Since childhood Phoria had despised Aralain's timidity and reliance on others. She'd have ignored her completely if Aralain had not been the only one who'd managed to produce an heir to the throne. Her eldest, Elani, was now a tractable girl of thirteen.
"I don't understand why you're so opposed to this plan of Mother's," Aralain said at last, arching her brows in that annoying way she had when she wanted to be taken seriously.
"Because it will fail," Phoria snapped. "The Aurenfaie insulted our honor with their Edict of Separation. Now we're giving them another opportunity, and at the worst possible time. When we most need to appear strong, we're seen running for help from those least
likely to give it. Their refusal will almost certainly cost us Mycena."
"But the necromancers—?"
Phoria gave a derisive snort. "I haven't met the necromancer yet that good Skalan steel can't deal with. We've grown too dependent on wizards. These past few years Mother's been ruled more and more by them—first Nysander, and now Magyana. Mark my words, this fool's gamble is her doing!"
Phoria was nearly shouting by the time she'd finished and was pleased to see Aralain properly cowed. Kor had stopped pacing, too, and was watching her warily. Womb mates they might be, but she never let him forget who held the power. Satisfied, she forced a thin smile and went back to her wine. A few minutes later, a soft scratching came at the tent flap.
"Come!" she called.
Captain Traneus stepped inside and saluted. The man was only twenty-four, considerably younger than most of her personal staff, but he'd proven remarkably close-mouthed, loyal, and eager for preferment—a most useful combination—and she'd groomed him as a second set of eyes and ears. In turn, he had amassed a useful cadre of informants.
"I kept watch as you ordered, General," he reported. "Magyana returned to the queen's tent under cover of darkness. I also heard the voices of two men inside: Thero and the drysian."
"Could you hear what was said?"
"Some of it, General. I fear the queen's health is worse than we've been led to believe. And Commander Klia is having doubts as to whether she is equal to the task the queen has set for her." He paused, shifting uncomfortably under Phoria's probing gaze.
"Was there something more?" she demanded curtly.
Traneus fixed his gaze somewhere on the tent wall behind her. "It was difficult to make out the queen's voice, General, yet from what I was able to hear, Idrilain believes the commander is the only one of her children capable of carrying out the mission."
Phoria's fingers clenched momentarily on the arms of her chair, but she schooled herself to patience. Much as the words rankled, she knew they would only strengthen her position with the others. Korathan's face had darkened. Aralain was studying her fingernails.
"The queen plans to send Lord Seregil with Klia," Traneus added. "Apparently Magyana knows where to find him and that young man of his."
"Mother's pet Aurenfaie brought back to heel, eh?" Phoria sneered.
"Don't be hateful," Aralain murmured. "He was always kind to us. If Mother didn't mind that he left when the war began, why should you? It's not as if he'd have been any use as a soldier."
"And good riddance!" Phoria muttered. "The man was a sensualist and a fop. He clung to rich young nobles like a tick to a dog's back. How much of your gold did he help spend, Kor?" He shrugged. "He was an amusing fellow, in his own peculiar way. I imagine he'll do well enough as an interpreter."
"Keep a close eye on my mother and her visitors, Captain," Phoria ordered.
Saluting, Traneus disappeared back into the night.
"Seregil?" Korathan mused. "I wonder what Lord Torsin thinks of that? He's more of your opinion, as I recall."
"I can't imagine Seregil's people will be in any hurry to welcome him back, either," Phoria agreed, dismissing the matter. "Now, as for this mission of Klia's, we'll want an observer of our own among the company."
"Your man Traneus?" suggested Aralain with her usual lack of imagination.
Phoria spared her a withering glance. "Or perhaps we should begin with someone Klia trusts, someone she'll speak openly around."
"And someone in a position to send dispatches," Korathan added.
"Who, then?" asked Aralain.
Phoria arched a knowing eyebrow. "Oh, I have one or two people in mind."
