The Queen of Mages (43 page)

When they reached the square, Amira became
aware of several groups of people. Most of them were clusters of
townsfolk, men and women she recognized, sparse along the edges of
the square. They milled uncertainly, whispering and muttering and
pointing at the soldiers who had come with the Wardens. The
soldiers were split into two groups, one on either side of Warden
Penrose, who stood in the middle of the square.

Amira’s heart skipped a beat when she
recognized Garen kneeling on the ground before Penrose, his hands
bound behind him and another soldier at his side, sword drawn.

“What is this?” she said. Warden Iris had
peeled away from her and now stood apart, looking uncomfortable. He
did not look at Penrose, or at any of the of townsfolk, who
muttered angrily. A number of them held tools that could easily
become weapons: shovels, hammers, kitchen knives, rolling pins.

“You will come with us to Callaston,”
Penrose shouted at her. “As will your friend here. King Edon has
commanded it, and I am in no mood to wait.”

Garen breathed heavily, looking terrified.
He might have figured out, as Amira had, that he could not use his
power to escape: setting off an explosion that would harm the
soldier at his side would likely hurt Garen just as badly.

Amira could kill the man without hurting
Garen—but Penrose was there, and a dozen other armed men within
easy reach. She wasn’t confident enough in her power to use it to
save Garen without triggering a bloodbath. The townsfolk did not
look as frightened of the soldiers as Amira thought they should
be.

“What do you want from us?” she cried, at a
loss. She couldn’t go with him, go to Edon, be near that monster
again.

Penrose smiled without mirth. “We will
travel in two parties. You will be with half my men in the front
group. The boy will travel with the rest of us in the rear. Far
enough apart that if one of you tries to use your power, the other
will certainly die.”

Grief and terror slipped their cold fingers
over her. Why hadn’t she stayed quiet? First Dardan was furious
with her, and now this, this utter disaster… She looked at Garen,
helpless there on the ground, with no conception of what the hard
men around him were capable of. It was her fault he was bound by
hand and bound for the capital, for whatever ignominy Edon planned
for them.

At least Penrose was not rushing her. He
wore his satisfaction openly, knowing he had her trapped. Amira
looked over at Mason Iris, but he would not meet her eyes, nor
would he likely raise a hand to help her, not against his brother
Warden and soldiers of the king’s army.

She had no choice. She prayed that someone
would tell Dardan what had happened, that he would follow her—but
then he might try something heroic and get himself killed. What use
could he be, alone against twenty men?

She could not think of it. She slumped a
little and began to speak. “I will—”

A
whoosh
and a gurgle. The soldier
next to Garen sprouted a red carnation from his throat. His sword
slipped into the dust and he fell sideways onto Garen, knocking the
lad half over.

Two more arrows sailed into the nearest
group of soldiers, whose training asserted itself in response: they
scattered, swiveling about to find their attackers. Amira glimpsed
something out of the corner of her eye—there, atop the inn! Three
men, wielding longbows, already drawing again. Amira gasped when
she recognized Hugh Hamm among them.

Garen shouted and struggled to rise, and his
bead raced out—there was an explosion near a group of the soldiers,
tossing dust and clods of dirt into the air—he’d used his power in
a panic, but missed. The men instinctively shied away from the
blast. Unfortunately, this sent a few of them directly into a
cluster of townsfolk, and somehow they got involved in the scuffle.
This drew belligerent shouts from
other
townsfolk, some of
whom began to advance on those soldiers. And then more soldiers
moved to intercept the townsfolk. Amira cried out; the bloodbath
was going to happen anyway.

“Garen, stop!” She started to run to him.
But Warden Penrose kept his head. He drew his sword and grabbed
Garen’s bound hands, yanking the young man the rest of the way to
his feet and dragging him off toward the wagon the king’s men had
brought with them. The man sitting on the driver’s seat was another
soldier, and looked eager to leave.

Amira found herself assaulted by a trio of
soldiers who stumbled out of the crowd. She reflexively flung her
bead at them, one-two-three, disabling them with clumsy strikes at
their legs. Their screams followed her as she ran after Garen and
Penrose.

The Warden had almost made it to the wagon.
Amira took a chance and flung her bead, but she missed by inches.
Instead of the Warden’s head popping like an overripe melon, a
chunk of wood on the edge of the wagon exploded into shards.
Penrose flinched away, pulling Garen into a tight grasp and raising
his sword to the boy’s throat.

“Try that again and we’ll see who survives,
witch,” Penrose growled. Amira was only a few yards away, but her
vision blurred and her pulse raced. She might hit Garen if she
tried to attack Penrose again; the Warden might still manage to
slit Garen’s throat even if she did hit him.

