The Queen of Mages (38 page)

The young man with barely a fuzz on his
cheeks, but he had coin, and he was so terrified—

The dead-eyed captain who came in as regular
as the tide, did his business and left without a word—

The blacksmith, who wore a cloak and hood as
he crept into the brothel, thinking no one would recognize him, but
who did he think he was fooling? He declared over and over that his
wife was cuckolding him, so this was only fair—

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“You can, and you will, if you want my
assistance. I’ve already given you more than you’ve earned. I could
have held close the news that your lady still lives, and Lord
Dardan. I could have told you nothing, and put you with the caravan
tomorrow with no explanation, or let you stay here to rot, or
simply put you out. I could have turned you over to the Warden, at
no cost to myself.” He took her hand, not roughly, not cruelly,
just a simple touch. “I require only this. Believe me, it will not
take long.”

Katin felt encased in ice.
Escape. Amira.
East.
Had anyone missed her? Being called up to the lord’s
bedchamber at night must surely have raised an eyebrow. No; Parvis
had his reputation. No one would care. Liam would never know; the
other servants would have been ordered to stay silent.
Liam
never has to know.

And if I refuse? He’ll turn us in. Back to
Elibarran, to the dark cells, never to see light again. Edon will
return, and he’ll burn us with his terrible gaze.

Baron Parvis spoke, startling her. “This
offer does not last forever,” he said testily. “You need not enjoy
it. You need only do it.”

“Isn’t there another way?” She almost sobbed
the words. Parvis’s silent glower was her answer.

A matching silence filled her mind. Then she
prayed.
Terror. Sacrifice. Caretaker, protect me.

Katin took a step forward.

———

The wagons sat in a circle in the town
square of Elmsburn, closed up tight against the night’s chill. All
the trading would have been done by sundown. Large shapes moved
through the darkness: caravan guards, watchful eyes in the
dark.

Katin sat atop the borrowed palfrey, holding
perfectly still.
Susan Smith. Nothing bad ever happened to Susan
Smith.
Liam sat atop Bandit a few yards away, the stallion
whickering irritably at having been denied sleep. Baron Parvis had
graciously lent Katin a horse, saying that speed was of the essence
and that they should not take the risk of a single horse carrying
two riders in the dark, even over well-travelled country roads.
Katin could not have stood to ride double with Liam, and so she
felt grateful to Parvis. That gratitude made her want to vomit.

Now they waited, concealed between two low
wooden buildings on the edge of the square. Marten, the
valo
, was a hulking shadow watching the rear approach, just
in case. They had no reason to suspect anyone might be trailing
them, but there was no sense in being lax.

Parvis had gone alone to the caravan master
to arrange their passage. He carried a fat purse—ostensibly to pay
for two new “apprentices” to join the wagon, but it was little more
than a bribe. The caravan master would rightly wonder about being
asked to take on two more hands in the dark of night, but such men
lived by the shine of gold only. If the purse was fat enough…

She sensed something, and looked aside at
Liam. He was staring at her. The faint glow of distant lanterns
barely illuminated his face. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

Katin nodded and looked away.
Susan is
all right.
She wanted Parvis to return, for them to be gone,
for this to be over. They could still be caught. The caravan master
might grow suspicious and decide to alert the town constables, who
would send for the Warden at once. Her breath came shallow, drawing
her attention inward, a bitter reminder of a price paid.

Just a transaction. His coin’s as good as
any man’s.
She bit her lip to fight the tears.

There came hoofsteps and a black silhouette
ambling toward them. She recognized the shape of Parvis atop his
horse. He stopped close. “It is done. Master Coalridge will take
you on. I should not have to remind you how unwise it would be for
you to return here.”

Liam bowed as low as he could atop Bandit.
“Baron Parvis, we are forever in your debt.” He dismounted and
helped Katin down as well. The horses would have to stay in
Hedenham, but Parvis had given them a few changes of clothing and a
battered leather trunk to carry them in.

“Hardly true at all,” the baron said. He
glanced at Katin. “In fact, should you encounter Lady Calys, you
should thank her.”

“M’lord? For what?”

“Why, it was House Tarian who provided the
funds for this little adventure of yours.” He chuckled, then rode
between her and Liam. He and his
valo
were gone within
moments, taking Bandit and the borrowed palfrey with them.

Katin felt sick, but the pain she knew was
written on her face would be invisible in the darkness.
That
bastard told me he paid for it. But this didn’t cost him a
thing—never mind, Susan Smith doesn’t care, Susan Smith knows
nothing about it.

Liam squeezed Katin’s hand. She let her
fingers slide through his, not feeling anything. “Are you ready?”
he asked.

She nodded, lifted her end of the trunk, and
took a step forward.
Is the debt repaid now?

