Dust and Light (51 page)

“They said he’d had a bad evening already and a night on the run,” said a second man, “and that was hours ago.” An unrefined voice. One that grated on the ear. “I’m thinking his state didn’t improve in the hours since.”

“Come,
tyro
, we must be going. We’ve a month’s journeying ahead of us, and first we must get through this ham-handed prince’s siege. Of all the inconvenient times for a war. The ungifted have a habit of bollixing important work.”

Strong hands raised me to my feet. I swayed like a drunkard, but the man in the black mask did not let me fall. “We’ve brought a mount for you. Are you a capable rider? Our informant didn’t know.”

“Rider . . . horses . . .” I blotted my wet chin on my sleeve. “Yes. I think so.” A stupid answer. But then I felt exceptionally dull just now. Surely I’d ridden a horse, but for the life of me I couldn’t say for certain, much less when or where.
Tyro
, they called me.
Beginner
.

“Did I fall and hit my head?” I laced my fingers in my hair.

“A fall, yes, in a way. But you’re quite well. You’ll feel foggy for a few days. By the time we reach Fortress Evanide, the headaches should be gone.” He slapped me on the back. “You are a new man,
tyro
. With work you will make a new life.”

I could use some renewal. Dirty, battered, tired, head throbbing, my odd clothes torn and bloody. And hungry. Gods save me, how long had it been since I’d eaten? A glance around looked none too promising. An ill odor came from the temple or whatever it was across the field of hummocks.

“What is this place? I could use a bath and a meal.”

“Unlikely to find either close by,” said the brown-masked man. “Only dead men get bathed beyond those gates—and then they’re burnt or buried. Don’t know why we were told to meet you in such a place.”

“I can’t say, either,” I said, uneasy when I turned my thoughts inward and found such a muddle. A deadhouse. What was I doing here? “Perhaps we could go.”

“Here, before we go. Your new mask. And we’ve a clean shirt and jaque that will be better for traveling.”

I ripped off the ill-fitting layers gladly and tossed my old mask on the slot gate in the wall behind me. The shirt was good linen. Not elegant, not new, but clean and comfortable. The leather jaque was too big, but it didn’t stink of smoke and old sweat.

I felt a fool. My fingers trembled as I laced the jaque. Every time I tried to think what I was doing, the dull throb in my head got worse. The gray mask, though . . . to slip it on and feel its edges form themselves to my features—both sides of my face—was soothing. A full mask of good linen. It felt right.

A belt and knife sheath. Lastly, gloves, sturdy leather. Soft on my sore hands.

“And one more thing before we go.” The raven-haired man looped a black cord around my neck. “Tuck this inside your shirt. ’Tis the blazon of the
Equites Cineré
and must remain private, but we’ll be able to find you if you should wander off.”

Equites Cineré
—Knights of the Ashes. The name meant nothing. You’d think I would know my comrades.

Suspended from the black cord was an engraved pendant. It was a rectangular stone, intaglio, a thin layer of black over white, so that the engraving showed white against an ebon field. Portrayed was a quiver, five disparate objects poking out of it: a staff, a sword, a whip, a hammer, and a pen. The device, the same as on the knife strapped to my belt, was new to me. Yet it felt reassuring in a way. I slipped it inside my shirt. “I’m ready,” I said.

The hawk man brought up the three horses. I mounted with ease—I had certainly done this before—and the three of us rode out into the bright morning. Surely a brisk ride would clear my head. Enticing, exhilarating, the path stretched out ahead of
me.