He rose to his feet. “And so there is no answer?”
“Not known by me. Perhaps Azel or one of the apprentices he keeps hidden away behind his dusty shelves might keep interpretations you’ll find useful. He’s very weakened after yesterday, though, and he has never been able to remember what it was he wanted me to know. He remembers last year and ten years from yesterday as sharp as a nail, but the day the Kobrir hit him, he can’t recall anything. The good news was that he was able to see you and Rivergrace. The bad news is that he’s not what he was, and he may never be.”
The hope he’d felt springing forth grew cold. She took the last of the gathered papers from his numbing hand with a murmured word he did not catch. “I can’t afford to lose your counsel or your guardianship. Your request is refused.”
“M’lady queen.”
“No. No further appeal.” She turned her face away from him, as she picked up her quill and prepared to make notes on the stack of papers, now crumpled and in disorder, on the desk.
Sevryn swallowed back a final retort and bowed instead, returning to a silent watch on her door, and window, and rooms, his face lined with thoughts he could no longer share with his queen.
Morning shimmered off the small, rounded foothills that looked like weather-eroded barrows of the dead . . . and well they might have been, as Narskap trailed Quendius across the warlands of the east. They had been riding for day upon day, and this new day promised no better, his eyes and mouth dried by a mild yet persistent wind. Quendius pulled his horse up and waited for Narskap to draw even. “Get me a direction.”
His skin crawled with loathing, but he kicked a leg over his mount’s rump and jumped to the ground, dirt and dried grasses scattering as he did. His horse stomped as he looped the reins loosely. He did not wish to do this, but it had been his idea, and he had little choice in the matter. Abayan Diort kept his army hidden and quartered in this Gods-forsaken land. He alone had a chance of finding Diort without escort, and Quendius had made his wishes plain.
He drew his sword. It quivered in his hold, as if surprised by being pulled and awakened when it sensed no death, and gave a howl meant for his ears alone, of joy, of blooding, of souls being rendered unto it. He dropped the blade on the ground and walked away. Walked until he could no longer hear its keening fury as the only storm against his hearing. Then he turned, and listened, felt, for another bond, faint yet present. Forger of the war hammer, although it had partnered with Diort, he still had a tentative hold on the weapon. It murmured to him, its voice a low, rumbling growl, nothing like the screaming howl of the sword, but he heard it still. Hearing it now, he turned slowly, face to the warlands and barrowlike hills, until he knew where it lay and rested, murmuring invectives against earth and stone moved by man’s hand.
“There,” Narskap spoke, and pointed. He strode briskly, no, ran, back to his sword and swept it up, sheathing it before its noise could drive him mad or deaf. Quendius turned his horse in the indicated direction with a kick and moved on. Narskap leaned against his mount a moment, beads of sweat dotting his face and evaporating almost before they formed, his hands shaking. To draw the sword without blooding it was insanity, pressing on him, driving him into the ground. But what would he have struck out here? The mounts? Quendius? He would have doomed himself further. He would wait and hope that a swift velvethorn might be flushed by their passing, bounding away in front of them, prey that he could cut down and perhaps they could spit and roast later, over the campfire.
The sword scolded him from its back sheath, its voice an angry hornets’ nest in his ears as he swung up onto his horse and rode after Quendius.
Much later, with the sun low on the horizon and at their backs, melting into the end of day, he could smell the camp-fires and the acrid vapor of the middens before they crested a butte and looked down upon the plains where Abayan had settled his army. Tents encircled blackened fire rings, and outlying pastures by the river were pole-fenced for horses. Spread far, as the land here seemed meager and burned by the summer sun, the army did not seem as large, but he knew looks could be deceiving. Quendius stood in the stirrups, stretching his legs a bit, before saying, “They’ll have seen us as well, but won’t attack until they’ve seen who we are. Two of us won’t be thought a threat.” He reined down off the butte.
Narskap let his mount pick his own way down, loose stone and grass shivering from its hooves as they did, and before they reached the more level plains, two horsemen flanked them. No questions were asked or answers offered as they were escorted to the main tent where Abayan Diort stood, awaiting them.