A hulking caravan guard held up a hand at
their approach. “Who goes there?”

“New apprentices,” Liam called softly. “To
see Master Coalridge.”

The guard peered at them. “The wagon with
the lantern.” He watched them pass.

Caravan wagons were always brightly painted,
but in the dark they all looked shades of gray. On the back step of
one of them sat a man, squat and broad. He stood up at their
approach, hefting a lantern. “You two the ones he sent?” he
growled.

Liam nodded, bowing a little. “I’m Oliver
Smith, and this is my wife, Susan.” New names, new pasts, iron
marriage rings to complete the illusion. Katin curtseyed.
I am
Susan Smith.
“You must be Master Coalridge,” Liam added.

“Aye. You two had best get within. There’s a
bunk in the laundry wagon you can share.” He hopped off the step
and led them on.

The caravan’s horses stood haphazardly in
the pen made by the circle of wagons, sleeping. Coalridge showed
the “Smiths” to a wagon, larger than the rest, crammed to the brim
with gear. Katin couldn’t make out most of it. On either side were
bunks stacked two high, barely wide enough for Liam and Katin to
share one. Shapeless lumps covered in blankets occupied three of
the bunks, snoring soundly.

“We leave at dawn. You’ll get your jobs
tomorrow. Don’t wake no one.” Coalridge stared at them for a moment
longer, and patted at his coat, making something clink. He went
out, shutting the wagon door.

Liam put the battered leather trunk atop a
crate. He offered her the bunk. “There’s some linens here I can lie
on. Won’t be too bad.”

Husband. Just pretend.
“No. A married
couple would share,” she whispered. Liam hesitated, then nodded and
started to undress.

The bunk’s thin straw mattress was little
comfort, but better than the cold stone floor of a pitch-black
cell. The crunch of boots on dry dirt marked the passage of guards
outside. Katin counted their circuits for a while, until sleep came
to drive away her uncertainty.

Mason Iris walked over a field of ash, his
black cloak sweeping the dust behind him. A day ago, this had all
been buildings, homes, shops. Valjödl, the town had been called,
according to a survivor Mason had found. Not that his knowledge of
the Vaslander tongue was of any real use. King Edon didn’t care
what the towns were called. The Garovan soldiers gave each one
names like “Speartop” or “Brownwall,” whatever convenient
appellation let them distinguish this smoking ruin from the
last.

There was nothing left here but blackened
timbers and burned corpses. Edon hadn’t even sent a demand of
surrender. He just rode up, his knights and Wardens around him, and
began blasting away. It had taken him perhaps ten minutes to level
half the town, and by then fires had started, from upended candles,
hearthfires, cookpots, forges. The flames took care of the rest. A
few Vaslanders made it out, running and screaming, cut down by
Garovan outriders if they were unlucky enough to flee toward the
invading army.

Edon and his army had been in Vasland more
than a week. Against the thousands of dead Vaslanders, the Garovans
had lost no more than a handful of men. The fortresses in the high
passes of the Black Mountains had fallen first, their colossal
stone walls crumbling before Edon’s wrath. Once they passed into
Vasland proper, they’d found a morass of Vaslanders who’d come
together for some sort of convocation. The other men all agreed
with Edon that the Vaslanders were obviously preparing to invade
Garova, but to Mason they seemed disorganized—it was more like some
sort of communal gathering. There were too many women, too many
children and old souls for it to be a proper army.

But they’d seen the Garovans approaching and
massed together by tribe, screaming for blood. One by one the
tribes fell, their warriors thrown screaming into the air by the
colossal thunderclaps that Edon could summon. The more observant
Vaslanders turned and scattered into the forests and plains beyond.
Edon marched after them, annihilating every village or holdfast he
came across, in case Vaslander warriors had taken refuge there.

There were four Wardens with the Garovan
army, and Edon kept them close. Mason was the least senior of the
four. His counsel was not sought by the other Wardens, the king’s
knights, or the king himself. So he found himself with little to
do, and after each battle—if such one-sided massacres could be
called battles—he rode through the ruins of whatever town or
village it had been, wondering who had lived there, what ordinary
business they had been engaged in before the unstoppable Garovans
destroyed them.

Edon had more than made his point, Mason
thought. At least Mason hadn’t been ordered to murder helpless
villagers himself, but this whole journey was an insult to the very
purpose of Wardens. Wardens were defenders, holy guardians,
bringers of justice. This was nothing more than brute
slaughter.

He kept his anger confined in a dark ember,
counting the bodies by rote until the stench of death drove him
back to his horse. Hawthorn snuffled and bumped him with his muzzle
as he came close, and he scratched the white stallion behind the
ears for a while.