“Let him go!” she shouted. The sounds of
fighting and screaming punctuated the silence behind her, notes of
anguish in a dire symphony.

“Turn away and he’ll live,” Penrose said,
pulling his sword tighter. Garen’s eyes swiveled madly as he tried
to shy away from the blade.

A blade that came within a hair’s breadth of
ending his life, for Amira gasped when she saw who crept up behind
them, sword drawn. Her eyes went to him, too soon—Penrose noticed,
and began to turn—

Dardan’s sword clanged against Penrose’s
from behind, knocking it straight away from Garen’s throat. The
Count of Hedenham kicked Garen in the back, sending him face-first
into the dust, out of Penrose’s grasp. On the backstroke he dove in
toward Penrose, pushing him away with a flurry of slashing
steel.

Amira would have killed Penrose on the spot,
but now he moved erratically, and Dardan was in the way. So she
went to Garen instead. “Hold still!” she shouted at him, and
grabbed his hands. With supreme force of will she made herself wait
a moment to calm, and then used her ember to burn through the ropes
that bound him. Still she went too fast, and the heat made the skin
on both their hands turn red and begin to sting.

But Garen was free now, so she stood up
again to see where Dardan had gone, praying Penrose hadn’t gotten
the better of him. She saw Dardan climbing to his feet, holding his
sword arm with his other hand, blood welling between his fingers.
Penrose had somehow gotten mounted, and was already fifty yards
off. She threw her ember at him, but missed. In seconds he was too
far away for another attempt.

She ran to Dardan and shouted his name. He
turned, and his face came alight, and he embraced her, sweeping her
off the ground with his good arm and making the whole world fall
away for a precious few seconds.

Dardan had grown so used to the rural
tranquillity of Stony Vale that he was shocked to find a battle in
progress there. There were royal soldiers everywhere, that much was
evident, but they seemed to be outnumbered by swarms of townsfolk.
It looked as if the whole of Stony Vale had converged on the
square. And there was a Warden—no, two of them, but one seemed to
be keeping out of the fighting. The other one—was that Garen he was
holding? And there was Amira, facing them down! What in the black
spirits was going on?

When the dark-haired Warden put his sword to
Garen’s throat, Dardan dismounted and drew his own blade. He’d been
lurking just beyond the square, unnoticed, and left his horse
there. He watched as the Warden backed toward a wagon at the edge
of the square, which had another soldier sitting in the driver’s
seat—but that man’s attention was on the battle as well.

Dardan crept forward, praying his footfalls
would remain unheard. And then Amira saw him and gasped. Dardan
lunged forward, because the Warden had noticed that Amira had seen
something, and he began to turn. Only because he was slowed by
having to drag Garen with him was Dardan able to strike in
time—
Caretaker, don’t let my sword hit the boy—
and knock the
Warden’s blade away.

He regretted having to shove Garen to the
ground, but he needed him clear of the Warden’s grip. With a shout
and a lurch Dardan barrelled toward the surprised Warden, flashing
his steel every which way, surprising the Warden—and himself—with
his ferocity. But the Warden was clearly much older, and much more
experienced. Within seconds, Dardan realized that his moves were
being easily anticipated.

The Warden might have overpowered him given
enough time, but instead he reversed a slash, nicked Dardan’s sword
arm, and then turned and ran for his horse. Dardan had tried to
jerk away from the strike, and stumbled to one knee. The pain came
on slowly, and he clamped his hand over the wound. Only when the
Warden had ridden away did he turn to survey the scene.

Amira ran to him, arms outflung. Dardan
scooped her up with his uninjured arm, into a short, passionate
embrace. Too soon he lowered her down, and together they faced the
square.

Garen stood now, massaging his wrists with
hands that looked like they’d been scalded. Dardan would ask about
that later. Angry townsfolk thronged the square, and there were
many motionless bodies on the ground. Some of them were royal
soldiers, but a sickeningly large number wore common dress.

The soldiers who remained standing had
thrown down their swords in the face of a swelling mob of townsfolk
wielding brooms, shovels, wood axes, and kitchen knives. Among the
small cluster of soldiers, who stood pressed against the wall of
the inn, was the other Warden, a man with white hair. Dardan
recognized him as they drew closer; they’d met at the summer ball.
He fished deep down into his memory for the man’s name. Iris, or
something.

Dardan saw Constable Adams frantically
trying to calm the angry townsfolk while Magistrate Baxter stood
beside him, arguing with the Warden. Hugh Hamm was there too,
holding a longbow. Those in the crowd who looked at him did so with
awe on their faces. What was
that
about?

