CHAPTER 35
The Assassin
Two weeks later, General Riesling was glad Captain Ibelin hadn’t taken his bet. The Lady Elaina looked like a wraith, one of the spirits that slip into the Evermind and back into this world. Her face had lost its softness and the pale cast of her skin was broken only by the dark circles under her eyes.
New recruits had taken to calling her the Ice Queen, since she never smiled or frowned. Some claimed they had never seen her blink. She was going through the motions, but Riesling had to agree with the younger men—the Lady Elaina hardly seems to be alive.
At that moment, Riesling was walking behind her and Dracen and a clerk. Where in Arith do all these people come from? He wondered, not for the first time.
“Who have I to blame for the fact half the new men have no weapons?” Dracen growled at the wispy little man.
“The cooks, my Lord.” The clerk answered without hesitation. Stone-stupid. Reisling thought to himself and tuned out the berating Dracen unleashed on the unsuspecting fellow.
Instead, Riesling wondered again what had happened between the Guardian and Cade. No one ever spoke his name around her, but he was practically a legend among the men. The older members were forever telling the new recruits how things were "before, when Cade was here."
If he ever returns, the man will have a difficult time living up to his reputation. Apparently he was as handsome as a spirit and a better swordsman than Malakail Hontari and Piter Leoncora combined. There were even whispers that he was a prince and lord of battles, of all things. Shaking his head at the foolishness of camp rumors, Riesling focused his attention on the Lady Elaina, Dracen, and the clerk.
Dracen was now audibly grinding his teeth while the clerk babbled an explanation. As usual, the Lady Elaina was unresponsive, as if she were walking alone in an empty field rather than beside the two of them through an encampment.
It’s just not right. And why won’t this fool shut up? Can’t he see he’s infuriating them? Well, he’s infuriating Dracen anyway. I doubt the Guardian has even noticed him.
". . .then the cooks refused to give the blacksmiths enough salt to quench anything properly—so they have only a fresh water barrel for softer steel, but no salt one. So you see, the cooks are the reason we haven't enough of the blades and points, not the blacksmiths." The clerk rattled on,
"Really, you must give them—the cooks—a direct order to give them—the blacksmiths—the salt, but then there will not be enough for the soup, so if there is a place nearby where we could get more—"
"Enough!" Dracen interrupted flatly. Riesling squashed the smile that twitched on his lips when the clerk nearly jumped out of his skin. "You were put in charge of these things so that we wouldn't have to hear you prate about them. Fix it. Salt half as many barrels as the blacksmiths need—they can share. Leave the rest with the cooks. If they whine, tell them they can come try their luck whining at me." The clerk paled, and licked his lips nervously, but didn't leave. Stupid, sure, but brave. He’d make a good banner man.
"Of course my Lord, my Lady," he bobbed a bow at both of them, "that would give us what we need in a few days . . ." Dracen scowled at the little ferret. "Ah, but if you could come with me now, my Lord, the— then it would go much faster, I am certain." Elaina turned to look at him, and he quavered under two grey-eyed stares. Still, he held his ground. Riesling was mildly impressed.
"Wouldn't even have to say anything . . ." the clerk finished weakly. The little man's first nervous glance up from the dirt was for Elaina, but her expression was blank, so he shifted his focus to Dracen. Riesling frowned. Everyone is doing that. The Lady Elaina is just not here.
The Brother's lip twitched with displeasure, but he halted. Elaina walked on steadily. Riesling hesitated between them, uncertain who he ought to follow. Stone-faced and obviously displeased, Dracen went with the clerk, who smiled anxiously and bowed and babbled his thanks and assurances of success. Leaving the Drethlord to sort out the underlings by himself, Riesling followed Elaina.
They hadn't made it more than twenty spans before he felt himself slow. He tried to walk, but it was like moving through molasses instead of air. Something was holding him back. Not air—Air.
Outside the web, he could see Dracen ordering soldiers, who fell in around them. It took him forever to turn his head to Elaina, who was falling at fraction of the normal speed, holding her throat.
Riesling felt it too, the screaming in his lungs for air. He ignored it and froze, watching Dracen through the Air. He would just have to stay on his feet and wait.
Scowling, Dracen looked back at the center of the net. The wide-eyed clerk was chattering shrilly, but Brother Dracen ignored him, concentrating on the snare that captured Lady Elaina and General Riesling.
The net had thickened the natural air, slowing everything in its range to dream-like motion, easy targets. He shouted for the soldiers to form a ring around the edges—they could feel it, even if only he could see. No enemy will get in bow range.
Nothing moved among the tree trunks. What is the purpose? With narrowed eyes, he turned and watched the Wielder's hand move to her throat, expression of vague surprise on her face as she fell. He understood. She couldn't breathe. This is not an attack, it is an assassination.
