The Oracle's Queen (57 page)

“Atyion is nothing.” Korin drew the Sword of Ghërilain and held it up. “There can only be one ruler of Skala, and that is the one who holds this sword! Pass the order; we march west to crush Prince Tobin and his army.”

“You're dividing your force?” Porion asked quietly. “You may be dooming Morus' ships. There's no way to get word to them now.”

Korin shrugged. “He'll have to fend for himself. When Tobin falls, Atyion will fall. That is my will and those are your orders. Send out scouting parties at once, north and south. I don't want them taking Cirna under our very nose. The consort must be protected at all costs. We'll be the ones to surprise the prince, my lords, and when we do, we will crush him and put an end to his pretense once and for all!”

The generals bowed deeply to him and rode off to pass on his orders.

“That was well done, Majesty,” Moriel said, offering him his wineskin. “Lord Niryn would be proud to see you now.”

Korin turned and brought the tip of his blade under Moriel's chin. The Toad went a shade paler and froze, staring at him with frightened eyes. The wineskin fell and splashed its contents on the trampled grass.

“If you wish to remain a Companion, you will not mention that creature to me again.”

“As you say, Majesty,” Moriel whispered.

Korin sheathed his sword and strode away, heedless of the resentful glare that followed him.

Porion noticed, though, and cuffed Moriel sharply on the ear. “Be thankful for the king's patience,” he warned.
“Your master is dead, and I'd have drowned you years ago if it had been up to me.”

C
aliel had hoped to meet Korin on the road, but there was no sign of an army or its passing. They rode all the way to the isthmus road with no sign of him, and Caliel learned in the villages they passed that Korin had turned back and gone south to meet Tamír on the western coast.

They rode on for a few miles, and Caliel could see the marks of an army's passage in the trampled fields, churned roadways, and deep ruts from heavy wagons.

“Why did they go west?” Tanil asked. “There's nothing there.”

“I don't know.” He paused, and looked Tanil over. The boy was still a bit vague, but the closer they came to Korin, the happier he seemed.

He's in no condition to fight. I should take him to Cirna and leave him there somehow, to keep him safe
. But the longing in Tanil's eyes as he looked west was like a mirror of Caliel's own heart. They were Korin's men. Their place was at his side, no matter what.

He forced a smile and nudged his horse into a walk. “Come on, then. Let's catch up with him.”

“He'll be surprised to see us!” Tanil laughed.

Caliel nodded, wondering again what his reception would be.

T
he last of the passage through the mountains took four long, tense days. The trail ran along the banks of rushing rivers and up through stony divides that opened into small green valleys where herds of goats and sheep grazed. There were signs of catamounts and bears, and at night lynxes screamed like dying women.

Only in the valleys could Tamír assemble all her force at once, rather than strung out like a broken necklace. Nikides rode back one day and reported that it took two hours for them to pass a given point.

Word of Tamír's approach preceded her, just as Sheksu had promised. Several times each day Mahti would disappear ahead of them, taking a side trail up to some hidden settlement. Those that were visible from the trail were made up of a few stone huts with roofs of stretched skins. The inhabitants either hid or fled, but there was smoke from abandoned cooking fires and flocks of goats or chickens wandering among the silent huts.

On Mahti's advice, Tamír left gifts by the trail at each village: coins, food, rope, small knives, and the like. Sometimes they also found baskets of food left for them—greasy smoked goat meat, foul-smelling cheeses, berries and mushrooms, and bits of crude jewelry.

“They hear good of you,” Mahti informed her. “You take gift or give insult.”

“We wouldn't want that,” Nikides said, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he and Lorin inspected the contents of a basket.

“Don't be so squeamish,” Ki laughed, gnawing at a bit
of leathery meat. Tamír took some, too. It reminded her of the food Lhel had given them.

Now and then the local witch man or woman came out to see them, but they were wary even of Mahti and watched the intruders from a distance.