The crowd parted for Dardan and Amira as
they approached, letting them get in close to the trapped soldiers.
Garen stayed close by Amira’s side, Dardan noticed. He ignored that
and focused on the magistrate. “What happened?”

Baxter cut off his tirade and looked at
Dardan. His face was red from exertion and anger and fear. “You
picked a fine time to show up!”

“He saved Garen’s life,” Amira spat at the
magistrate. She turned to Dardan. “These Wardens came looking for
us. Edon sent them to recruit mages.”

“I’ll deal with you next,” Baxter snapped,
clearly near the end of his rope. But Dardan had no care for the
man’s state; he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

Amira gripped his hand tight. “The Wardens
knew who we are.” She glanced at Constable Adams. “And I’d wager he
does now, too.”

Baxter looked at Adams. “What? What is she
talking about?”

Adams’s eyes darted from Amira to Baxter.
“I—they—”

Dardan was glad to see the man flustered. He
drew himself up, ignoring the throb in his arm. “We concealed our
true identities, but now that must end. I am Lord Dardan Tarian,
Count of Hedenham.”

Several of the townsfolk gasped, and a few
bowed or curtseyed all of a sudden. A few looked skeptical.
Baxter’s eyes bulged, and Adams somehow looked even more craven.
Even Garen gaped at them. Among them all, only Warden Iris stayed
impassive. If he was frightened by being unarmed and surrounded by
hostile townsfolk, or intimidated by being in the presence of a
count, he didn’t show it.

“Now all of you be quiet,” Dardan ordered in
his best imitation of his father’s voice of command. He heard how
his own voice sounded like his father’s, and his heart was suddenly
battered by a mixture of anguish and pride.

As if reading his thoughts, Amira murmured,
“You knew?”

“I heard of it in Seawatch. We will speak
later. Tell me what happened here.”

In a rush, Amira recounted the day’s events:
the arrival of the Wardens and soldiers, the confrontation at the
inn, Warden Iris’s visit to the cottage, and what she’d found in
the square. Hugh Hamm blushed when she described how he had
heroically—foolishly, Dardan thought—attacked the soldiers, to try
to save Garen.

“You are lucky to live in a town willing to
stand up to armed men,” Dardan said to Hugh. “But what you did is a
crime at the very least, and the king’s men will not likely let it
be.” The big woodsman’s face fell at this, and several of the men
and women standing near him seemed affronted by Dardan’s suggestion
that Hugh had done something wrong.

He had no intention of helping justice find
Hugh Hamm, of course; by any moral standard, Hugh had done right,
protecting Garen from the unjust threat of death imposed by Warden
Penrose, in the name of the king. But Edon would not likely see it
that way.

Baxter’s whole aspect had changed by now. He
nodded his head subserviently. “M’lord, what’s to be done with
them?” He jerked a thumb at Warden Iris and the five soldiers with
him. A couple of the men had taken minor injuries. Warden Iris was
unscathed.

“What was his role in all this?”

“He stayed out of the fight, and when he saw
it was going badly for them he shouted at the soldiers to throw
down their weapons, which they did.”

Dardan looked at Iris. “You
surrendered?”

“I saw no reason to countenance further loss
of life. Excuse the apparent cowardice, but this plan to coerce
m’lady by threatening the blacksmith boy was of Penrose’s devising,
not mine. I objected, but he was my commander.”

“So you were simply doing as he ordered,
when you knew it to be wrong. You were correct; that is
cowardice.”

Iris stared back uncowed. “The dead cannot
make things right.”

Amira gazed oddly at the Warden. Dardan
sighed. Another thing to ask her about privately. “Enough. Strip
them of their armor and take them to the cell in the magistrate’s
office. I will decide what to do with them later.”

Baxter, Adams, and several eager townsmen
surrounded the soldiers and helped remove all their armor. Despite
his designation as the enemy, they handled the Warden’s silvered
plate with extra care, and their eyes passed reverently over the
sword-and-scales sigil on the pauldrons.

Dardan’s arm had begun to throb, but he had
more to deal with first. There were two or three wounded soldiers
still alive, too weak or injured to have been gathered to Warden
Iris. One of them was clearly doomed, his gut a bloody mess; he
might last a day or two. Dardan told the flock of townsfolk
following him that the young soldier should be made comfortable
somewhere. Henry Salton, the innkeeper, magnanimously volunteered
his rooms for the injured. The other soldiers could be nursed back
to health, although one of them, a black-haired lad even younger
than Dardan, would probably have a lame leg for the rest of his
life.

Several townsfolk had been injured, too, but
they’d already been whisked away to their homes to be treated by
family. The town had no surgeon, only a few goodwives who had
experience dealing with the injuries common to small towns
everywhere. Dardan could do nothing for those injured folk.