2
An Unexpected Summons
Beka Cavish paced the ship's foredeck, scanning the western horizon for the first dark line marking Skala's northeast territories. It had been a week since they'd ridden out from Idrilain's camp; it might be another before they rejoined Klia for the voyage south and she didn't take well to inactivity. She plucked absently at the new gorget hanging at the throat of her green regimental tunic. The captain's brass seemed to sit more heavily against her chest than the plain steel crescent of lieutenant. She'd been perfectly content leading her turma and they'd made a name for themselves as raiders behind the enemy's lines: Urgazhi, "wolf demons"—bestowed on them by the enemy during the early days of the war. They wore the epithet as a badge of honor, but it had been dearly bought. Of the thirty riders under her command today, only half had come through those days and knew the truth behind the silly ballads sung across Skala and Mycena, knew where the fallen bodies of their comrades lay along the Plenimaran frontier.
The turma was at full strength now for the first time in months, thanks to this mission. Never mind that some of the newer recruits had only just lost their milk teeth, as Sergeant Braknil liked to say. Perhaps, Sakor willing,
they could be taught a thing or two before they all found themselves back in battle.
Less than a month before, Urgazhi Turma had been slogging through frozen Mycenian swamps, and even that was better than some fighting they'd seen.
Fighting across windswept sea ledges, the waves red with blood about their feet.
Beka leaned on the rail, watching a school of dolphins leaping ahead of the prow. The closer she came to seeing Seregil and Alec again, the more the memories of their last parting after the defeat of Duke Mardus rose to haunt her.
That brief battle had cost her father the use of his leg, Nysander his life, and Seregil his sanity for a time. Months later she'd had a letter from her father, saying that Seregil and Alec had quit Rhiminee for good. Now that she knew the reason, she wasn't so sure arriving with a decuria of riders was the best way to coax them home.
She gripped the rail, willing those thoughts away. She had work to do, work that for at least a little while was sending her back to those she loved best.
Two Gulls was barely large enough to merit the title of village. One poor inn, a ramshackle temple, and a dicer's throw of shacks clustered around a little dent of a harbor. Micum Cavish had spent a lifetime passing through such places, wandering on his own or on Watcher business with Seregil.
These past few years he'd stuck close to home, nursing his bad leg and watching his children grow. He'd enjoyed it, too, much to his wife's delight, but this journey had reminded him just how much he missed the open road. It was good to find out that he still knew instinctively where to show gold and where to guard his purse.
Five days earlier a mud-spattered messenger had ridden into the courtyard at Watermead, bearing news that the queen required his service and that of Seregil and Alec. It fell to him to talk his friends out of their self-imposed exile. The best news, however, had been that his eldest girl, Beka, was alive, whole, and on her way home from the war to act as his escort.
Within the hour, he was on the road with a sword at his side and pack on his back, heading for a village he'd never heard of until that day.
Just like old times.
Sitting here now on a bench in front of the nameless inn, hat brim
pulled down over his eyes, he considered the task ahead. Alec would listen to reason, but a whole troop of soldiers wouldn't be enough if Seregil dug his heels in.
"Sir, sir!" a reedy voice called. "Wake up, sir. Your ship's coming in!"<
br />
Micum pushed his hat back and watched with amusement as his excitable lookout, a lad of ten, came scampering up the muddy street. It was the third such announcement of the day.
"Are you sure it's the right one this time?" he asked, then winced as he stood. Even after a day's rest, the scarred muscles behind his right thigh ached more than he cared to admit. The wounds left on a man by a dyrmagnos went deep, even after the flesh healed.
"Look, sir. You can see the banner," the boy insisted. "Crossed swords under a crown on a green field, just like you said. There's Queen's Horse Guard aboard, all right."
Micum squinted out across the cove. A few years back, he wouldn't have had to.
Damn, I'm getting old!
The boy was right this time, though. Taking up his walking stick, Micum followed him down to the shore.
The ship dropped anchor in deep water and longboats were lowered. A small crowd had gathered already, chatting excitedly as they watched the soldiers row in.
Micum grinned again as he caught sight of a redheaded officer standing in the prow of the lead boat. Old eyes or not, he knew his Beka when he saw her. She spotted him, too, and let out a happy whoop that echoed across the water.