T
he weather closed in as they crossed a high pass and started down for the western coast. Heavy clouds and fog hung low over the narrow divide. Freshets trickled down through the rocks and made the trail into a stream at times, dangerous underfoot with shifting stones. The trees were different here, the quakeleaf still green and the underbrush thicker.

Rain came in gentle, persistent showers and soon everyone was soaked to the skin. Tamír slept badly in the scant shelter of a tree, huddled for warmth with Ki and Una, and woke to find a pair of newts playing tag across the toe of one sodden boot.

The next day they passed close to a large village and saw three witches on a rise just above the trail: a woman and two men with oo'lus at the ready.

Tamír reined her horse aside, accompanied by Mahti, Arkoniel, and Ki.

“I know these,” Mahti said. “I go.”

“I'd like to speak with them.”

Mahti called out to them, but they kept their distance and made signs at him.

“No, they say they talk to me.” He went forward alone.

“It's downright eerie,” Ki muttered. “I get the feeling there are a lot of eyes watching us without our knowing.”

“They haven't attacked us, though.”

Mahti returned a few moments later. “They not hear of you. Afraid of so many and be angry that I be with you. I tell them you—” He paused, and asked Arkoniel something.

“They don't know what to make of an army passing through without attacking them,” Arkoniel explained.

Mahti nodded as they set off again. “I tell them. Lhel tell, too. You go, and they send on song.”

One of the witches began playing a low drone as they rode past.

“I wouldn't think people this far into the mountains had ever seen a Skalan,” said Lynx, keeping an uneasy eye on the Retha'noi.

“No see, but hear of, like you hear of Retha'noi,” said Mahti. “If keesa be—” He stopped again, shaking his head in frustration, and turned and said something to Arkoniel.

The wizard laughed. “If a child is naughty, the mother says, ‘be good or the pale people will come for you in the night.' I told him Skalans tell their children the same thing of them.”

“They see you have great people, but you not hurt or burn. They remember you.”

“Could they hurt us if they wanted to?” asked Ki, also keeping a wary eye on the witches.

Mahti nodded emphatically.

A
t last the trail led steadily downward, back into forests of fir and oak overhung with mist. On the afternoon of the fifth day they emerged from the low-hanging clouds and looked out over a descending expanse of forest and rolling grassland. In the distance Tamír saw the dark curve of the Osiat.

“We made it!” cried Nikides.

“Where's Remoni?” asked Tamír.

Mahti pointed straight ahead and her heart beat a little faster. A day's march at most, and she would see that harbor. In her dreams she and Ki had stood above it, a breath away from a kiss. She hadn't had that dream for some time now, not since Afra.

And we have kissed
, she thought with an inward smile,
though there had been no time for such things in days. She wondered if the dream would be different now.

“You have good thought?”

Mahti stood by her horse, grinning up at her.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Look there.” He pointed back the way they'd come and Tamír saw with a start that the brow of the ridge was lined with dark figures, perhaps hundreds, watching the long line of foot soldiers passing by.

“Your people safe, if you do not try come this way again,” Mahti explained. “You make your fight and go to your own land by another trail. Southland trail.”

“I understand. You're not leaving us yet, though? I don't know how to find Remoni.”

“I take you, then I go home.”

“That's all I ask.”

A
rkoniel's heart had also leaped at the sight of that distant coastline. If the visions were true—and if this campaign succeeded—he would soon reach the place where he would eventually end his days. It was a strange but exciting thought.

Once beyond the narrow confines of the mountain trail, the way became easier. The trail was well-worn and wide enough in places for two horses abreast.

The rain came and went, but there was wood to burn that night, letting the Skalans take more comfort than they'd had in days. While the others made a fire and prepared the evening meal, Arkoniel drew Tamír aside under an oak. Ki followed, sitting down close beside her.

Arkoniel tried not to smile. They both tried to hide it, but something had changed between them since that night at the keep. They didn't look at one another with the eyes of a friend anymore, and they imagined that no one else could see it.

