Authors: Julie Dean Smith
She was sure of Tyler’s forgiveness. He had inherited the generous heart of his father, who now cared for Prince Nicolas as if his own son had been returned to him.
But did Kelwyn forgive her? Durek certainly never had.
Athaya looked at the grass stains upon her fingertips and imagined the spots turning bright crimson, color that ran too deep to ever be washed away. Did he forgive her?
She would never know.
“Can I get you anything?” Girard asked in quiet apology for bringing painful memories to the surface.
Athaya shook off the last vestiges of melancholy, letting the balmy June breezes carry them off to oblivion. “I wouldn’t mind something cool to drink—it’s grown warmer since we started. And get something for yourself, too. Weaving the coils is hard work.”
While Girard set off for the camp’s kitchen, brows folded inward like a worried mother fetching a posset for a sick child, Athaya sprawled indolently in the grass and savored the lazy humidity of the season. The air was thick with the aroma of the camp’s dinner being prepared, and her mouth watered at the mingled scents of warm bread, baked apples, and venison. The day was a paradise compared to the brutal winter she and her followers had suffered. Propping herself up on one elbow, Athaya picked a tender sprout from a tangle of wild grape and chewed on the tart, lemon-flavored stalk as if it were the rarest of delicacies.
Girard returned with two frothy mugs of cool beer and a basket overflowing with freshly picked blueberries. “Master Tonia says they’re for the feast tonight and for us not to eat more than half,” he repeated dutifully.
Athaya’s eyes loudly proclaimed “you must be joking” even if her lips did not. “Master Tonia has been in charge of rationing watered beer and pemmican all winter and hasn’t quite broken the habit yet,” she replied lightly, dropping a handful of berries into her mouth.
With a conspiratorial nod, Girard scooped up two heaping handfuls of fruit. “Are we finished for today?” he asked. The sky was still bright as noon above them, but the hour grew late; on the longest day of the year, sunset would not be upon them for a while yet.
Athaya nodded, unable to offer a verbal reply until she swallowed. “And tell Jaren to dismiss the others, too,” she added, gesturing across the clearing. Jaren was instructing a handful of students on spells of illusion, and throughout the afternoon unlikely pillars of marble and drifts of snow had been popping up in various corners of the camp. “With the luscious smells coming out of that kitchen, nobody is going to be able to concentrate on their magic for much longer anyway.”
The feasting began at the first hint of twilight as everyone in the camp set aside the day’s lessons and turned to the serious business of celebrating the zenith of summer. The camp had not seen such a festival since Athaya’s wedding feast almost a year before, and all were eager to make up for the omission. Rabbit, mutton, pheasant, and venison turned on several outdoor spits, fresh trout sizzled in shallow iron pans over the smaller fires, baskets spilled over with berries and nuts, and ale and wine flowed freely. Not even the shyest souls were allowed to sit out the dancing and when the revelers were in need of rest, there was singing and storytelling to pass the time. With the combined spirits of two hundred folk determined to enjoy themselves—a diversion they well deserved in light of the dangers that lurked just outside the protective wards ringing the camp—it was a merrier evening than any celebration Athaya had ever attended at court.
“I don’t remember dancing this much even at our wedding,” Jaren said breathlessly, as the two of them relaxed after a particularly vigorous set of reels. He proffered a wooden cup brimming with sweet pear-flavored wine and sat down beside her in the tall grass beneath the bell tower, at a slight distance from the others. Like the queen of summer, Athaya was garbed in the deep green kirtle she had worn for her wedding and wore a ribboned chaplet of roses in her hair like a crown.
“We didn’t,” she reminded him with a suggestive arch of her brow. “As I recall, you suggested leaving the party early.”
“And as
I
recall,” he replied, equally arch, “I didn’t have to drag you away kicking and screaming, either.”
It was a quiet time between dances, and the fiddles and flutes had been set aside so their players could snatch up a few goblets of wine before the casks ran dry. Near the main campfire, Gilda, one of the camp’s most gifted tutors, gently rocked her infant son and began spinning a tale she remembered from her childhood; a tale about an enchanted cradle and the spell cast upon any child rocked to sleep in it to dream visions of the future. If it was a Caithan tale, Athaya mused, then it was an ancient one; a tale from before the Time of Madness, when a wizard’s enchantment was not yet a thing to be cursed, but innocent fodder for a storyteller’s yarn.