At a distance, it was easy to see the girl she'd been when she'd left home to join the regiment, all long legs and enthusiasm. From here, she looked too slight to bear the weight of chain mail and weapons, but he knew better. Beka had never been frail.
As the longboat drew closer, however, the illusion dissolved. A mix of authority and ease emanated from her as she shared some joke with a tall rider standing just behind her.
She has what she always wanted, he thought with a rush of bittersweet pride. Just shy of twenty-two, she was a battle-scarred officer in one of Skala's finest regiments, and one of the queen's most daring raiders.
It hadn't given her airs, it seemed. She was out of the boat before it ground up on the shingle.
"By the Flame, it's good to see you again!" she cried, throwing her arms around him, and for a moment it seemed that she wasn't going to let go. When she did finally step back, her eyes were bright
with unshed tears. "How are Mother and the children? Is Watermead just the same? "
"We're all just as you left us. I have letters for you. Illia's is four pages long," he said, noting new scars on her hands and arms. Freckles still peppered her face, but two years of hard fighting had sharpened her features, stripping away the last vestiges of childhood. "Captain is it?" he said, pointing at the new gorget.
"In name, at least. They gave me Wolf Squadron, then sent me and my turma home. You remember Sergeant Rhylin, don't you?"
"I always remember people who save my life," Micum said, shaking hands with the tall man.
"As I recall, it was as much the other way 'round," Rhylin replied. "You took on that dyrmagnos creature after Alec shot her. I don't think any of us would be standing here if you hadn't."
The comments drew curious stares from the bystanders and Micum quickly changed the subject.
"I only count one decuria here. Where are the other two?" he asked, waving a hand at the ten riders who'd come ashore with them. He recognized Corporal Nikides and a few of the other men and women, but most were strangers, and young.
"The rest sailed with Klia. We'll meet up with them later on," Beka told him. "This lot should be enough to get us safely where we need to go."
She glanced up at the afternoon sky, frowning slightly. "It'll take a while to ferry our horses in but I'd like to cover some ground before nightfall. Can we get a hot meal in this place before we go? One that doesn't include salted pork or dried cod?"
"I've had a word with the innkeeper," he replied, giving her a wink. "I think he can come up with dried pork or salted cod."
"So long as it's a change," Beka said, grinning. "How long will it take us to reach them?"
"Four days. Maybe three if this good weather holds."
Another look of impatience creased Beka's brow. "Three would be better." With a last restless glance at the ship, she followed him up to the inn.
"Whatever happened to that young man you wrote us of last year?" Micum asked. "That lieutenant what's-his-name? Your mother's beginning to get notions about him."
"Markis?" Beka shrugged, not looking at him. "He died."
Just like that? Micum thought sadly, sensing there was more to the story. Ah, well, war was a harsh business.
The weather held fair, but the roads grew worse the further north they went. By the second day, their horses were sinking to the fetlocks as they plodded along what passed for roads in this stretch of wilderness.
Easing his bad leg against the mud-caked stirrup, Micum scanned the jagged peaks in the distance and thought wistfully of home. Little Illia, just turned nine, had been picking daffodils in the pasture below the house the day Micum left. Here, in the shadow of the Nimra mountains, snow still lingered in dirty drifts beneath the pines.
Beka still hadn't explained the exact reason for their journey, and Micum respected her silence. They rode hard, making use of the lengthening days. At night, she and the others recounted battles, raids, and comrades lost. Lieutenant Markis was not mentioned around the campfire, so Micum made it his business to get Sergeant Rhylin aside one morning when they'd halted to water the horses.
"Ah, Markis." Rhylin glanced around, making certain Beka was out of earshot. "They were lovers all right, when they found the time. Cut from the same cloth, too, but his luck ran out last autumn. His turma ran into an ambush. Those who weren't killed in the fight were tortured to death." Rhylin's eyes got a pinched, distant look, as if he were squinting into harsh light. "A lot's made of what they do to our woman soldiers, but I tell you, Sir Micum, the men fare just as badly. We found the remains—Markis hadn't been among the lucky, if you take my meaning. The captain didn't speak for two days after that, didn't eat or sleep. It was Sergeant Mercalle who finally brought her out of it. Mercalle's buried more than her share of kin over the years, so I guess she knew what to say. Beka's been fine since, but she never speaks of him."
