Then Thalia forcibly stepped away, pain and resolve warring in her expression. “Tell my father I love him. And I will do him and the Blades proud. I swear it.”
“You have already, Thalia guai,” Batu said, blinking. After dragging his sleeve across his eyes, he strode hastily from the ger, as if afraid another moment would see him disgraced.
Now Gabriel and Thalia were alone in the ger. They stared at each other for a moment before he crossed over to her and put his arms around her. She felt strong and alive. They knew what the Source was now, and what they had to do with it. The Heirs would be coming, and they would be desperate. Which meant they would do anything to claim the Source for themselves. Including killing anyone, even a woman, who stood in their way.
He was glad women weren’t soldiers. If he’d fallen in love with a female soldier, each day in the army, each day facing death, would’ve been hell, knowing that a precious life could be lost.
“Don’t try to send me with him,” she said, willful.
“I want to, yes,” Gabriel answered, and when she started to protest, he continued, over her objections, “but I won’t try. It’s your right to protect the Source. Just as it’s my right to protect you, whether you want that protection or not.”
Her expression softened as she linked her fingers behind his neck. “I wish I knew what tomorrow might bring. I wish I knew we had a future together.”
For the first time in a long while, Gabriel understood what a torture it was to want a future. Especially knowing there was a high degree of likelihood that it wouldn’t come to pass. In war, there were always casualties. All he could try to do was make sure that she wasn’t one of them.
Wars required soldiers, and Henry Lamb knew that he, Edgeworth, and Tsend, even driven as they were, made up a piss-poor, meager army. To that end, Lamb had dispatched Tsend to find them a decently sized batch of mercenaries. The Mongol had grumbled about being sent on such a menial task, but Lamb needed to punish the bastard for failing to win the ruby.
Turned out that the ruby wasn’t the Source after all. Ironic, that. The enchanted hawk that Lamb had circling the herdsmen’s settlement had kept Lamb and Edgeworth partially informed. He’d seen it himself, albeit from a distance, when the hunting eagles had nearly torn themselves from their perches when presented with the genuine Source. Definitely strong power there, perhaps the strongest Lamb had ever seen. As Lamb sat at his folding camp desk, penning a letter to the Heirs back in England, he wondered how to best phrase, “The Source is a grubby old tea kettle,” in a way that didn’t sound completely ludicrous, or, worse, make him look like a buffoon.
Hell, he hadn’t gone to Cambridge for nothing. Lamb managed to cram several polysyllabic words into a few sentences, obfuscating the truth just enough so that the higher members of the Heirs’ inner circle would consider Lamb, and themselves, very clever. It was a trick Lamb had mastered years ago at King’s College, and even earlier, when he’d written letters to home while at Harrow.
“Where the hell is that filthy bugger?” snapped Edgeworth, pacing.
Lamb blotted his letter with a grimace. He felt honor-bound to correct Edgeworth’s abominable swearing habit, but knew he couldn’t cross the younger man. His father was too important to make an enemy of the son. Besides, Lamb needed to stay in Jonas Edgeworth’s good graces. As soon as they returned in triumph to England, Lamb planned on calling on Edgeworth’s sister, the cumbersomely named Victoria Regina Gloriana London Harcourt, née Edgeworth, and more familiarly known as London. She was a pretty woman, perhaps a little too clever, but kept ignorant of the existence of the Heirs through scrupulous manipulation. London’s husband, Lawrence Harcourt, had been an Heir, and it had been on an assignment three years ago that Harcourt had died at the hands of a Blade, Bennett Day. London never learned the details of her husband’s death. If Lamb could secure the widow London’s hand in marriage, he’d be that much closer to Joseph Edgeworth and the inner circle.
With that in mind, Lamb was careful to keep his tone unruffled. “He’ll be here soon with the men we need.” Lamb rose and walked with the letter to their campfire. He reached into his pocket and produced a sprinkling of dried flowers.
“But the Burgess bitch and that tyke soldier are already on the road,” Edgeworth complained. He pointed to the seeing mirror, which indeed revealed Thalia Burgess, the Yorkshireman, and a dozen Mongols riding south, toward the desert. “We don’t know where they’re headed, and we’re out of spells and Sources to slow them down.”
