Agivir sat his charger straight-backed, effortlessly controlling the spirited gelding with one hand, gesticulating with the other as he gave orders and received information. He wore a flowing cloak over his old-fashioned armor, brightly burnished, except that he wore no battle helm or hat. “Our troops take heart when they see this old white head and beard of mine,” he’d told his son early that morning, when Eregard had begged him to run the battle from the rear.
“They must be able to see my face, know that I am with them.”
Eregard wondered how Adranan, commanding the left brigade, and Salesin, commanding the right, were faring.
The reports coming in, and his own eyes, confirmed that the fighting was heavy, with many casualties on both sides.
From what he could tell, the Pelanese forces were better drilled and more organized, but the Chonao warriors fought with a fierce skill that eclipsed that of his country’s infantry.
Now that the fighting was at closer quarters, the Pelanese rifled muskets afforded them less advantage, though it was still evident. If not for those muskets, Eregard thought, the Chonao cavalry would surely have flanked them by now, which would have meant disaster.
Thinking about flank attacks made him recall Jezzil’s warning to Salesin the day before.
Salesin is overconfident to
think that he has those southern trails under control,
he thought.
I could make sure they will not prove our undoing.
Eregard could hear his father shouting orders to the runner he was sending to General Osmando-Volon. “Tell him to bring up reserves to bolster our left and central brigades! We must push them back!”
“Understood, sire!” the runner said, saluting, before wheeling his horse and speeding off, weaving his way between the ranks, back to the central command tent near the supply wagons.
Eregard edged his gelding over until his black’s flank was nearly touching the white charger’s. “Father!” he shouted.
“Let me lead a reserve unit into the foothills to guard against a contingent of Chonao coming through the southern hills to flank us.”
The King turned his head. “Salesin reported that all significant trails had been blocked,” he said.
“Anything that man can block, other men can unblock!”
Eregard argued. “The more I think about what Jezzil warned might happen, the more I fear it will come to pass. Give me a few companies of reserves and I shall see that it does not happen!”
The King considered for a moment. “Stay with me but a while longer,” he said. “If things go as I hope, we will regain the ground we lost, as the battle tide turns our way. Then you shall guard the foothill paths for us.”
Eregard saluted. “As you command, sire!”
Thia stood at the eastern window, gazing out at the mountains, their tops gleaming white in the morning Sun. The battle had started, and she knew her friends were up at Ombal Pass, fighting. She wished she had someone to pray to, but Boq’urak had left her nothing.
She thought of Jezzil, of Eregard, and of Talis, and wondered if they were still alive.
Surely they are. If one of my friends died, wouldn’t I
know?
But she knew, with a terrible certainty, that she would not.
Master Khith might—the Hthras had magical powers that constantly surprised and amazed her. But she had nothing of the sort, only the small ability to tell truth from lies.
What if Jezzil dies? What if I never see him again?
The thought brought a wave of fear so powerful that she cried out softly, pressing her hands to her breast.
No! No!
Unable to stand still any longer, she whirled away from the window and began pacing, her clasped hands twisting restlessly. The silk of her gown swished softly, and her new slippers, creamy kid, finer than any she’d ever touched, much less worn, glided across the elegant carpet. She was not used to such finery. She’d been embarrassed by the roughness of her hands when she smoothed them against the fabric. One of the Princess’s waiting women had donated the gown, barely worn, from last season, and the Princess had her seamstress cut it down to fit Thia. The soft, sea-green silk was flattering to her pale features and hair, and the plain, unruffled style suited her.
In the past few days, Thia had spent time with the Princess, and the two of them talked, cautiously at first, then more freely, sharing information about Eregard, the court, and Ulandra’s life with Salesin. Ulandra had actually said little, but Thia could tell that the Princess was desperately unhappy and terrified of her husband, with good reason.
As she paced, Thia tried to make her mind blank, remembering how she had been able to do that for hours back in Amaran when bad things happened. It was simply a matter of letting all conscious thought go, of putting a blank screen between her mind and all that troubled her.
Thia tried, but strive as she might, she could not stop her mind from imagining Jezzil splashed with blood, moaning in pain, perhaps calling out for water.