Quickly, he spun his own net over the assassin's. Countering nets had never been his strong point, but if he could locate the weaver . . .
"Archers," he roared, "to me! We seek a grey-eyed assassin. Quickly!" Soldiers ran to him, joining the ranks of those gathered on the outside edges. Some of the green troops watched Elaina stumble and fall to her knees, her skirts and hair trailing out behind her like she was underwater. He could feel her lashing out with Air and Fire, but the net shifted under her attack, never letting up. The assassin is nearby then, holding it in place.
The veterans eyed the trees darkly. Between them moved black-coated Watchers, peering into the eyes of any man looking at Elaina. They will see the eyes. Illusions will not work on the ashendari. Dracen's eyes flickered among the troops. If the weaver were among them, they would discover him. If he was not, the weaver would have to be able to see her . . . Dracen jerked his gaze up into the treetops, scanning between the leaves and branches, searching.
General Riesling felt his muscles weaken and blinked through the black specks and bright flashes that winked and spun across his vision. It was oddly quiet—sounds were too low and garbled, not matching the movements outside this thing they were caught in. Elaina was laying in the dirt where she fell, still clutching her throat.
She wasn't strong enough to stay conscious much longer, he could see it even with the ever-present emptiness of her eyes.
For an instant, emotion twisted her face. Riesling watched, fascinated, as pain and longing and heartbreak wrote themselves on her features, alive in silver eyes as they slowly dulled. His air-deprived mind was slow to recognize the expressions, but even so he knew what was happening. She is saying goodbye to someone.
Just as the realization jerked through his sluggish mind Riesling sank to his knees, unable to stand any longer. By the time he looked over at Lady Elaina again she was unconscious. If Dracen doesn’t find the assassin soon, neither of us are going to survive.
Dracen saw the flicker of movement out of the of his eye. A leaf shifting in wind, a bird, or — A foot dangled off a branch, its charcoal grey boot quickly pulled back behind a wall of leaves.
Silently, Dracen yanked a passing archer so hard the lad almost fell. He was young, one of the recruits, but he carried the long bow of a country archer like he knew how to use it. Unwilling to allow the weaver to shield himself, Dracen made no noise, pointing the way for the archer. Squinting into the trees, the archer raised the bow to his shoulder with careful aim. Around them, other archers saw and followed his gaze into the trees, bows creaking as they were drawn. Dracen raised his hand while he waited until enough of them had joined their hunt. The assassin would not escape.
He brought his hand do
wn harshly, and the arrows sprang off the bowstrings with a tell-tale snap. It was too late for the caster. Many of the arrows knifed through the leaves harmlessly, but enough did not. The solid sound of metal hitting flesh was followed by the crashing of a body down through the branches.
The soldiers who had not noticed the little group of archers wheeled around at the noise. Those stuck in the net finished falling at normal speed, gasping and panting for breath. Elaina stirred in the dirt, and Riesling recovered himself enough to help her rise.
A crowd soon gathered in the trees around the misshapen form, but they made way for Dracen when he stalked through. The Brother unceremoniously kicked the corpse onto its back.
Brother Segarin.
Sightless eyes darkened to a muddy brown as the Changing reversed in death. Segarin was no longer deeply connected to his power. He is no longer connected to life at all. Dracen spared no sympathy for the man he had once sworn to as a brother.
"Leave him where he lies."
"We will not burn him, my Lord?" someone asked in surprise. To not burn the body was to leave it bound to earth in Asemaline tradition, to prevent it from joining the blessed dead in the heavens. Even mortal enemies would burn each other's bodies in victory. Apparently someone knew enough of Asemal to know that. Dracen looked at the faces around him impassively.
"No peace for assassins." He ordered, turning away to rejoin the Wielder and the General. Slowly, the soldiers followed.
Rylan swore as Cade jerked his black into a sharp turn right in front of him, forcing his own horse to rear back to avoid a collision.
"Gidedrian!" He objected, clinging to the saddle.
There was no response. The prince was staring to the southwest the way a man looks at water in a desert. Rylan frowned and followed his gaze.
There was nothing but the low sloping hills of Emon's March, unbroken by shrubs or trees—the same scenery that filled the horizon on every side and had for days. Rylan turned his frown to Gidedrian. Up ahead, Harlon and Lorne finally noticed and were turning back to join them.
"What is it? What do you see?" Rylan questioned, from the empty grassland to the intensely focused face of the prince. He looks like a man seeing a spirit.
"What's happened to her?" he muttered. Rylan surveyed the landscape doubtfully once again. Her? There is no one there. Before he could ask, Gidedrian spoke again, eyes never leaving the spot in the southwest.
"I'm called. I must go. Ride with me or not, as you choose."