They dismounted but did not hand off the horses’ reins to his men. Abayan considered their faces a moment, then signaled his men to leave them.
“You’ve come a long way.”
“You do not,” remarked Quendius, “seem pleased to see me.”
“I’m not displeased, but it occurs to me that I shall have to kill the man who betrayed my position. Or . . .” Diort’s voice trailed off.
“Or woman? Fear not, it wasn’t the lovely Tiiva who gave you away. She was too busy trying to have the queen poisoned.”
“Unsuccessfully, I presume, or I would have heard.”
Quendius inclined his head. “You don’t seem distressed that it didn’t succeed.”
“Dissension was the primary goal. Lariel’s death would only have been an unexpected bonus.” Diort waved a hand toward his tent. “Come in, cool down, have a drink. It seems you know a good many of my secrets.”
“Only one or two, as good allies should. We’ve no time to rest. There is urgency to our visit here.”
“And, I presume, an explanation as to how you found me?” The gold of Abayan’s skin seemed to mingle and glow with the last of the lowering sun as he watched their faces carefully.
“Narskap came to me. As the maker of your weapon, he has a tenuous bond to it. Nothing like the one you share with the hammer, but enough of one that he found you by it.”
“Did he now?” Abayan singled his gaze to rest on Narskap, appraising.
“He does. And because of that, and the sword he wields for me, he came to me and told me of a flaw in the weapons, of a flaw that might be most fatal for you. I listened and decided the best course would be to seek you out, and remedy that flaw.”
“Tell me the flaw.”
Quendius gestured at Narskap to speak. He cleared his dry throat but the first word or so husked out. “My workmanship,” he started, and then began again, “I have erred. The power imbued is not locked within the weapons as it should be.”
“I have a healthy respect for my hammer,” said Diort. “Are you telling me the Demon can break loose?”
“Even so.”
Mmenonrakka loosed upon Kerith would be disaster. Gods and Demons existed upon their own planes, with their own balances, and here was further proof of what Diort had feared from the beginning. Narskap had meddled with those he should never have, and now look what he might face. Diort shifted weight. “What proof have you?”
“Do you doubt him? He talks with Gods and Demons, as no one on this earth has since the Mageborn died. I came to offer my craftsman to repair your weapon, not be reviled by your doubt.”
“It is only.” And Diort closed his mouth then on his retort, not finishing his statement.
Quendius made as if to turn away, pulled his horse’s head down, and gathered the stirrup foot.
“Wait.”
The hot, dry wind off the steppes grew in intensity, swirling about them, snapping Abayan’s banner on the poles about the pavilion. They waited.
“What is it you need to do?”
“Bring him the hammer.”
“It is always on me.” Diort shouldered aside his cloak, pulling the war hammer from his baldric. He hesitated in handing it to Narskap.
“I need it a moment,” Narskap told them. “Then you will hold it until I’ve built a forge fire hot enough to repair it.”
Long moments passed, Diort’s fingers growing white-knuckled as he clenched the haft. Then, he passed it to Narskap.
Narskap took it up, and mounted his horse. Abayan Diort threw his head back as if knowing he’d been taken.
“Now,” said Quendius quietly but firmly. “You will accompany us.”
“To what end?”
“Not yours. Not yet. You will be my guest while we decide your future. Leave your men quartered here.” Quendius took stock of the encampment. “It would be a shame to let all this training go to waste.”
“And when will I know what it is you suspect of me?”
“Soon,” Quendius told him as he mounted up. “Order your horse made ready and pack clothes for winter.”
“They will tear you down if I signal them.”
“Not with Narskap holding the sword.”
“He is one man against many archers.”
Quendius smiled thinly. “The very last thing you want to make him do is drop the sword. He is the only barrier that contains it. None of us would survive if he fell while blooding it.” He gathered his reins. “We need to discuss our plans, Abayan Diort, and consolidate our alliance. You may find this a more pleasant imprisonment than you expect.”
Diort let his breath out in a gust of disgust at himself, and called orders to harness his mount.
