Three Coins for Confession (22 page)

“Calala!” Dargana shouted, but Chriani knew the rangers wouldn’t
need the warning. The Ilvani war-band reacted to the failed ambush with a
single-minded purpose, pushing their horses back along the treeline in an
attempt to draw the Ilmari riders in. Taking cover but not retreating. Looking
for the fight the exile war-bands had hoped to avoid.

Chriani had his bow out, was following the three riders that had
fallen back. “Get to the trees for cover,” he called to Kathlan. “Keep Dargana
out of sight.”

Even as he shouted, though, the exile called out. “Three riders
fleeing!” Then with a flick of her reins, Dargana turned her horse and charged
the side of the bluff, twisting onto a narrow trail through the trees that
Chriani hadn’t seen. He cursed as he slewed to a stop, turned his horse to
follow her. Kathlan was two strides behind him.

He hadn’t seen the riders Dargana was following.

Chriani watched the scrub to all sides, wary. He heard bowshot to
the east, steel on steel to the west where the rest of the squad had
disappeared. The Ilvani had gone silent again. He lost sight of Dargana at one
point, needing to check his horse’s speed on the rough trail. He had given
Kathlan specific orders in Rheran to not sit the exile on any steed that would
let her run, but the chestnut mare Dargana rode was flying somehow under her
light touch, drawing steadily away.

He rounded a corner where the trail opened up to a broad
clearing, the scrub trees there overgrown by a lone limni whose branches
reached for the sun. Dargana had her reins loose, was letting her horse crop
pale grass between the trees. Waiting for him.

“Where are your riders?” Chriani said coldly as he reined to a
stop.

“Must have lost them. We need to talk.”

The unfamiliar urgency in her tone caught Chriani off guard, but
he was too angry to care. “Not your decision to make,” he said coldly. “And not
at the expense of endangering my squad…”

“We’re in Aerach by dusk and fallen in with another squad in the
morning. Unless you can call down another Calala attack at your whim, we’ll
have no other chance but here and now.”

Before Chriani could respond, he saw Dargana’s dark eyes flash to
shadow as Kathlan raced in behind him. She slowed her horse quickly, ignoring
Chriani as she stepped past him to stop at Dargana’s side.

“You ever think to race one of my horses again where it might
break a leg, I’ll break both of yours first so you can judge what it feels
like.” Kathlan’s voice carried a dark fury that Chriani recognized. To her
credit, Dargana didn’t laugh in response.

“I take my responsibility to a mount as seriously as you do,
horse master. But this one is more fleet than she lets you know. She was in no
danger.”

“You’ll walk her back all the same.”

“As you wish.”

From the scrubland behind them, they heard a horn. Two short
blasts, a call to return. Chriani caught Dargana’s thin smile.

“The others will be looking for us,” the exile said. “Someone
should ride ahead and round them up before they scatter.”

“Someone should have thought twice about breaking off from the
squad in the first place,” Kathlan said coldly. “So what are we going to talk
about?”

She was watching the exile, Chriani understanding that Kathlan
had heard what was said even as she rode up. Dargana’s smile grew colder.

“You don’t need to concern yourself in these matters, girl…”

Kathlan spat. “I’ll concern myself with what I choose, and take
on anything you or your Ilvani can throw at me. You doubt it, try me.”

“That’s enough.” Chriani had to angle his horse between the two
of them where they were pressing, Kathlan the first to back away. Beyond the
tangled scrub, the horn sounded out again. “Go,” he said to Kathlan. “Tell them
Dargana and I followed outriders and are cooling our horses on the way back.”

It was as close to an order as he’d ever given her, but there was
no hardness in his voice. Kathlan’s green eyes showed a sudden chill, though,
flicking once to Dargana as she spurred away.

Chriani set out ahead of Dargana, holding his horse to a walk. He
scanned the trees around them, saw no sign of any movement. “Have your words,”
he said. “And quickly.” A report featuring rangers coming under fire while
Chriani and the exile were off in the woods would sit well with Ashlund, he
knew.

Dargana followed along the same route, a half-length behind. “I
spoke the truth to your prince,” she said, “but not all of it. The rest is for
you alone. I fled to Laneldenar and heard factions there talking peace. But it
meant nothing to me. I only wanted to kill Calala for what they’d done to
Crithnalerean. I had nothing else to care about by that point.”