“Arkoniel, have you found Korin?” she asked.

“That's what I'm about to ascertain. Will you let me cast the wizard eye on you both?”

“Yes,” said Ki, clearly eager to try it.

Tamír was less enthused, as always. Arkoniel had always regretted how he'd clumsily scared her, the first time he'd tried this spell with her. Nevertheless, she gave him a terse nod.

Arkoniel cast the spell and focused his mind on likely routes. “Ah! There.” He held out his hands to them.

T
amír reached for his hand, braced for the inevitable jolt of vertigo she experienced whenever he tried to show her something this way. It was no different this time. She squeezed her eyes closed as she felt herself swept up into the spell.

She saw a rolling expanse of countryside far below, and an army encamped beside a broad bay. A sea of watch fires stretched across the darkened plain. “So many!” she whispered. “And look at all those horses! Thousands. Can you tell how close he is to us?”

“That appears to be the Bay of Whales. Perhaps two days' march from where we're headed? Maybe less.”

“He could have been in Atyion by now. Do you think he got word of my movements?”

“Yes, I'd say so. Let go for a moment. I'm going to widen the search.”

Tamír opened her eyes to find Ki grinning at her.

“That was amazing!” he whispered, eyes shining.

“It has its uses,” she admitted.

Arkoniel rubbed at his eyelids. “That spell does take an effort.”

“Korin will have scouts out looking for us,” said Ki. “Did you see any sign of them?”

The wizard gave him a wry look. “I was lucky to find an army.”

“We don't need magic to tell us that,” Tamír said.
“We'd better move on quickly, before he decides to come find me himself.”

F
ar to the east, Tharin sat his horse, counting the banners of the force spread out across the plain before him. He had two thousand men at his back, but Nevus had at least twice that many. He'd caught them within a day's ride of Atyion two days earlier and had not been surprised when Nevus had refused any sort of terms short of battle.

Drawing his sword, Tharin held it high, and heard a thousand blades singing from their sheaths in answer, and the rattle of hundreds of quivers. Across the field, Nevus did the same.

“I'll see your body hung beside your father's,” Tharin murmured, marking him. Rising in the saddle, he shouted, “For Tamír and Skala!”

His army gave back the cry and their voices rolled over the plain like a tide as they charged.

T
amír spent the next day riding back along the line with some of her Companions, to take stock of her warriors. Some had taken sick during the cold wet nights, and a few had been lost in falls along the high passes. There had been some blood feuds settled, and a handful of others had simply disappeared. There was grumbling about them having been taken by the hill folk, though desertion or mishap were more likely. Wineskins were empty, and rations were running low.

Tamír paused often to speak with captains and common soldiers, listening to their concerns, promising them battlefield spoils, and praising their endurance. In return, she was warmed by their loyalty and their determination to set things right. Some were a bit too eager, offering to bring her Korin's head on a pike.

“Bring him to me alive, and I'll pay his ransom in gold,” she told them. “Willfully spill the blood of my kinsman and you'll have no reward from me.”

“I bet Korin isn't making that distinction,” Ki observed.

To which Tamír wearily replied, “I'm not Korin.”

T
he air grew warmer the farther they got from the mountains. There was ample game, and archers were sent out to supplement their dwindling food supplies with venison, hare, and grouse. Her scouting parties found no signs of habitation.

They reached the coast late that afternoon, and Tamír savored the sweet salt air after so many days inland. The rocky coastline was deeply cut with steep-walled bays and inlets. The dark Osiat stretched away to the misty horizon, dotted with a scattering of islands.

Mahti turned north. Open grassland between forest and the sea spread on endlessly before them, flanked on the east by forest. Deer grazed in the meadows, and rabbits broke from cover before their horses.

The land rose, until they were high above the water on a grassy headland. Cresting a rise, Tamír caught her breath, recognizing the place even before Mahti pointed down and said, “Remoni.”

“Yes!” There was the long, deep harbor, sheltered by the two unmistakable islands.