Lamb tossed the letter and flowers into the fire at the same time. The letter curled up quickly, then disappeared in a small cascade of glowing ash. It would reach its destination within hours: a continual fire, burning in the study of the Heirs’ headquarters in London. Such communication was kept to a minimum, since the dried flowers that enabled the spell were exceedingly rare, but Lamb knew that the inner circle would need to know about the latest development in the pursuit of the Mongolian Source.
“The imbeciles only use magic which belongs to themselves, pretty puny stuff, so it stands to reason that they’re going to try to take the Source someplace safe, someplace they believe we won’t be able to breach,” Lamb explained to his short-tempered protégé. “It’s true, I don’t know where that might be, but it doesn’t signify. We’ll catch them before they secret it away. They are merely a bunch of sheepherders led by a woman, with some brute of a common soldier providing muscle. Nothing to fuss about.”
Any further complaint from Edgeworth was drowned out in the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Both Lamb and Edgeworth watched as Tsend rode up. Mongols were largely, and disgustingly, loyal to their homeland, and Lamb had entertained not a little fear that Tsend would be unable to find men desperate and greedy enough to betray their motherland. But gold always seemed to unearth the rapacious, like pigs rooting in shit.
“Where are the men?” Lamb snapped, looking past Tsend.
Wordlessly, Tsend pointed down the road. What Lamb saw there made him truly smile for the first time in weeks, and even Edgeworth shuddered.
Gabriel had been lulled into a false sense of calm. For those few, brief days with Bold’s tribe, he hadn’t been a campaigning soldier. There were those incredible, but brief, hours with Thalia that reminded him he was a man. True, competing in the nadaam hadn’t exactly been a seaside holiday, but Gabriel had been focused on one goal at a time, instead of keeping constant vigilance. The way he was doing now, back on the road, racing toward uncertainty with enemies in pursuit.
Or so he believed. “One of the bloody frustrating things about the Heirs,” he growled to Thalia riding beside him, “is that you can never see them until it’s too late.”
“I’d say that maybe they aren’t following us,” she said, “but that would be hopelessly naïve. But I have to ask: are you sure?”
Gabriel glanced around. They were moving too quickly for him to do proper reconnaissance, which scorched his sausage. How was he supposed to protect Thalia and the Source if he couldn’t get a feel for the land, or sniff out those inbred Heirs? It was enough to make a man chew on his own bullets.
“They’re out there,” he said. “Thanks to their damned magic, I don’t know where, exactly, but they’re on our tail.”
“It’s been nearly a week since we left,” Thalia pointed out. It had been endless hard riding until the horses were half-dead. The end of each day saw Thalia, Gabriel, and their escort collapsing into brief, exhausted sleep; then they rose before dawn to ride even more. It had been tough going, but no one, including Thalia, had complained. Gabriel’s body, on the other hand, was grumbling something fierce, being so near to her but denied the pleasures of her skin.
“Doesn’t matter. Maybe they’re gathering strength. Maybe they’re playing with us. Any of that could be possible.” He tightened his jaw. “I hate running away instead of standing and fighting.”
“We’re not running away,” she answered. “This is a…strategic retreat.”
His smile was wry. “You sound like a commissioned officer covering his arse.”
“Commissioned?” She snorted. “Hardly.”
“That’s right. You’re too smart.” He said, thoughtful, “You’d have made a first-rate soldier.” But he was glad she hadn’t been.
Thalia laughed quietly. “I can’t take orders, or haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve noticed.” And he liked it.
Had Batu reached Urga by now? Gabriel tried to imagine what the servant was telling Franklin Burgess, not only about the quest for the Source and its uncovering in the most unlikely place, but about him and Burgess’s daughter. He didn’t know how someone told a man that his daughter had taken a lover. Seemed deuced uncomfortable. But what about the return? Gabriel wouldn’t let himself think of what would happen after the Source had been brought back to the Chinese monastery. If he did, he would start having hope, making plans—both surefire ways to meet disaster and pain.
