Sun Wolf 1 - The Ladies Of Mandrigyn (34 page)

She stepped down from the altar and crossed the darkness once again, to the wall niche where Anyog slept, like a corpse already awaiting burial.

He, too, had loved her, she thought. It seemed that Sun Wolf’s father had been right, after all; love brought nothing but grief and death, as magic brought nothing but isolation.

But as Anyog had found—and as she, to her grief, was finding—the lack of them brought something infinitely worse. Why Mandrigyn?
she wondered suddenly. He had said Mandrigyn, not Grimscarp . . . What was the Wolf doing in Mandrigyn?

Distantly, the woman’s face returned to her—the dark-haired woman she had seen so briefly in Sun Wolf’s tent the night he had shown her the letter. Sheera Galernas of Mandrigyn . . . a matter of interest to you . . . 

She stopped still in the darkness of the chapel, her mind suddenly leaping ahead. Sweet Mother, he didn’t change his mind and accept her proposal, after all, did he?

Why wouldn’t he have told anyone? Why the illusion of Ari? He’d never have left the troop to find its own way home . . . 

How
the illusion of Ari, for that matter? Was there another wizard in it, after all? Or a partial wizard, like Anyog—one who had never passed through the Great Trial?

What the hell was the Wolf doing in Mandrigyn?

From the darkness, she heard Anyog whisper, “My dove . . . ”

The chapel was tiny; a step brought her to his side, and she bent down to take his cold hands in hers. Anyog seemed in the last few days to have shrunk to a tiny skeleton, wrapped in a suit of withered skin. His features were the features of a skull; from dark hollows, black eyes stared up at her, clouded with fever and fear. She whispered, “I’m here, Uncle,” and the thin lips blew out a pettish sigh.

“Leave you . . . ” he murmured, “ . . . face him alone.”

She stroked his clammy forehead. “It’s all right,” she assured him quietly.

Outside, a rainy morning was struggling with the wind-torn rags of the sky. Through the door, she saw that much of the snow had melted; the long stretch of the valley below the chapel looked dirty and sodden, like the earth in the first forewhispers of spring.

Skeletal little fingers tightened weakly over hers. “Never the courage,” he breathed, “to grasp . . . ”

Her love?
she wondered. Or the Great Trial, the fearsome gate to power?

“What was it?” she asked him and brushed his sunken cheek gently with her scarred hand.

“Secret . . . from master to pupil . . . So few know now . . . No one remembers. Not Altiokis . . . no one.”

“But you must know it, if you feared it,” she said, wondering, in the back of her mind, if the knowledge could be used. If there were an untried wizard in Mandrigyn who had had something to do with the Wolf’s death . . . 

He shook his head feebly. “Only the mageborn survive it,” he murmured. “Others die . . . and even for those who survive . . . ”

“But what was it?” she asked him.

His breath leaked out in a little gasp, and the dark eyes closed.

Then he whispered, “Anzid.”

“Altiokis is coming.”

“To Mandrigyn?”

Sheera nodded. “Wilarne had it from Stirk the harbor master’s wife this morning.” Above the frame of her starched lace collar, her jaw muscles were settled into a hard line.

Sun Wolf rested his shoulders against the cedar upright that supported the roof of the potting room and asked, “Why? To replace Derroug?”

“Partly,” she assented. “And partly to make a show of force against the rumors of insurrection in the city. Wilarne said he was supposedly bringing troops.” She leaned against the doorpost and looked down at her hands, clasped in the wine-colored folds of her skirts. Like most of the women, she had abandoned wearing rings—a warrior’s habit. In a quieter voice, she began, “If I hadn’t killed Derroug . . . ”

“He’d have had every guard in the palace down on us,” Sun Wolf finished for her. Still she did not meet his eyes. “Does Drypettis know?”

Sheera shook her head, then glanced up, weary hardness in those brown eyes. “No,” she said. “In fact, I had the impression that his death really didn’t concern her one way or the other. It—it was almost as if she didn’t know about it.”

The Wolf frowned. “You think that might be the case?”

“No,” Sheera said. She moved her shoulder against the doorframe; the light glimmered on the swirls of opal and garnet that armored her bodice and festooned her extravagant sleeves. “I went to see her the day after it happened, and she did mention it. But—in passing.
Almost for form’s sake. The rest of our talk that day was about—other things.” Her mouth tightened a little at the memory. “And I’m inclined to think you were right about her, after all.”