That left the worst. There were half a dozen
dead townsfolk in the square—no women or children, the Caretaker be
thanked, but that hardly made it better. These dead would be dealt
with according to old rituals. Their bodies would be carried up the
slopes of Caddair Tuol, to be consecrated and buried beneath
cairns, to rejoin the earth and pass into memory.

The bodies of the dead soldiers, by
contrast, were heaped in a pile on the road leading out of town.
They might end up retrieved by the nearest garrison, to be given a
proper burial. Dardan felt a twinge of responsibility toward them,
poor lads under a brutal commander, but he had other priorities
just now.

He repaired to the inn’s common room, and
none other than Helen Walker helped clean and bandage his arm.
Amira’s hands still looked a little red; she explained that she’d
used her power in a hurry to cut Garen’s bonds, and the heat of it
must have scalded her. Someone brought her a basin of cold water to
soak her hands in.

Dardan was relieved to be with her again,
but they still needed to have a private chat. “Please excuse us for
a few minutes,” he said. Everyone except Amira headed for the door.
If a count wanted an inn’s common room to himself, he could have
it, as Count Barnard had demonstrated in Tyndam.

His wife met his eyes only for a moment,
then looked away. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’ll heal. And you? Uninjured?”

Amira nodded. Still she would not look at
him.

“I suspect you already know what I will
say.”

Now she met his eyes, and already he could
see a little of her fierceness rising to the surface. He waited
patiently.

After a long minute she sighed. “It was not
my fault that—”

He slammed a fist on the table, startling
her into silence. “You did not make them come here and threaten
Garen, is that what you meant to say? Indeed, it is true; those men
are responsible for their own actions. But you must be a great fool
to think that you bear no blame for those dead out there. Imagine
if you had kept your silence, kept your power concealed from all
except Garen and the Walkers, as we had originally agreed. Those
dead out there might still live.”

“They already knew who we were!” she said.
“We didn’t alter our given names. If Warden Penrose showed up
asking after an ‘Amira’ and a ‘Dardan,’ do you think Constable
Adams would have magically forgotten us, even if he had no idea
about my power?”

“Then it was folly to stay in this village
at all,” Dardan countered. “I know how important it is to you that
you found someone else like you—by the Caretaker, I’ve been just as
isolated all this time, surrounded by strangers. And so you
insisted we stay here, that you and Garen might learn about your
power from one another. Was it worth the deaths of half a dozen of
Garen’s friends and neighbors? Is your happiness so much more
important than their lives?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and Dardan felt
guilt at saddening her. She did not look away now, not even when
the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. “I would think my
happiness would be important to you, my lord.”

That last had a sting to it. Dardan took her
hand. “Amira, my dear. My love. I say what I say because it needs
being said. I do not take pleasure in causing you misery. Far from
it.” He heard his own voice waver, and choked down the lump in his
throat. “But you
do
have this power now, and you must
consider what can come of it. You helped this town, and for that
they will be ever grateful, but you also brought death and ruin
upon them. It would be monstrous to take credit for the one and
reject responsibility for the other.”

For this, she had no response. Her hand
slowly slipped from his.

There was nothing else to say on this topic.
Amira had stopped her argument, and had not fled in a fury, which
Dardan was coming to learn meant that she knew he was right. And
over the course of a minute, a transformation occurred: she
scrubbed away her tears, the color faded from her cheeks, and even
her posture straightened. “We must leave at once, then, before
Penrose returns with reinforcements.”

Dardan nodded. “I learned other things in
Seawatch, besides the news of my—my father.” The lump in his throat
returned for a moment, but he fought it away again. “I contacted,
through a roundabout method, Duke Eltasi. He will see us if we
come, and hear our plea.”

Amira’s eyes sparkled, with an inner fire
Dardan had missed. “He will help us?”

“I think it likely. But first we have to get
there. You may need to demonstrate your power for a few people. I
seem to recall you have few concerns about that.” He knew it had
been a little cruel to say that last, but he could not help it.

Amira in response pursed her lips at him.
“Thank you for reminding me,” she said flatly. “What if Duke Eltasi
doesn’t help us?”

Dardan shrugged. “Then we move on. South,
perhaps. There are other dukes. We will likely be on the run for
quite a while, but with your power, it will be very difficult for
Edon to stop us.”

“Unless he tries to hurt someone like Garen
again. Like Garen…” She trailed off, looking at the window. “He
should come with us.”

Dardan blinked at her. “For his own safety,
I suppose that makes sense. I hadn’t considered that anyone else
might join us. But will he want to leave?”