He rode out of the smoldering town, back to
where the main body of Edon’s host was camped. The men were in good
spirits; despite the frisson of terror that rippled through them
whenever Edon used his power, they were all glad to be on the
winning side. Many of them waved and cheered at Mason as he passed,
even though he’d done nothing but sit by Edon’s side and watch as
the king single-handedly wiped out their enemies.

Wardens of Aendavar were, among other
things, supposed to inspire the rank and file soldiers, and so he
waved and saluted back as he passed. Wardens sometimes joked that
you could put a scarecrow in a Warden’s armor, and every garrison
for a hundred miles around would burst with pride. Mason’s first
days in Vasland had been exciting by virtue of their strangeness,
but now he felt as hollow as a scarecrow.

Hawthorn’s meandering brought Mason across
the eldest of the Wardens with the army: Harlan Carver, a bitter
gray crag of a man who was easily twice Mason’s age. He had nothing
but contempt for Mason, and after he’d chewed Mason out twice in as
many days—for daring to offer his opinion in councils—Mason worked
hard to stay away from the man.

“What’re ye about?” Carver growled at him,
reining his own horse to a halt. The beast snuffled in the cold
air, and seemed to eye Hawthorn with as much distaste as Carver did
Mason.

“Nothing in particular. Am I needed?” Mason
kept his tone even. He longed to snarl back at Carver, but kept it
reined in.

“Stay away from th’ king’s tent. He’s in a
mood, an’ I don’t need yer foolishness givin’ ’im fits.” Carver
spat at the ground and wheeled his stallion away.

Mason had been generally drifting toward the
command tent and was glad for the excuse to avoid it. It certainly
made it harder to gather information on the king’s doings, as he’d
been commanded to do, but he could not feel anything besides
pleasure in avoiding Edon.
The fire-breather.

Even the men who adored Edon still whispered
worriedly in the night about him. This strange power of his
unnerved many stout men. Mason was perhaps more intrigued than
terrified, but even he felt torn between obedience to his king, and
a strong desire to destroy what was clearly a power not of this
earthly realm.

But who could stand against Edon? Could
Mason’s master, the Warden-Commander of the Order? Jeremiah
Ebersbach had been Warden-Commander longer than Mason had been
alive and had not survived so long by taking bold risks. When
Edon’s grandfather, Viktor I, had ordered the Wardens into battle
against the Vaslander invaders, Ebersbach had refused. Wardens were
not soldiers; they had a higher purpose. Viktor had nearly had his
head, but somehow Ebersbach stood his ground and prevented the
Wardens from being sent to die en masse.

When Edon had brought blood and fire to
Callaston and seized the crown, no one had been surprised that
Ebersbach had ordered every Warden in the city to retreat to the
Bastion. Ebersbach would not let them get caught up in the madness
of the succession.

That matter had barely been settled when the
king departed the city again, at the head of a small force, only a
few hundred men. He’d returned a while later, followed by rumors of
some sort of battle in Hedenham County.

Upon his arrival, Edon had sent for a pair
of Wardens to serve as his new bodyguards. Apparently even great
knights like Gaelan Thoriss would not suffice to protect the king
now. Ebersbach had dispatched Mason and one other to attend the
king. But before they left, he brought them into his study at the
Bastion of Spirit, and told them in quiet, firm tones that they
were to report back to him on the king’s actions.

The Warden-Commander reported to the Army
Council, and the Army Council reported to the king, so to have
individual Wardens spying like this was something an unkind king
might construe as treason. Ebersbach knew the value of
intelligence, and deemed it worth the risk. Mason was not
comfortable with it, but he would not disobey his lawful
commander.

The other Warden so dispatched was Eben
Ogden, a middle-aged man who affected calm at all times, even when
that vein in his temple pulsed angrily. And by chance here he came,
walking along a muddy row of tents, sword at his side and a thick
walking staff in his hand. He waved up at Mason.

There was no need to ride here, deep in the
camp. Mason dismounted and fell in alongside Ogden, drawing
Hawthorn along by the reins. The two Wardens chatted amiably for a
few moments, but then Ogden came to a stop and eyed Mason.
“Something is on your mind.”

Mason looked south over the rows of tents.
He could see the Black Mountains as a shimmering gray band on the
distant horizon. “Is our service to the king, or the
Caretaker?”

Ogden paused before responding. He always
did that; Mason envied him and had been trying to emulate him,
trying to squash his habit of blurting out his thoughts. “I believe
our service is to the Caretaker, through obedience to our
king.”

Mason frowned. That was not what he’d
expected. “I do not understand why the Caretaker would countenance
the slaughter of so many innocents.”

Ogden shrugged a little and went a few more
steps before answering. “The Vaslanders do not share our gods. Even
the Caretaker cannot attend to all things.”