The best way to avoid that was to stay on guard. That proved difficult with long days in the saddle and not a single opportunity to be alone with Thalia. Their riding company was all men, and while Gabriel didn’t think any of them would blame him for sharing her pallet for the night, he sure as hell didn’t want to treat any of them to listening to a rendition of that particular sound Thalia made, high, in the back of her throat, moments before she came.
Gabriel then treated himself to the longest and most elaborate streak of mental cursing he’d ever embarked upon. He couldn’t let himself remember the sounds she made, or he’d lose his godforsaken mind.
In his saddlebag was not just the kettle, but the ruby, as well. Both objects weighed on him constantly. Just before he’d left Bold and his tribe, the chieftain had reminded him that the ruby was still his and Thalia’s charge for the year. Which meant that it would have to be guarded and returned. Gabriel was no stranger to duty and responsibility, but he felt himself stretched thin. He wouldn’t allow himself to break.
After a few more days, the grassy steppes began to disappear, replaced by long stretches of rocky, scrub-dusted plains. Whatever moisture was in the air vanished just as the greenery did. It wasn’t hot, but light bounced off the arid earth, and biting winds raced unimpeded to choke them with dust. Still, it was beautiful, the way a knife was beautiful, spare and brutal in its precision. Gazelles, white-tailed and spry, leapt in herds like laughter, or grazed on the scarce grasses. Their curious black stares followed the group as they kept up their tough pace. Overhead, falcons wheeled in the sky. They had been keeping constant company with the riding group, only sometimes diving down to snatch tiny, unlucky prey from the plain.
“Amazing anything can live out here,” Gabriel said to Thalia.
“People do, too,” she answered. “If life on the steppe is hard, the Gobi is harder. And this is just the outlying lands. I’ve never traveled so deep into it before.”
“Suppose that puts us on equal footing, then.” He smiled.
“You have no equal, Captain.”
They had just crossed a rock-strewn rise, when Gabriel wheeled his horse around. The other riders cantered on, but Thalia stopped and brought her horse back. Both mounts stamped impatiently, edging back and forth.
“What is it?” Thalia asked as Gabriel stared at the sky.
“Birds.”
She followed his gaze. “There are always hawks and falcons.”
He shook his head. “Something’s not right. Feels like they’ve been following us.” He took a spyglass from his saddlebag and trained it on the birds of prey. “I could swear they look familiar.” He handed her the glass, and she looked as well, but could only shrug her shoulders.
“I can’t recognize them.”
Gabriel couldn’t shake the feeling, a cold awareness prickling his scalp underneath his hat. Even as his horse tugged on the reins, impatient to join the rest of the group riding southeast, he kept scanning the sky, the horizon. Both the sky and the earth felt immense, stretching into eternity. Nothing could hide here. Except—
“There!” The shimmering surface of the ground danced in waves, then broke for a moment, revealing the truth beneath.
“Oh, my God,” Thalia breathed, standing up in the stirrups.
No need for a spyglass. Even a nearsighted clerk could see them. Only a few miles away and headed straight for Thalia and Gabriel. With nothing between them except rock and scrub.
“They bought themselves a whole damned army,” Gabriel spat.
He’d anticipated that, in their push to claim the Source, the Heirs would find a handful of men to add to their strength. Instead, hammering across the stark earth like vengeance itself was a thick, dark swarm of riders.
“How many?” Thalia asked.
A quick calculation. “Seventy-five, maybe more.” Gabriel glanced over to where their own Mongol complement had stopped, waiting for Thalia and him to catch up. Two dozen men of their own, and, despite their willingness to fight for and defend their home, likely no match for nearly a legion of mercenaries. Mercenaries fueled by greed and magic.
Without another word, he and Thalia kicked their horses into gallops, heading as quickly away as the already tired animals would allow. Gabriel’s mind raced faster than the horses as he cursed himself. He’d no idea how long the Heirs had been following them, and, had he known, wouldn’t have let them get this close. There was no way to outride them. No way to lose them. The land was too flat, leaving no place to hide. Maybe, if he…