When he was hurt before, I was there to comfort him,
she thought.
But not
today … If he dies … if he dies …
A soft footfall sounded behind her, and Thia turned to find Princess Ulandra standing in the corridor, her features drawn and anxious. “Is there any news?” Thia cried.
Ulandra shook her head. “I know not how the battle progresses, but wounded are beginning to be brought in to the infirmary tents. I have spoken to my ladies-in-waiting and told them I am going up to tend the wounded, and that they may, if they wish, join me.”
Thia regarded her, surprised. “A princess, tending wounded?” she said. “That is …” She searched for a word.
“… the custom among your people?”
Ulandra laughed, though there was little humor in the sound. “Hardly,” she said. “My ladies were shocked, I believe. My husband sent me a message that I must stay here, in the palace.” Her chin rose. “I am therefore going, with all dispatch.”
Thia had seen Prince Salesin. He was not a man she would willingly have crossed. “You are brave, Your Highness,” she said admiringly.
“I am
learning,
Thia,” the Princess said. “Besides,” she added, trying for a light tone, and not quite succeeding, “one cannot call it courage when one merely does one’s duty, can one?”
Thia looked at her levelly. “I would. Your Highness, I’d like to go, too. I have had some experience at treating wounded.”
“Good. Your friend, the Hthras physician, will also be accompanying us.” The Princess smiled at her, and the sight of her lovely face, still marred with fading bruises, wrenched Thia’s heart. She managed an answering smile, though her eyes were misty. Ulandra came toward her, put out her hands, and took Thia’s roughened ones in her soft clasp.
“Thia, be strong. Have faith.”
Thia gave a bitter, choked laugh. “Faith in
what
? I am
sorry, Your Highness, but all my faith was reft from me last winter, most cruelly. I have nothing to believe in anymore.
And I fear for my friends, and for Jezzil.”
“He is a warrior, Eregard tells me. A remarkable warrior.”
“He is,” Thia agreed. “But—”
“I know,” Ulandra said. “I fear for all my friends today, and for the soldiers I do not know. I have been praying since dawn to the Goddess.” Ulandra turned to head back toward her rooms, arm and arm with Thia. Her touch was a comfort.
“But let us dress now, so we may go up with the supply wagon. We cannot tend the wounded in silk gowns.”
Thia nodded, brushing her free hand across her eyes. “Yes, just doing
something
will help. It is the waiting that is hardest.”
When they reached Ulandra’s rooms, Thia discovered that the Princess had plain black gowns waiting for them, with sleeves that could be rolled up. There were also gray aprons and scarves to bind up their hair, such as Pelanese nurses wore.
The two women changed quickly, helping each other with the buttons instead of summoning servants. When they were ready, Ulandra left the chamber for a moment, while Thia gathered up food, water, bandages, needles and thread, and blankets, packing them into baskets.
When Ulandra returned, her step was brisk. “I sent my ladies-in-waiting, and my maids, on ahead. Your Master Khith is with them. I have summoned my carriage to take us up to the pass. It will be waiting by the side door.”
Carrying the heavy baskets, the two women left the rooms and headed down the corridor. When they reached the intersection, Ulandra turned left, and Thia followed her. She had just turned the corner when she heard the Princess call out, “Your Reverence!”
Thia looked up and saw, halfway down the corridor, a tall man with a shaven head and dark, dark eyes. He wore a scarlet robe that made his pale skin appear even paler. Her breath stopped as their eyes met.
“Master Varn!” she whispered, then, remembering the last time she had seen him, fear set in. Her basket slipped from her hands and she found herself backing away.
She need not have worried. As soon as her erstwhile Mentor recognized her, he turned and fled down the corridor.
Moments later the slam of a door eclipsed the sound of running feet.
“Thia? Thia, what is it? Thia?”
Thia staggered, and if it hadn’t been for Ulandra’s grasp on her arm, she might have fallen. The Princess was staring at her, shaken, her voice shrill with concern.
“That was Master Varn,” Thia said blankly. “What is he doing here?”
