“Until then, may we each find what we are
searching for,” Deacon said.
With that, Myn curled her neck and plucked
her stone from the ground, flashing a quick glance at Grustim
before dropping it beneath her tongue, and the pair took to the sky
with a few powerful thrusts of her wings.
Myranda, in times of great need, had learned
the techniques to funnel her own considerable mystic strength into
that of her mount to speed their motions and to ease away fatigue.
She’d used it to great effect in more than one chase that would
have exhausted a normal horse, and the same tactics had helped Myn
match even Ether’s speeds for short periods of time. As the
seemingly endless desert opened up beneath her, Myranda knew that
Grustim was right. Under the best of circumstances it was likely a
longer journey than could reasonably be made in a short enough time
to make a difference, but that didn’t change a thing. She would
reach them. She was the duchess now. It was more than her home, it
was her responsibility. She would
not
see it fall again.
#
Deacon stood beside Grustim, watching Myranda
and Myn soar off to the north. He understood precisely what she was
doing and why, but there was the concern that Grustim and,
moreover, the whole of the Tresson people might not. He turned to
the Dragon Rider, expecting to have to calm him down and make it
clear that Myranda meant no disrespect, but at the moment, it
seemed the ire was not between Grustim and Myranda, but Grustim and
Garr.
The Rider stared at his former mount with a
look of disappointment and irritation. He was “speaking” with the
beast in the grunting, growling imitation of the natural dragon
language that Deacon had become increasingly fascinated with during
their time together. It wasn’t precisely the language he had
learned when under the tutelage of Solomon back in Entwell, but
that much was to be expected. Languages had regional variations,
and soldiers had their own jargons. Adding in the varied anatomy of
the two speakers made for a linguistically remarkable
demonstration. By the end of the exchange, Deacon was fairly
certain he’d worked out the nuances of the speech.
“… She is not of our land,” Grustim
rumbled.
“She is of our kind,” Garr replied.
“It is not our way.”
“To protect our own is our way. To serve our
own is our way. The Rider is wise and just. The mount is strong and
loyal. They are of our kind, and they are of our way.”
“… I saw the stone.”
Garr craned his neck, pride on his face. “She
kept the stone.”
“She is a child, though she does not look
it.”
“Children grow. I am patient.”
“It was not the way of a mount.”
“I am not a mount.”
Grustim crossed his arms. “It is well that
you are not.”
Deacon cleared his throat. “If I might
interject?”
Grustim kept his gaze on Garr, but when he
spoke, it was in Varden. “This is why it is unwise to mix females
with males in times of war,” he muttered. “Females and males do
foolish things when they are mixed.” He turned. “You and the
duchess. You are married?”
“We are.”
“How is it that someone such as you could
catch the eye of a woman such as her?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your
confusion, and I’m not certain this is the proper forum for such a
discussion.”
Grustim looked to the soldiers at the wall,
addressing them as a whole. “Prepare yourselves for the sentencing
of your commander, and fetch for me any region maps or field maps
that have survived.”
The men snapped to action. Grustim turned
back to Deacon.
“It will take a few moments for the commander
to be readied by the healers in the infirmary, and in that time the
soldiers will fetch the maps we need to put the information I
received from him to good use. But at this moment I am a Dragon
Rider stripped of his mount, forced to pass judgment on a man of my
own nation, and forced to stand idle while a trusted ally chose to
side instead with your woman and her mount. Forgive me, Duke, but
your woman has seized my thoughts, and I would appreciate an
answer. How is it that so forceful a woman could allow herself to
be joined to so forceless a man?
She
is clearly the figure
of authority between you. She is the one with the vision, with the
intensity, with the passion. You… what
are
you? You are a
shadow. You make no impression. There is nothing to you but to
serve her. It is baffling to a Tresson to see a man defer so
completely to a woman, but more so it is baffling to imagine that a
woman of such quality could ever tolerate a man lacking such
substance. The two of you may as well be brother and sister for all
of the passion I see between you.”
Deacon furrowed his brow. “I am sorry that
you have so low an opinion of me, sir, but to garner a high opinion
was never my aim, so you will pardon me if I am not offended. As
for Myranda and I, our feelings for one another are a private
matter, and what I’ve done to earn her is simply to be the best
that I can and make it clear to her how much I value her.”
“No… I refuse to believe that a headstrong
woman such as her would ever turn her heart to you without
some
manner of grand gesture,
some
showing of your
worthiness of her.”
“I permanently altered the mystic makeup of
my left hand when I pierced a hole in the very fabric of reality in
order to journey from my home to her side and offer aid in a time
of profound travail, utilizing a spell the very existence of which
has sullied my name and barred my return to the place of my birth,”
Deacon explained. “Is this a sufficiently grand gesture to satisfy
your curiosity?”
He raised his eyebrows. “That would explain
much.”
A soldier marched up to Grustim and revealed
a stitched cloth map, tersely informing the Dragon Rider that it
was the most accurate map to be found in the ruined keep. From the
looks of it, the map was quite new, and it was made with care and
precision.
Grustim spread it on the ground, weighing
down the corners with stones. “According to the commander’s claims,
Turiel came from somewhere in this region,” he said, running his
finger across the southern coast. “It is a wide area. Even if we
knew what we were looking for, it would take weeks to do a thorough
search.”
Deacon tipped his head to the side, eying the
map.
“Is something wrong?” Grustim asked.
“This line here,” he said, running his finger
across a thin gray embroidered thread. “What does this
represent?”
“That is the leading edge of the Southern
Wastes.”
“But here, this city. On my map, I’m certain
the Wastes fell far south of it. On this map there is so little
space between them. Could my map have been
that
inaccurate?”
“Your map was likely based on one from before
the war. It is over one hundred years old.”
“And that would alter the edge of the
Southern Wastes?”
