They gathered hours later, wearied, covered in
smeared ash and blood, in King Archimago’s tent: Lonen, Ion, and
Arnon, and their father.
Nolan had not been found. He was lost, along
with an entire regiment of brave Destrye.
Their father leaned his head in his hands,
visibly aged since they’d engaged in battle that morning, on top of
the years he’d already piled on in the past months of fighting to
get within striking distance of their faceless enemy. Ion dismissed
the retainers, the captains of other regiments. This moment was for
family.
Stepping around the table, he put a hand on
their father’s shoulder. “We don’t know he’s dead.”
The king laughed without humor, a sharp
crack like the one that had rent the earth. “Would you wish him
alive and trapped below ground with those monsters? Perhaps
captured and tortured by those sorcerers?”
A dismal thought that hadn’t occurred to
Lonen. Nor to his two remaining brothers, by the expressions on
their faces.
“It could be I was wrong to bring us all
here,” Archimago said into his palms, his voice weak, nothing like
the robust warrior who’d taught Lonen everything he knew.
“We couldn’t know their powers would be so
enormous.” Ion gripped their father’s shoulder. “There was no way
to know, short of this battle.”
Lonen leaned his axe against the table,
shoulders tired and aching now that he’d stepped away from the
fight. His men would be exhausted, too, and they’d soon have to
rotate out the ones holding the defensive line around the
encampment. Two hours of rest at a time, no more. So far the
sorcerers hadn’t pursued their forces, which made no sense. True,
the golems continued to attack, but why not open the earth beneath
the Destrye tents and rain fire and storms on them from above? Had
Lonen been in their position, he would have pressed the advantage,
eliminating his enemies from under the sun forever. If only.
“There wasn’t any way for the scouts to
assess a thing that never showed until now,” Arnon added, catching
Lonen’s eye. “We had to walk this path to discover what we now
know.”
“Besides”—Lonen took his cue from his
younger brother—“you made the only choice you could. We were forced
into the offensive. Had we stuck to the old ways, the Destrye would
have surely perished.”
Their father raised his head, eyes dark in
his weathered face. “And now we will be decimated in one fell
swoop, immediately instead of through slow erosion.”
“Even if we all die on this battlefield,”
put in Arnon, always the philosophical one, “the Destrye are not
destroyed. This assault has at least provided a diversion for the
rest of our people to escape to a new place. A land where they can
live in peace.”
“A caravan of women guarded by boys and old
men.” The king shook his head wearily, staring at his hands on the
scarred wooden table covered with maps of all the territory they’d
crossed. “If only I’d sent Nolan with them. He would be still alive
and the Destrye not scattered to the tides.”
Lonen and his brothers exchanged looks over
their father’s head. It wasn’t like him to second-guess his
decisions. None of the choices had been easy ones—even though
they’d seemed simple, forced on them by their ruthless enemy. But
now the king seemed already defeated, as if they’d lost the war
instead of the day’s battle.
In truth, they’d lost a great deal that day.
Perhaps more than they could recover from, and yet—
“Why haven’t they come after us?” Lonen
found himself saying aloud.
Arnon frowned at the change of subject, but
Ion, their father’s heir, nodded in approval. “It’s a good
question, and we should take that into account in planning our next
strategy.”
“Our next strategy?” Their father looked
from one of them to the next, his blank black eyes seeming to see
only the grief-filled images that haunted them. “There is nothing
more we can do except attempt to flee. They’ve destroyed half our
forces.”
“But why only half?” Lonen persisted.
“
Only
half?” Arnon echoed
incredulously. “That’s ten thousand men who died in our service
that you’re dismissing.”
“They died to protect our people,” Lonen
growled, “for the very same reason you and I fought today. Not for
a throne but for their wives and children who were forced to flee
even as they marched away from them. And yes, I say ‘only’ because
they could have killed us all. The fireballs, the earthquakes, the
thunderstorms—you saw the power of their magic. Why aren’t we
all
dead?”