Micum sighed. "I don't imagine she likes to be reminded. And there's been no one since? "
"No one to speak of."
Micum had a good idea what that meant. Sometimes the body's needs overrode the heart's pain. Sometimes it was a way to heal.
The road finally grew drier as it wended up into the foothills. By early afternoon of the third day, Beka could see out over the tops of the trees behind them to the lowlands they'd traversed the day be-
fore. Somewhere beyond the southern horizon lay the Osiat coastline and the long isthmus that connected the peninsular country of Skala to her mainland territories. The rest of Urgazhi Turma were probably cooling their heels at Ardinlee by now.
"You're sure we'll reach them today?" she asked her father, riding beside her.
"The way you've driven us, we should get there before supper-time." He pointed out a notch in the hills a few miles ahead. "There's a village up there. Their cabin lies up a track just beyond."
"I hope they don't mind a crowd."
The sun was a few hours from the western horizon when they reached the little hamlet nestled in the cup of a valley. Sheep and cattle grazed the hillsides, and she could hear dogs barking in the distance.
"This is the place," said Micum, leading the way into town.
Villagers gawked at them as they rode into the muddy square. There were no temples or inns here, just a little shrine to the Four, festooned with faded offerings.
Just beyond the last cottage an enormous dead oak spread leafless branches against the sky. A trail wound up into the woods behind it. Following it for half a mile or so, they came out in a high meadow. A stream ran through it, and on the far side stood a small log house. A wolfskin was stretched to dry on one wall, and a spiky row of antlers of varying shapes and sizes decorated the roofline. In the kitchen garden near the door, a few speckled hens scratched among the dead leaves. A little way off, a byre sagge
d next to a corral. Half a dozen horses grazed there, and Beka recognized Alec's favorite mare, Patch, and two Aurenen horses. The chestnut stallion, Windrunner, had been her parents' gift to Alec during his first stay at Watermead. The black mare, Cynril, Seregil had raised from a colt.
"This is it?" she asked, surprised. It was peaceful. Rustic. Not at all the sort of place she associated with Seregil.
Micum grinned. "This is it."
The sound of an ax came from somewhere beyond the byre. Rising in the stirrups, she called out, "Hello at the house!"
The ax fell abruptly silent. An instant later Alec loped out from behind the byre, his fair, unkempt hair flying around his shoulders.
Rough living had left him as shaggy and gaunt as he'd been the first time they'd met. Gone was the citified finery he'd adopted in
Rhiminee; his tunic was as patched and stained as any stable boy's. He'd be nineteen in a few months' time, she realized with surprise. Half 'faie and beardless, he looked younger to those who didn't know him, and would for years. Seregil, who must be sixty now, had looked like a man of twenty for as long as she remembered.
"I believe he's glad to see us," her father noted.
"He better be!" Dismounting, Beka met Alec in a rough hug. He felt as thin as he looked, but there was hard muscle under the homespun.
"Yslanti bek kir!" he exclaimed happily. "Kratis nolieus i 'mrai? "
"You speak better Aurenfaie now than I do, Almost-Brother," she laughed. "I didn't understand a word of that after the greeting."
Alec stepped back, grinning at her. "Sorry. We've spoken almost nothing else all winter."
The beaten look he'd had back in Plenimar was gone; looking into those dark blue eyes, she read the signs of something her father had hinted at in his letter. She'd asked Alec once if he was in love with Seregil, and he'd been shocked by such a notion. It seemed the boy had finally figured things out. Somewhere in the back of her mind a tiny twinge of regret stirred, and she squelched it mercilessly.
Releasing her, Alec clasped hands with Micum, then cast a questioning look at the uniformed riders. "What's all this?"