“Indeed, the forward edge has crept northward
with time.”
“… The Wastes are growing… Of course…”
“Is that relevant?”
Deacon waved his hand over the map, and the
lines took on a brilliant glow. For the second time he conjured a
map in the air. As he maneuvered it in front of him, he explained
his thoughts.
“The D’Karon spells invariably feed upon the
mana of a region. The
life
of a region. If this woman is a
necromancer, she would be particularly skilled at consuming the
vibrancy from the area. Over the duration of the war, or longer,
she could
certainly
have had an effect on the landscape that
has spread over the years. If the Wastes, or at least the degree to
which they have spread, is a result of her harvesting of power to
feed the keyhole, then the effect would be
centered
in the
Wastes.”
“No. We already know from the commander that
woman had been much farther south.”
“You need to think as a whole.”
He traced his hand carefully along the ragged
edge of the Wastes, then continued the curve out into the
surrounding sea and circled back into the original curve. The
center of the resulting circle seemed to fall just barely on the
edge of the land.
“Here. Somewhere in this region is the center
of the influence on the Wastes. We begin our search there.”
Grustim looked to the cloth map, then wet his
finger and touched it to the soil to leave a smudge of mud in the
indicated location. “It certainly falls within the stretch the
commander indicated. If you are correct, it would cut the search
from weeks to days…”
A subtle commotion drew his attention to the
infirmary. The commander was on his feet and walking toward them.
Myranda’s attempts to cure his ills had largely taken hold. He was
limping and still wrapped in bandages, but otherwise seemed not
much worse for wear. The bandages, tellingly, had considerably more
fresh blood on them than when Myranda had treated him.
“A moment, Duke. I must see to this,” Grustim
said.
He stepped toward the commander and each came
to a stop near the bonfire upon which Myranda had cooked the food.
When Grustim spoke, it was in Tresson, and it was with the
attention of every last one of the troops on hand.
“Commander Brustuum, your orders were to
secure the source of the disturbance to the south and to turn her
over to your superiors.”
“It was,” Brustuum answered.
“You stand accused of abandoning those orders
and acting according to your own agenda.”
“I have done so, but what I have done was
with the strength and honor of my nation in mind.”
“And tell your men what you did with the
strength and honor of your nation in mind.”
He hesitated only briefly. “I kept the woman
here, questioned her. I resolved first to prove that her actions
were indeed a purposeful act of war. When I learned of the power
she held, the knowledge she had, I knew it belonged under the
control of our great army.”
“And how did you intend to secure this
knowledge?” Grustim prodded.
“I had her demonstrate her abilities.”
“You know what you did, Brustuum. Tell your
men.”
“… I allowed her to draw power from our
prisoners and had her instruct our mystics in the methods.”
The soldiers in attendance murmured in horror
and disgust.
“Draw power… You let her drain Tressons of
life. You
fed
your countrymen to someone you believed to be
a Northern Aggressor. And with the power you gave her, she did all
of this,” Grustim said, sweeping his arm around the stronghold.
“Your arrogance and dereliction of duty brought this upon you and
cost the lives of your men.”
“My intention was—”
“This is not a matter of intention!” Grustim
spat. “This is a matter of duty and honor, and in your actions you
have abandoned both. Do you deny this?”
“I do not.”
“Then your punishment is clear. Your dagger
of command, Brustuum.”
The commander drew a short, simple dagger,
clearly more ceremonial than functional, and handed it to Grustim.
The Dragon Rider set its grip into the flames of the fire.
“Soldiers, open the gates.”
Those nearest the heavy gates marched
solemnly to the task of pulling them open. As they worked, Grustim
laid out the punishment.
“It is fortunate for us that you chose to
commit your crime here within the great desert. It saves us the
effort of bringing you to this forsaken place. You will now be left
to the mercy of the land. You shall be sent into the sands. Because
you have abandoned your obligations to your military, you shall not
have the benefit if its resources. No water, no food, no shelter,
and no equipment. This place is quite far from any cities, far from
prying eyes. It is a fact that has helped you to keep your
treachery from the eyes of your superiors. It also means there is
little hope you will reach anyone who might offer you aid. But this
is, after all, a death sentence. You shall be refused any aid you
may request. And to ensure this…”
He held out his hand, and as though it had
been previously arranged, a soldier walked up and presented him
with a heavy leather glove. He slipped it on and plucked the dagger
from the flames by the blade.
“Hold him,” Grustim ordered.
The same soldier stepped behind his former
commander and gripped his head, holding it firm while Grustim
approached. In two quick, efficient motions he pressed first one
side of the pommel, then the other to Brustuum’s cheek. The crossed
lines on one side interlocked with the scythe on the other, forming
a single branded symbol. Brustuum, to his credit, did not cry out
or flinch as his flesh was seared. He simply maintained a steady
look in Grustim’s eyes.
“Take him,” Grustim said. “See that this last
measure of his duty is faced with honor.”
Two more soldiers stepped forward and took
Brustuum by the shoulders, but he pulled himself free, determined
to walk on his own.
“I can face the consequences of my actions.
But I hope you can face the consequences of yours,” he said.
Grustim didn’t do him the courtesy of a
response. He merely watched as the disgraced commander was marched
toward the fading light of dusk. As he passed Deacon, he gave the
Northerner a look of disdain, then glanced at the cloth map before
continuing to his punishment.
Deacon stepped to the Dragon Rider’s side. “I
of course defer to your customs, but are we certain it is wise to
leave his fate to chance?”
“In Tressor, only our holy men and
magistrates have the authority to take a life. For the rest of us,
we must leave the deed in the hands of the gods and the land. I
would prefer to deal with him more permanently, but without rules
and without duty there is chaos. We’ve set the task at hand aside
for too long, however.”