“Because we pulled back,” Ion said, looking
thoughtful. “We’re out of range now.”
“Exactly,” Lonen replied. “And something is
keeping them from pursuing and keeping us within range. What?”
The king sat up straighter. “We need to find
out. That could be the key to emerging from this debacle victorious
after all.”
In the silence of his skull, Lonen thought
victory might be a little much to hope for. Forestalling total
destruction of the Destrye, however, remained a hope, however slim.
With his mother, his sisters, and his beloved Natly on their way to
who knows where, he’d resigned himself to never seeing them again,
never feeling the kiss of Natly’s lovely lips, the silk of her
darkly oiled hair. If he could buy them a better life with his
death, then it would be well worth paying.
“Yes.” Ion sat at the table, nodding at his
brothers to follow suit. “Call in the captains and every scout we
can recall. We need to pool our information and plan our
strategy.”
A
t long last, the next
morning, the Báran army returned.
Oria held vigil from her tower as always,
Chuffta beside her, though Queen Rhianna had long since descended
to greet her victorious husband and sons. Somewhere in the cheering
throngs below, beneath the shredded flowers tossed from high towers
all around, they’d be embracing and celebrating the joyous day.
“
You’ll see them soon enough, and it
would be difficult for you to withstand that level of
energy.”
“Yes, yes—I know.” Yet another drawback of
not yet mastering
hwil
. Oria, like all those gifted with
sgath, tended to absorb any and all energy around her. She’d always
been excessively fragile. Without the skill to ground the sgath and
feed it to another, she overfilled, which resulted in shameful
meltdowns. Chuffta served as a buffer for her, but he could do only
so much. Living within the walls of Bára helped, of course, and
being up in her tower made a huge difference, something her mother
had known and insisted on since Oria was very young. She couldn’t
remember any other life.
Mostly Oria had played alone or with
perfectly
hwil
nurse-priestesses, and even as an adult she
descended from her tower only on the most tranquil days for brief
appearances as the sole royal princess or to attend critical temple
ceremonies. Otherwise, only those with perfect control of their
emotional output were allowed to visit or wait on her. Thus she
spent most of her days on the sunny terrace with a nearly complete
view of Bára, biding her time to suddenly understand
hwil
,
watching real lives from above.
“Princess.” Alva, her lady-in-waiting, came
out and curtsied, no whisper of emotion emanating from behind her
smooth mask. “Her royal highness Queen Rhianna asks me to tell you
that the family will convene for the midday meal in the
second-level salon so that you may join them.”
“Thank you, Alva. Tell her I look forward to
hearing the news.” Oria had already bathed and dressed for the day,
so she had nothing to do but wait. And pace around her small
perimeter, observing the jubilation of the city. Hours yet to kill.
If only she could fly like Chuffta, she could zoom into the sky and
circle above everyone, at least able to see the victory parade.
“
Perhaps use this time to practice
meditation?”
Chuffta suggested in a gentle tone.
Oria sighed. The last thing she wanted to do
was sit and attempt to calm her mind. But as always, her Familiar
offered good advice. Her family showed thoughtfulness in coming to
her; they all had excellent control, and naturally, all were
masters of
hwil
. Energy would likely still run high in the
room—particularly as a meal of the royal family required more than
her few servants—and she’d handle it better if she at least
attempted to ground herself beforehand.
She plopped herself down onto the sun-heated
tiles, folding her legs and arranging her skirts around her so the
raw silk wouldn’t wrinkle, forcing a change of clothes.
“
Would you like me to guide you?”
“Yes, please.” With Chuffta’s help, she
could go deeper, get closer to mental stillness than she could
without. Not that it was enough to come anywhere near the state of
hwil
others described, something she failed to do, over and
over.
“
Shh. Let go of those thoughts. You are
who you are. I love you as you are. Forget the expectations.
Hwil
is different for everyone, and you’ll find your path to
yours. Now, imagine a deep blue lake. Lovely, pure, and warm.