Athaya was not so absorbed by the tale that she failed to hear the subtle rustling noise behind her—if nothing else, outlawry kept her vigilant. She twisted around and peered into the dark depths of the forest. She was ready to dismiss it as a raccoon making its way through the brush until the rustling was followed by a muffled whimper of pain, as if someone had trodden on a sharp stone. “Jaren, did you hear—”
She never finished the question. Just then, a huge man exploded from the shrubbery like a boar flushed from his lair. His ragged tunic and boots were liberally spattered with grime, and a smattering of leaves and sticks were snared in his matted mop of red hair, giving him the air of an untamed forest god out of legend. “And just who up and threw a party without inviting me, I’d like to know?” he roared, every inch the displeased sovereign. “Fine thing this is… I go off for a few months, and you all set about drinkin’ up all o’ my beer.”
“Ranulf!” Athaya lurched to her feet and hurled herself into the mercenary’s powerful arms. “Thank the… I thought you were—” The rest of the sentiment was lost amid a heartfelt kiss, square on his lips.
“Have a care now, Princess,” he said, raising a pair of mud-encrusted brows as he glanced covertly past her. “Your husband could walk in on us at any moment.”
Athaya drew back a step, belatedly taking in Ranulf’s filthy tunic and hose—and his rather pungent aroma; not all of the brownish stains on his garments were caused by harmless mud. “What happened to you?”
“Aw, I thought that mudslick on the trail was one o’ my old illusions,” he said, jerking a thumb backward into the wood. “Slipped and fell right in… and right on top of the leavings of whatever had been there afore me.” He drew in a breath and cringed at his own stench. “At least you’re shifting the illusions around a bit to keep everyone on their toes.”
“Everyone but you, it seems.”
By now, Gilda had abandoned her tale and scurried over to greet him, trailed by dozens of others. From Gilda he received a modest kiss, from Kale a quiet handshake, and from Tonia, whose friendship with him was far older than the rest, the expected volley of barbs.
“What’s this?” she said, critically eyeing his empty hands. “You come back from an extended holiday abroad without bringing us any presents?”
“Ha! Shows what you know,” he returned with a grin. He retreated a few steps into the forest and emerged with a canvas satchel and a small stoppered jug. “Here,” he said, thrusting the jug into Tonia’s arms. “The wizards on Sare may be damned full o’ themselves, but they know how to make fine whiskey.”
But behind the jest, Athaya saw haunted shadows in his face, like a soldier who’s seen too much of death. “And it was no holiday, Tonia,” he added quietly, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Not by half.” He passed a troubled gaze over Athaya, Jaren, and Tonia. “We need to talk,” he murmured, tipping his head in the direction of the chapel.
Leaving the others to continue their feast, the four of them retired to the tumbledown chapel on the far side of the clearing. Just as he stepped over the threshold, Ranulf jerked back as if he had suddenly recalled an urgent appointment elsewhere. “Tonia, be a love and fetch me a beer,” he said, warming her with a vaguely lewd smile, minus two teeth. “A very large beer, mind. I’ve a long tale, and I’ll need my strength to tell it.”
On any other occasion, Tonia would have scolded him for ordering a Master of the Circle about like a common barmaid, but she merely snickered and headed for the casks, warning him not to deliver all of his news before she got back.
Not to fear,
she added privately to Athaya, tipping her head imperceptibly toward Ranulf.
I did a quick reading and don’t see any signs of tinkering. The Sage seems to have gotten his fill of compulsion spells for a time.
Athaya swallowed hard, her forearms breaking out in goosebumps. It had never occurred to her that the Sage might have ensorcelled Ranulf as well, commanding him to strike at her—or the entire camp—in retribution for Nicolas’ aborted assault on Durek. She felt hot and shaky, as if she had just crossed over a bridge only to be told on the other side that the wood was badly rotted and it was a very lucky thing the structure had not crumbled beneath her feet.
Sobered, Athaya joined Jaren and Ranulf on the cool stone pews near the altar. As they waited for Tonia’s return, Athaya told Ranulf all that had happened since he left them to accompany Nicolas to the Isle of Sare. She told him of the prince’s sickness, of the king’s harrowing brush with death, and of the support she had lost because of her suspected involvement in both calamities.