Rylan stared after him as he heeled his stallion into a gallop, racing toward the horizon in an unwavering line. Harlon rode up just as Rylan reined his mount in, which pranced impatiently to follow the lead of the black warhorse.
"What is he doing?" He asked. Lorne joined them in time to hear the answer, frowning after the fast-retreating form of their leader.
"Leaving. He said he was called, and that we could join him or not." Rylan relayed.
"Has he lost his mind?" Lorne asked with incredulous concern.
"No . . ." Harlon squinted after him. "But there are only two things I know of that can make a man ride like that: a brother or a woman."
"He asked himself what was happening to 'her'" Rylan offered.
"So he's after a lover, then." Lorne guessed, sounding only slightly less morose at that than the prospect of insanity.
"Do we follow?" Rylan impatiently interrupted. Harlon shrugged.
"If he rides like that, he and the horse won't survive to see whoever he's after." Lorne noted. The others nodded.
"Then hurry, he has the lead. Riding that monster, we'll have a time catching him, not to mention getting him to slow." Rylan ordered, digging his heels into his mount's ribs as he gave the horse its head. Laying its ears back, the animal took off after the stallion. It took hours to truly catch him, even though their geldings were quicker and lighter than his charger. He was riding as if his life depended on it.
"Gidedrian," Lorne called as they neared. Their leader did not turn his head, scowling at the horizon. Rylan studied him with concern. The man is desperate.
"You're killing your horse, my Lord." Harlon yelled. Urging his bay closer, Rylan tried another approach,
"How long will it take to reach her on foot, Gidedrian, because that is where you're headed." For an instant, dark eyes flicked to him in acknowledgement.
Rylan would have bet a full purse he didn't have that it was the first time the prince had looked away from the horizon since this began. Truth, but he is single-minded. He slowed marginally.
"Dismount and run, if you want to keep time and save the animal." Lorne suggested. The prince pursed his lips in annoyance for a moment, then slowed enough to slide from the saddle and hit the ground running.
Relieved, the other Antralians followed suit. Rylan wondered how many days they were going to run like this and was glad for all the time spent living hard. Without it, there is no way I could keep up. Gidedrian is the finest fighter I’ve seen and more than a little unbalanced. I only hope we are all alive enough at the end of this to face whatever danger he thinks this woman is in.
If there were only two things that made men do something like this, then the three of them were running for a brother and one for a girl. More than just following the prince into danger, Rylan wanted to meet the source of this trouble. Any woman who stole the heart of Cade A'lan Gidedrian so completely has to be more than a little extraordinary.
They rode and ran for five days, stopping for an hour four of five times a day to rest the horses before they raced south and west once more. Rylan could barely contain his dread when they emerged from a clump of trees to the edge of a small camp, neatly laid out on a grid. Not rabble, an army. Soldiers were everywhere. I can barely stand and the horses are almost finished. If we have to fight their way out of this place . . .
Gidedrian obviously didn't share his hesitation. He rode right up to the sentries that dug into the loamy soil, piling it up on the inside edge to create a temporary wall and ditch. Rylan tensed, reaching to his shoulder for the hilt of his sword as they approached the guard. To his shock, the man in the helmet directing the work only nodded to them with surprise, though most of the workers watched uncertainly.
He and Harlon exchanged a significant glance. Apparently, these soldiers know the prince. That doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap. He could feel his hair stand on end as a woman hurrying by stopped to stare at them. Her surprised eyes were absolutely colorless. A grey-eyed caster.
She took a step forward, and Rylan jerked his sword free with grim promise. Harlon and Lorne followed his lead, but Gidedrian didn't react. The caster stepped back from their path, though her cool glance followed them. Rylan didn't have the chance to keep a wary eye on her—the prince began running, turning sharply around tents and horse lines as if he were directed through the maze by an internal compass.
Ignoring the howls of protest from his muscles, Rylan matched his pace. I’m not about to lose sight of him now, not after all of this.
Gidedrian stopped dead in his tracks. Rylan peered around him and knew they were done running. Thank the true spirits!
An officer, a general probably, walked in the center of the avenue between tents in a shining breastplate that showed the marks of long use. He held the corner of a piece of paper absently, watching the four of them approach. He didn’t look worried precisely, just curious.
At his side, holding the other side of the paper, walked a woman. She hadn't noticed them yet, studying the scroll before her. Long hair fell halfway to her waist in loose waves. Her back was straight, her waist narrow, and she was no taller than the general's shoulder. She was handsome in a common way, pretty without being gorgeous. The prince's eyes practically blazed when he looked at her. This is the girl. Then he was moving again, and they followed three paces behind.
The general stopped, and at last she followed his gaze to the four of them. Rylan almost shouted. The woman stared back at them with slate-grey eyes.
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