“And what changed your mind?”

“Veassen. That’s a name you need to remember. A seer of the
Laneldenari. Blind since birth, they say. He seeks the heir of the exile’s
blade. He told me it was you.”

The words, the title, meant nothing to Chriani. But as Dargana
spoke, he felt a chill settle at the back of his neck. He kept his eyes on the
scattered groves around them, the shadows glimmering beneath their branches.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“You carried the blade, half-blood. You tell me.”

“I’ll tell you if you call me that one more time within a league
of any Ilmari, I’ll have your tongue.”

Dargana simply shrugged. “Caradar’s line broke with the Valnirata
at the end of the Migration Wars. He invoked the history of a forebear named
Daronnon when he claimed power in Crithnalerean and named himself the exile
king. But the legends are older than even Daronnon, talking of how a narneth
móir called ‘the exile’s blade’ will be key to the final fate of the Ilvani of
Muiraìden. When Caradar’s power was rising, many thought he would turn out to
be the prophesied heir. But when he fell to Chanist, the legend fell with him.
Veassen thinks that’s changing. So do the Calala and their lóechari. That’s why
they hunt you.”

The absurdity of it almost inspired Chriani to laugh. He only
shook his head, though. “Whatever superstition the Ilvani chase, it’s got
nothing to do with the dagger. It’s a blade no different than yours. And it’s
got less to do with me…”

“Veassen was the one who told me to go to Calalerean and work my
way into the war-bands there. He told me to find you and confirm that the blade
of Caradar was safe. He didn’t say to find you and the blade. Didn’t say find
out if you have it. Because he already knew you weren’t carrying it.”

“An Ilmari of the prince’s guard not carrying a bloodblade? Give
me whatever odds your seer was offering and I’ll take that bet.”

“Veassen told me I’d find you in Rheran,” Dargana hissed. “He
told me when the lóechari would set out in pursuit of you, when they’d arrive
in the city. Third day of your High Autumn, he called it. Two days of rain,
then the clouds would break by night. He told me the name of the inn where
you’d stay. Told me to watch for you on the roof. Told me what to tell your
prince when we met. Told me that you’re the key to everything the Calalerean
Ilvani want.”

Chriani felt the exile’s earnestness. The same dark honesty with
which she had threatened to kill him a year and a half before. Despite all his
best instincts, though, he did laugh this time.

Dargana’s anger showed as she pushed her horse forward, pressing
close. “Veassen sent me to help you against the lóechari. Then I was to bring
you to the eastern border of the Greatwood, where the Hunthad crosses into
Valnirata lands.”

“So you show up to save me from one group hunting me, only to
deliver me to another? How many others are out there waiting to lay down bids?”

“You’re a fool, half-blood.”

Chriani felt the oath grate on him, but he was too weary to warn
the exile off speaking it again. “So it’s been said, and by better than you.”

“If the blade of Caradar is the exile’s blade, it holds power
beyond its symbolism,” Dargana said. “You claimed it, half-blood. You brought
it back to Valnirata.”

“This is sotting children’s stories. Do you mean to tell me this
is why you dragged me into…?”

Chriani’s horse faltered. Its ears pricked up, head pulling to
the left in a way that told Chriani it had sensed something in the silence.

He had his bow out, an arrow drawn and nocked. Guiding the horse
with his knees as he let his senses slip out to seek any sound, any movement.
The scrubland was breaking around them, the edge of the pine bluff ahead. No
real screen of trees to worry about, but the grass could hide vipers or
scorpions. Wolves and lions also prowled the exile lands, though they seldom
ventured this close to the Wayroad.

He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Only the sound of hoofbeats rising
where Kathlan and one guard were running an outrider pattern toward them.

“Discard some arrows,” Dargana said quietly. “Anyone who can
count will know you haven’t shot today.”

She was right. A faint anger twisted through Chriani as he let
six arrows drop unseen behind him before he spurred ahead.

When they had drawn close enough, the ranger hailed him. Walaric,
Chriani remembered.

“Well met, lord. We were worried when we lost you on the road.”