“Master Hedric is at Belmarre with him now,” she concluded as Tonia returned with a suitably monstrous tankard of beer, “but he can only do so much. There’s no real cure—not unless the Sage lifts the spell himself. Or does us the favor of dying.” Hostility flared behind her eyes; she thought the latter a very pleasing prospect indeed.
‘That bastard,” Ranulf mumbled into his beer, his cheeks crimson with fury. “That bloody, stinking bastard.” He took a long swallow to dampen his rage, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of a meaty hand. “But bad as that is, it doesn’t compare to what ol’ Brandegarth is up to now. And he let me go just so’s I could come and tell you all about it,” he added sourly, chafing at the need to do exactly what the Sage wished him to. “Arrogant son of a—”
“We get the point,” Tonia broke in. “Stop cursing the man and get on with it.”
Ranulf obeyed her grudgingly. “He let me go about three weeks ago. After I crossed over to the mainland, I decided to poke around in Eriston for a day or two, to see if what I’d been hearing was true. Bein’ a Sari an myself, it was easy enough to get the Sage’s folks to talk—especially if I bought the whiskey. Anyhow, his men are scuttling all over the western shires like cockroaches, hiring recruits. They’ve even gone as far as Delfarham once or twice.”
Athaya folded her brows inward. “Hiring? For what?”
“An army. They’ve been forming up in the fields west of Eriston. I managed to get a peek at the campsite after a guard let me pass the barricade, thinkin’ I belonged there.” Ranulf regarded her steadily. “There’s over a thousand folks camped under his banner already.”
“A thou—” Athaya’s tongue went numb. All of the wizards in all of her schools put together probably did not number much more than that. In a matter of weeks, the Sage had gathered as large a following as she had managed to gain in over a year.
“Almost half of them are fully trained wizards, straight from Sare,” he went on. “The rest are Caithans they’ve bought up in the past few months with all their cursed silver.”
“I can’t believe we haven’t gotten wind of this yet,” Jaren said, shaking his head in bafflement. “We have people stationed in the west. Mason—”
“Aye, but the Sage’s followers are keeping their distance from us, getting as many folks on their side as they can before we get wise to ‘em. I stopped in Kilfarnan on the way back to see if Mason’s had any trouble at his camp, but the ol’ bookworm didn’t know what in hell I was talking about.
“Anyhow, these Sarians are tossing silver coins about like birdseed and promising the world to anyone who’ll listen. Not just food and shelter—although we’re better fixed to offer that now that winter’s over—but to the ones as stay loyal, they’re offering power, wealth, titles, lands… summin’ it up, the chance to loot the whole damned kingdom and divvy up the goods once they take over. Now, bein’ a mercenary myself, I know what a tempting offer that is—and so do plenty o’ the poor folk they’re targeting. Folk that are sick of being hounded by the king’s Tribunal and don’t see us doing enough to get rid of it.”
Athaya muttered a curse, weary to death of the whole debate. Why had it proved such a struggle to persuade people that outright warfare wasn’t going to solve all their problems? Her intent was to win this battle one wizard at a time, not by violence, but by enlightenment—by spreading knowledge about of magic and thus showing the skeptics that the Lorngeld did not have to be feared. If they learned how to channel their power when the
mekahn
came upon them, the Lorngeld were not dangerous; not Devil’s Children, but divinely blessed. Many of Caithe’s newest wizards—the gentleborn Sutter Dubaye foremost among them—had refused to see the wisdom of her approach, forever wanting to form an army to wage bloody war against the king and his Justices. Sutter was dead now, captured and killed by Lukin’s men for failing to deliver Athaya and her people into the Tribunal’s hands, but many others still shared his desire to hunt down and kill their oppressors. Now the Sage’s men were exploiting that desire to serve their own ends… and meeting with a disturbing amount of success.
“Did you find out exactly what they’re up to?” Jaren asked, shifting to a more comfortable position—if there was such a thing—in the unyielding stone pew. “Are they planning to attack us?”
‘They’re not planning to attack anything… at least not yet. Mostly, they were told to get as many recruits as they could and wait for the Sage to show up. But they don’t plan to wait long. The day I left Eriston, a few of ‘em took over the mayor’s house, claiming they needed it for a headquarters of sorts—and that they had to fit it up proper for their fearless leader. Needless to say, the mayor rode straight for Delfarham to ask for men to drive them off, but I can’t see what good the king’s soldiers are going to be against thousand wizards, even if half of ‘em don’t know but a handful o’ spells yet.”