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. All right?”

“But you’re angry with him, aren’t you? Is that why you agreed to come with me? To tell him that?”

“So now you’re a mind reader as well as an empath? I thought you had to touch someone to know what they were thinking.”

“Not always. You’re easy to read, Jahl. For a priest you’re not very forgiving.”

Jahl fixed Alazrian with a furious glare. “Do me a favor, boy. Get out of my mind. I don’t like your parlor tricks.”

Alazrian drew back. “I’m sorry, Jahl, I—”

“You have no idea how angry I am at Vantran. So just don’t try. And don’t make me explain it to you, because I won’t, understand?”

“Yes,” said Alazrian softly. “I’m sorry.”

The priest rode ahead of Alazrian from then on, not acknowledging him as he kept his careful pace through the canyon. His feelings wounded, Alazrian waited a long time before speaking again, giving Jahl time to cool off. He still liked the priest, and was determined to crumble the wall separating them, brick by brick if necessary. So he trotted up beside the priest again, this time trading his mischievous smile for a genuine one.

“We’re making good time,” he observed. “Maybe we will reach the village before it rains.”

Jahl Rob had let go of his anger. He looked to the west where the thunderhead was growing and said, “Hmm, I don’t think so, but we’ll try. I don’t like the idea of camping in this canyon. There’ll be animals here, no doubt. Falger told us about those snow leopards.”

“I have my dagger,” said Alazrian. “And you have your arrows.”

“Neither of which will help us much if we’re sleeping. Besides, I’m not
that
good with a bow. You know how fast a leopard is? It’d be on us before I could draw from my quiver.” Then he laughed, adding, “But I appreciate your confidence, boy.”

“I saw you in the Iron Mountains, when you were fighting Shinn, remember? You’re as good as he is, I’ll bet.”

“Not hardly. That bastard’s an expert with a bow. Compared to him I’m just an amateur. I practice, though. It’s a handy habit to have these days, even for a priest.”

“Can you teach me?” asked Alazrian. “I’d like to learn. I’ve never shot a bow before.” His expression soured. “Elrad Leth wouldn’t let me. He used to say I was too weak to pull back the string.”

“Elrad Leth is going straight to hell. I wouldn’t believe anything he tells you.”

“I think I would be good with a bow,” said Alazrian. “I have long fingers, like the Triin. And the Triin are supposed to be great archers.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“So you’ll teach me?”

“Not right now.”

“No, not now. But maybe when we reach Falindar? We’ll have some time then.”

When Rob didn’t answer, Alazrian pressed him.

“What do you think, Jahl?”

“Yes, all right. Maybe. If we have time.”

Alazrian beamed. “That would be great.” He ran a hand over his brow, wiping away the sweat. Despite the breeze and cloud cover, he was warm from riding. Jahl Rob had a slick of perspiration, too. Again Alazrian took up his water skin. “I’m thirsty,” he said.

“Me too,” said Jahl. “It’s all these dusty roads.”

Alazrian took a pull from his water skin, then offered it to Jahl. “Here.”

Rob turned, noticed the offered skin, and blanched. His eyes darted down to the mouthpiece, which had just come from Alazrian’s lips. “Uh, no thank you.”

“Aren’t you thirsty?”

“We should conserve water,” said Rob awkwardly.

“Jahl, it’s about to start raining any moment. Take a drink.”

“I said no,” snapped the priest, then turned and rode ahead.

Alazrian sat in his saddle, stunned. He watched Jahl Rob ride off, and after a moment of confusion realized what had happened. Dejectedly he put away his water skin. Now it was contaminated. The superstitious priest could never drink from it.

“Wouldn’t want any of my unholy magic, would you, Jahl?” muttered Alazrian under his breath.

Alazrian sat in contemplative silence brooding over the fire and listening to the sounds of thunder rolling through the hills. Outside the rain was slanting down, sheeting from
the clouds in a rushing torrent. It had only taken a few minutes for the storm to reach them, and they had hurried for the shelter of one of the many caves, narrowly escaping the worst of the rain. Jahl Rob had built a fire and taken care of the horses, hitching them near the mouth of the cave, which was cramped and quickly filling with smoke. The priest had sensed Alazrian’s anger and so waited near the maw contemplating the storm and not speaking.

Alazrian held a stick into the fire, watching the tip burn away. His feelings were hurt worse than he wanted to admit, but Jahl didn’t seem to care. Not only didn’t he want to share a water skin with Alazrian, but now he didn’t want to share the fire. A clap of thunder shook the cave, rattling its roof. Two quick blades of lightning followed fast after it, silently stabbing through the distance. Alazrian peered past Jahl’s unmoving body and saw that the afternoon had darkened, wrapped in a cloak of storm clouds, and the wind made the priest’s hair dance. They had barely said a word to each other since coming to the shelter, and the wall between them was suddenly higher than ever. The feeling of isolation made Alazrian shiver.

When the rain didn’t slacken, Jahl Rob finally returned to warm himself by the flames. He put his hands up to the embers as though nothing was wrong.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Alazrian shook his head.

“Well, we might as well eat something, make use of this rest. Soon as the rain clears we can be on our way again.”

“So eat,” said Alazrian. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

Jahl glanced over to his packs. They were still filled with the provisions Falger and his people had provided, enough to last them until Falindar. But Jahl didn’t go to his bags or even seem interested in food. Instead he sat down across from Alazrian, letting a sheepish smile cross his face. Alazrian stole a glance at him through the flames.

“Not much farther ’til that village,” said Jahl. “If this rain stops, we’ll be there soon. Maybe buy our way into a couple of soft beds. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure, that would be real nice. Maybe we can get separate rooms this time, too.”

Jahl looked stung by the barb. He shifted where he sat, glancing down at his hands. A terrible silence ensued. Then, finally, Jahl spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No?” said Alazrian bitterly. “Sure seemed like you did.”

“Your magic makes me uncomfortable, boy. I’m just a little afraid of it, that’s all.” Through the fire Alazrian saw Jahl try to smile. “I’m a priest, remember. Magic is unholy.”

“That makes me feel much better. Thanks.”

Jahl sat up. “You know what I mean. You were raised in Talistan, after all. You were part of the church once. The holy books tell us sorcery is evil.”

“Is that what you think I am? A sorcerer?”

“I don’t know what you are. All I know is the word of God. And breaking bread with magicians is wrong.” Jahl shrugged. “You’ve been cursed by bad fortune, boy. It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you for it.”

The words did nothing to comfort Alazrian. Angrily, he poked his stick into the fire. His mother had been right—he shouldn’t have revealed his powers to anyone, not even to a priest.

“Lord,” he sighed. “I’m so tired of keeping secrets. I’m so tired of everyone shunning me, even people who don’t know what I am.” He tossed the stick into the flames and watched it ignite. He didn’t say what he really felt—that he was tired of being alone. For Alazrian, the world had been empty since his mother’s death.