“Maybe he has ceded the world to Edon and
his like,” Mason bit out.

Ogden came to a stop and caught Mason’s eye.
“Your tone suggests something.”

“I suggest nothing,” Mason snapped, feeling
himself flush. He’d grown to feel a kinship with other Wardens,
even those he did not like, and was more open with them. “Edon’s
power is unnatural. Why does the Caretaker allow it?”

“It is enough that he does allow it,” Ogden
said evenly. He put a hand on Mason’s shoulder, which was probably
supposed to be reassuring or supportive, but Mason found it
patronizing. He barely managed to keep himself from shrugging it
off. “Take solace in that the Caretaker has put you and Edon on the
same side. Else you might be dead, and what good can the dead
do?”

Mason waited, chagrined, until Ogden took
his hand away and strode off. The older Warden stopped after a few
steps. “His majesty has decreed that the army will return to Garova
tomorrow at first light, by way of Thorncross. Perhaps the Aspect
of Despair has heard your prayers.”

Despair. Mason wondered again what madness
had made him choose that Aspect when he took his holy vows. Each
Warden chose an Aspect to represent him; it focused one’s approach
to serving in the Order. Most Wardens chose Courage or Sacrifice;
others, Wrath or Chaos. Ardor and Joy were too feminine, and
Wardens choosing those would be mocked. Terror was seen as
cowardly.

Despair, to Mason, was realism.
Death
stalks us all, and even the luckiest men witness it no less than
once in their lives.
Hope and beauty were all well and good,
but it would never do to forget the sorrow that could be wrought
upon the world.

His thoughts returned to Valjödl. It seemed
that Mason’s only use on this campaign was to give silent prayers
for the innocent dead.

———

Several nights later, the army camped off
the road in Cold Hills County. The men were thrilled to be back in
Garova, and even King Edon did not seem to mind the boisterous
singing that sprang up after supper each evening.

It would be another two or three days to
Thorncross. Mason had never been there, but he’d studied. He knew
that House Arkhail had ruled it for centuries, since even before
they’d raised the unyielding fortress of Thornstar on the hill
above the town. He also knew that Duke Loram Arkhail was dead,
killed in the fighting that had followed Edon’s return to
Callaston.

What did Edon want in Thorncross? Did he
mean to eradicate the rest of House Arkhail? The thought chilled
Mason’s blood. Whatever perfidy Duke Loram might have committed in
the days after Edon’s coup, surely the Arkhails in Thorncross could
not have had anything to do with it. They couldn’t even have
learned of Edon’s return by the time Loram died.

Mason absently walked the camp perimeter as
he contemplated this. Sitting in his tent held no appeal for him;
the canvas walls closed in on his mind, and he had already seen
enough of despair on the chill plains of Vasland.

A shape loomed up out of the darkness and
grunted at him. “Majesty wants us. All o’ us.” It was Harlan
Carver. He spun on his heel and stalked away without even waiting
for Mason to reply.

Mason found his way to the king’s tent. He
seemed to be the last to arrive; the other Wardens were all there,
along with every other knight and noble who’d come along. One of
those was Sir Edvan Eltasi of the Army Council. Edvan was one of
the three knights responsible for the whole of the king’s army, and
a grandson of the Eltasi clan; quite well-placed. Even Mason
understood that his presence wasn’t needed to oversee a force of
just a few thousand men. His majesty had clearly wanted his
highest-ranking soldiers to witness exactly what his power could
do.

Edon was reading something, and after a
moment he tossed the parchment down onto a table. He stared around
at them, eyes flicking from man to man. Mason could almost taste
the tension in the air. “We’ll be at Thorncross soon, and then off
to Callaston. Now that Vasland is dealt with, I must turn my
attention to my next task. You are all aware of the power I wield.
You may not be aware that I am not the only one who has it.”

Murmurs swept the room, but Mason kept
quiet. There had been endless speculation; no one really thought
that Edon would be the only man with this strange power of his. He
must have learned it from somewhere, which meant someone else had
it too.

Mason glanced around. Sir Edvan stared
silently at the table. Harlan Carver glowered suspiciously, as if
there might be others in that very tent who could cause explosions
like the king could. Most of the men in the room did not look at
their king.

Edon gave the mutterings a moment to
subside, and went on. “It is obvious that those with such power
cannot be left to their own devices. They must be gathered, and
brought under my aegis in Callaston. To that end, I will be
dispatching parties to seek and gather such folk.”

Mason gasped, saved only by the fact that
several others did also. Some of them tried to cover it up with
sudden coughing fits, which would have made Mason laugh… if what
Edon was suggesting wasn’t so appalling. To gather more like him
all in one place? Mason could not think of a worse idea.