“I don’t understand,” Ulandra said. “Master who? That was His Reverence Varlon, who has been spiritual and philo-sophical counselor to King Agivir these past few months. He is also something of a soothsayer, or prophet, to hear the King tell it. What has he done to upset you so? You are as pale as a specter!”
Thia looked at her new friend. “How do
you
know him, Princess?”
“He has been my counselor, my friend,” Ulandra said.
“He told me that his god had chosen me …” Seeing Thia’s expression, the Princess trailed off. “Tell me, Thia. What is going on?”
Thia shook herself like a dog tossed into a snowbank. “It is a very long story,” she said, with a catch in her voice.
Dropping to her knees, she hastily picked up her basket and repacked it. “And we have made a promise to join the others in the infirmary tents. Let’s find that carriage, and I will tell you on the ride up to Ombal Pass.”
Once they were seated in the carriage, with its contingent of guards, Thia recounted the story of her life: how Master Varn had been her Mentor, what she had seen that terrible night in the depths of the ziggurat, and finally, how Varn had kidnapped her and been prepared to sacrifice her as Chosen to Boq’urak.
Ulandra listened with an expression of growing horror and fear. When Thia was finished, she leaned forward on the padded velvet seat of the carriage and sank her head into her hands. Shudders ran through her entire body.
“What is it? Thia asked. “What has Master Varn done to you?”
Ulandra sat back up, still trembling. She did not raise her eyes, but stared down at her clasped hands. In a soft, lifeless voice she recounted what had been happening to her over the past few months, ending with a description of that last dreadful scene with Salesin. “I … thought …” She choked on the words, struggling for composure. “Earlier, I thought I saw something in the mirror. Something that was not I, but instead something … else. Something unhuman. And it must have been that same—creature—that emerged when Salesin threatened me. Thia, he was hurt, bitten and clawed.”
She held out the soft hands Thia had so admired. “I think I remember my fingers, my fingers
changing
, becoming clawed. Oh, Goddess! Save me!”
The Princess began to weep aloud, great, wracking sobs.
Thia moved over to sit beside her on the seat, and, without thinking about the difference in their rank, put her arms around the other woman, holding her close, murmuring words of comfort.
Finally, Ulandra sat up and dried her eyes. There was a new determination in her features and in the set of her jaw.
She put her head out the window of the carriage and called out to the driver, “Please, stop a moment.”
The carriage halted on the road and Ulandra stepped out to face the commanding officer of her guardsmen. “Captain,” she said, “I have an order for you.”
He swept off his hat and bowed. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Send a messenger back to the palace, and tell the commanding officer of the Palace Guard to detain the priest, Varlon. Tell him not to harm him, but to lock him up in some secure place and to post a guard. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the captain replied, bowing again.
“It shall be done.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Ulandra said with great dignity.
Picking up her black skirts, she climbed back into the carriage. When she was seated, the Princess rapped her knuckles against the door and called, “Drive on! Make haste!”
“Yes, Your Highness! Hup! Get hup!” Thia heard the driver shout, followed by the snap of his whip. The carriage jolted into motion again, rattling as it bounced along the road leading to Ombal Pass.
Back behind the lines, Jezzil sat waiting on Falar, wondering if Company Two of the Royal Dragoons would be called into battle. What would it be like to actually fight his own countrymen? He thought he’d been prepared for the battle, but seeing that brave, foolhardy charge had shaken him to the depths of his being. Watching the horses fall, hearing the screams … he had been as upset as Talis, though able to conceal his reaction better.
Still, he could not regret his decision to fight for Pela. His friendship with Thia, Talis, Eregard, and Khith was stronger than any comradeship he had ever felt for his Chonao countrymen, even Barus. Remembering Kerezau’s casual cruelty, he shook his head.
I am no longer Chonao. I am not sure
what I am, but I know that, of a certainty.
Smoke from the battle was rising high into the hot summer air, but here, behind the lines, it was easier to breathe.
He could hear the volleys, unceasing, punctuated by the booming of the artillery.
The sun was well up now. Jezzil judged that it must be an hour or so short of noon. From what he could tell, the Pelanese were holding up against the Chonao superior numbers, due to the superiority of their firepower, but it wouldn’t take much to change the tide of battle.