“Three riders fleeing,” Chriani said. “No way to catch them in
the scrub, but we made sure they didn’t circle back.”

“Understood, lord. Our concern was more for the status of the
Ilvani envoy.”

Chriani felt the challenge left hanging in the words. Knew the
best way to deal with them. He rounded on the ranger, summoning up a rendering
of Ashlund from any number of his own memories. “Dargana rode out into fire,
same as you, Walaric. If I ever need your assessment of the loyalty or
effectiveness of anyone in this squad, you’ll know it first. Is that clear?”

The guard stared coldly for a moment. “Wilric, lord. Walaric
waits for us at the Wayroad.”

Chriani sat his horse in silence a moment. Then he spurred past.
Wilric took up a position to his left, Dargana and Kathlan on his right. As
they rode, from the corner of his eye, he saw Dargana smile.

They passed from the Clearwater Way just after dusk, a haze of
faint light ahead marking the transition from the exile lands. The Wayroad
ended in Werrancross, the great fortress city that marked the start of the
defended western frontier of Aerach, and whose place at the mouth of the
Hunthad River made it a gateway for ship trade to Brandishear and Elalantar
beyond.

The cloud gathering over the past two days had turned to a haze
of cold rain well before sunset, behind which the lights of Werrancross were
veiled. The city wasn’t their destination, though. Among the few clear details
of Chriani’s orders were the need to maintain a low profile in Aerach while
they met up with a squad of rangers out of the capital at Aleran, arranged by
the Prince High Chanist’s magical messaging. Even with their Aerach escort,
they would be traveling as a group of most unofficial emissaries, making their
way into the Greatwood quietly. Any contact with the Ilvani would be made with
no direct connection to either crown.

Against that secrecy, they would at least be able to travel more
openly in Aerach. All four nations of the Ilmar had their share of Ilvani, many
of them generations removed from the Valnirata and the Migration Wars that had
pushed the most warlike of their people back to the forest that had been their
greatest domain. As such, for Dargana to be seen riding with the rangers would
raise fewer glances along the trade roads than it would have among the patrols
of the Clearwater Way.

At a tumbled series of stone cairns that marked the edge of the
first of Werrancross’s many outskirts villages, Chriani called a halt. The
rangers were all hunched under their cloaks, the lead and rear riders bearing
lanterns that set a rippling light around them, the road a meandering slick of
mud that vanished before and after them into shadow.

“Time to find shelter for the night,” Chriani called. “Head out
by twos for the nearest lights, two groups east, one north. I’ll take the
south. Try to find a roadhouse that can hold us all, then return here. We’ll
compare notes and choose if there’s a surplus, but I doubt there’ll be many
empty rooms in this weather.”

The rangers nodded their understanding but kept a sullen silence
as they lit more lanterns. The looks and tone of their whispered conversations
had been darker than usual over the last of the journey, Chriani’s inability to
remember Wilric’s name still burning in his mind. Hopefully, they would find
accommodation with ale on tap so he could make amends. Or at least drink
himself to the point where he no longer had to dwell on what the others
thought.

“You’ll ride with master Kathlan and I,” he said to Dargana. His
voice was louder than he liked, but he felt the need to create at least the
illusion of authority over the exile. “Stay close.” She was the only one of
them riding uncovered, soaked to the skin and dark hair streaming behind her,
but showing no sign of discomfort or care. She raised her hand in a bad mockery
of the full salute. The last of the guards watched darkly as they spurred away.

Chriani had spotted a circle of distant firelight to the south,
almost from the moment they’d crested the last of the hills that marked the
transition from scrubland to the broad fields and terraced slopes of Aerach’s
northwest frontier. He hadn’t called it out to the others because he worried
about whether only his eyes had pulled the flicker of flame out of the
darkness. He judged it as the closest possible stopping place, though, hoping
to be back to the meeting point before the others if he could. Not wanting to
give them time alone, standing in the rain, to grow even more dissatisfied with
his leadership.

As they spurred toward the light, they found themselves following
a track whose mud-filled ruts would have wallowed any wagon on the road this
night, but which the horses navigated with ease. As they drew closer, though,
Chriani quickly came to understand that the firelight he’d seen wasn’t a
village as he hoped but some kind of wagon camp.