Days of summer passed, heat bleeding into the cruelest month, the Dry month, and through it. Even a hot rain, thought Hosmer, as he sweated into his Town Guard tabard, would be welcome. No ice or snow could be brought down from the mountains to chill drinks, as none existed, and no root cellar could be dug deep enough to cool. Yet, with the instinct of his lifetime as a farmer, he could tell that Yellow Moon month, the season of harvest, with its nights holding the edge of fall and winter in it, loomed in the future. His da talked about the apples that would be coming in soon, a fresh new crop, brimming with crisp flavor and juices, and leaves that would drop not from the heat and lack of moisture but simply because it was the time of year for decaying as the days turned to winter and the quiet, muffled beginning of renewal.
The city didn’t seem to notice or anticipate it. Its cycles were bounded on craftsmanship and work and other sensibilities he didn’t understand. Rise early, work hard, drink hard, fall into bed. That seemed to be the only cycle here. For all that, he enjoyed working the streets more than the Conference, where the Vaelinars drifted in every morning, argued with one another long and loud, their voices ringing sharply, their elegant faces in permanent scowls of disagreement, the very air about them smelling as if lightning had just struck nearby. He watched waves of copyists and scribes rushing about, their hands filled with paper and stained with ink, their hair in disarray as if they pulled it in consternation even as they struggled to keep up with the flood of words and treaties.
He watched Sevryn Dardanon as he paced the Warrior Queen in her journeys to and from the Conference. The man noticed him as few did, always nodding. Hosmer knew he’d been by the brewery and press a few times to visit his sisters, but he’d been on duty and so had no idea what passed between them. He and Garner speculated that Sevryn had an interest in Rivergrace, but she’d become withdrawn and stayed that way, working quietly at the shop and at home, talking little and listening much as if she were trying to take in everything about them and impress it deeply within herself, so as never to forget. What could she be forgetting about her own family?
He shifted weight from one boot to another, bringing his mind to the milling crowd outside the hall. He’d begun to know them all by face and attitude. Some were petitioners still hoping to get their needs listened to, and waited for an opening in Last Cause Petitioners’ Day. Others shifted about in the morning and the evening to shout and curse at the Vaelinars as they gathered, bellowing about war and slavery and thievery. Their protests seemed to fall on deaf, if pointed, ears. Frustration boiled as the sun did. His sharp eyes caught a silvery-haired Kernan woman as she reached into a sack at her side, filling her hand with an overripe fruit. He left the steps with a bound and reached her side.
“Don’t be throwing that,” he told her. “Not today and not tomorrow.” His grip closed about her wrist, forcing her to drop it into the dust of the courtyard. Her lip curled at him, her mouth age-wrinkled with missing teeth, and her eyes shrewd.
“They’ll take you, laddy-boy. Put a glamour on you and fill your eyes with magics and sweep you away.”
“Fools, then. The only glamour I’ll be following is the one of a pretty girl.” He released her hand. “I’ll bet you had the boys traipsing around after you, not so long ago.”
That caught her off stride and then she cackled. “Oh, I did, I did!” She winked at him.
“That doesna surprise me at all. I can still see it in you. Now get in out of the sun before the heat does you in, aye?”
She poked a bony finger into his ribs. “I’ll go, but you tell them for us. Tell them they can’t be taking our children off on wild hunts for nothing!”
“I will.”
He watched her leave, a sway to her hobbled walk, her head in the air, before he returned to his place on the hall steps. She took a handful and more with her, all complaining about the elven yet agreeing that it would do no good to bake their heads any more in the heat. As his wide-brimmed hat soon provided the only shade and he watched the crowd from under it, they all began to drift away. They would be back, he knew, in the evening hours after supper and a cup or two of courage and bitterness, to shout at the hall and its inhabitants again. At least he didn’t have to stand boot-deep in rotting vegetables and fruit that day.
Buttennoff came by perhaps a candlemark later, judging from the slow ascent of the sun, with a knotted cloth napkin, and a mug in his hand. Hailing Hosmer, he passed the bundles over. “Your mother sent you lunch.”
“From the shop? How kind of her.”
Buttennoff grunted. They both knew he’d been at the brewery to talk to Nutmeg and had taken the lunch from there, as Lily spent every daylight hour at the shop. “How are my sisters today?”