You’re standing on the shore, warm water lapping your toes. It is
peaceful, restful. You step in, the water lapping around your
ankles. You go deeper, the water surrounding, embracing, accepting
you. With each step, you count backwards from one-hundred.
Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven…”
Oria followed along, seeing and feeling as
Chuffta suggested. Absorbing the directions from his mind-voice was
easier than when her teachers guided aloud. Mostly because they
always seemed to have that
tone
. Though they offered her the
deference due her rank, they still condescended to her untutored
ways. Especially High Priestess Febe.
“
With each step, your thoughts dissipate
into the water. The cool, deep blue water fills your being, giving
you peace, joy, calm.”
Chuffta didn’t judge her, and she calmed,
sinking into the deep waters. Still, part of her stood aside,
wondering if there might be fish in the lake. If so, what kind
would they be? She’d never seen a lake, of course, but she’d read
descriptions and pored over the illustrations. Bigger lakes and
oceans had fish that lived in them, apparently. So there could be
many of them, schools of fish brightly darting about. Flashing here
and there. Then scattering at the approach of a predator. Large and
sharp toothed, it arose from the depths of the water, an immense
shadow that resolved into the hard face of an axe-wielding Destrye
warrior. What had happened at the battle? Had the Bárans vanquished
the enemy entirely, banished them back to whatever wilderness
they’d emerged out of? Impatience to know rippled through her. How
much time had passed—would lunch be soon?
“
Nearly,”
Chuffta said.
“And
that’s enough for now.”
Abruptly Oria recalled that she was meant to
be meditating. The same thing happened every time. She always
started out with the best of intentions, then got distracted along
the way, her thoughts turning to more interesting ideas than a
pure, deep lake, enticing as that image might be. “Sorry,” she
said, chagrined. Sometimes it seemed she’d spent her life
apologizing for the same failure, over and over.
“
Then don’t apologize. This is not a
failure. The window will open for you when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready! I don’t know how to make myself
be more ready than this.”
Chuffta laughed in her mind.
“You cannot
force this. It must come in its own time.”
“Wonderful. Just like lunch.” She stood and
offered her forearm for Chuffta to hop onto. “We might as well go
down and wait for them.”
The lizard spread his wings for the short
flight from the balustrade to her, his claws sinking into the
leather padding of her sleeve, his sinuous tail winding around her
wrist. All her gowns were made with thick shields on her left
forearm and shoulder, so he could accompany her everywhere. Ironic,
as she so seldom left her tower, but it spoke to the eternal
optimism that she’d take her mask at any moment and be free to walk
about Bára like everyone else.
Alva fell in beside her, then opened the
double doors to her rooms that always remained closed, though the
buffer they provided was primarily symbolic. Guards kept watch over
the tower at the base and at several intermediary levels between,
but almost never ventured to the top three floors. And any priest
or battle mage who’d achieved enough
hwil
for Oria to
tolerate his nearness could be better used elsewhere in the city,
for the many magical feats that kept Bára running with such beauty
and efficiency. Or, more recently, for defending Bára against the
Destrye.
Chuffta, too, acted as a formidable
bodyguard.
They wended down the wide circular stairs to
the next level. Large windows let in light and air, keeping the
interior fresh and breezy. She wasn’t the first princess of her
line to spend a good twenty years sequestered in the tower—her
mother had done the same—and generations before had gone to
considerable lengths to make it a pleasant place to live, if one
could get over the seething restlessness. Sometimes Oria fancied
she sensed the fidgety energy of past residents in the stone walls,
radiating out like the residual heat of day lingering long after
sunset.
“The victory is most welcome news,
Princess,” Alva offered in a smooth tone.
Oria gave her a speculative glance. “Is that
verifiable information, or assumption?”
“Assumption. Would there be cheering and a
parade without victory? And no enemy is pouring through our
gates.”
“You were on the walls for the battle
yesterday—couldn’t you sense how things went?”