He was silent for a moment, studying her face. Her eyelids were stained with weariness and, he saw now, had begun to acquire those sharp, small creases that spoke of character and responsibility, which men claimed ruined a woman’s looks. “What did she say?”

“Not much to the point.” She shrugged. “Why did I take your part over hers? Why did I let you poison my mind against her? Were you my lover?”

“What did you tell her?”

She looked down again. “That it wasn’t her affair.”

“She’ll take that for a ‘Yes.’ ”

“I know.” Sheera shook her head tiredly. “But she’d have taken ‘No’ for a ‘Yes.’ ”

“Very likely,” he agreed.

Sheera occupied herself for a long moment in rearranging the folds of the lace that cascaded from her cuffs over her hands. Sun Wolf noticed what Gilden had pointed out to him only yesterday—that Sheera, along with most of the women in the troop and scores of women who were unaware of its existence, had gone over to what they called the “new mode” of dressing, without the stiff boning and lacing-in and padded panniers. Though as elaborate and ostentatious as the old style had been, it allowed for more comfort and quicker movement. Privately, the Wolf thought it was more seductive as well.

She raised her eyes to his again. “What do you think of her?” she asked.

He considered the question for a moment before replying. “What do you think of her?”

“I don’t know.” She began to pace, her restless movement somehow feral, like that of a caged lioness. “I’ve known her from the time we were girls in school together. She said I was the only person who was ever good to her. Good to her! All I ever did was extend her common courtesy and keep the other girls from teasing her because she was proud and solitary and talked to herself.”

He smiled. “In other words, you were her champion.”

“I suppose. One goes through a stage of being someone’s champion—or at least, I did. And I know one goes through a stage of being in love with another girl—oh, perfectly innocently! It’s more a—a domination of the personality. A ‘pash,’ we called it—a ‘rave.’ And it seldom goes beyond that. But—I suppose you could say Dru never outgrew her ‘pash’ for me.” She shrugged again. “Dru was such a precocious child, but socially she was so backward.”

“She still is a precocious child,” the Wolf pointed out, “at the age of twenty-five.”

Sheera’s eyes flashed suddenly, and he saw in her again the head girl of the school, beautiful and imperious at the age of ten, taking under her wing the wealthiest, proudest, and most miserable child in her class. She had always, he thought, been a champion, even as she was now. “It doesn’t mean she would betray us,” she said defiantly.

“No,” he agreed. “But what it does mean is that there’s no knowing which way she’ll go if she’s pushed. With most things—men or women, horses, demons, dogs—you know at least to some degree what they’ll do if you push them—get angry, break down, stab you in the back. Drypettis . . . ” He shook his head. “The bad thing is that we’ve given her a certain amount of power.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Sheera said glumly.

The Wolf shrugged. “I wouldn’t have given you power, either,” he returned. “I’ve been wrong before.”

Absurdly, color flushed up under that thin, browned skin. “Do you really mean that?”

“Am I in the habit of saying things I don’t mean?” he inquired. The yellow fox eyes glinted curiously in the gloom of the potting room. “You’re a fine warrior, Sheera, in spite of the fact that you’re crazy; and if it weren’t for the sake of another warrior who’s both finer and also crazier than you, I might just be tempted to fall in love with you. Though the thought makes me shudder,” he added.

“Good grief, I should hope so!” she said, genuinely appalled at the idea.

Sun Wolf laughed. It was a horrible sound, like the scraping of rusty iron, and he stopped, coughing. Sheera had the grace to look unhappy. The loss of his voice was her doing, and she knew it.

“Listen, Sheera,” he said after a moment. “How long would it take the mining superintendents’ comfort brigade to find out how many men Altiokis is bringing with him?”

Sheera frowned. “I think Amber Eyes can get a report within a day. Why?”

“Because it occurs to me that this may be our time to strike, while Altiokis and a lot of his troops aren’t in the Citadel at all.
Yirth says that the tunnels from the mines up to the Citadel are guarded with illusion and magic—but if Yirth is going to be the one to try and break the illusions, it would probably be better if she did it when Altiokis was gone.”

Sheera was staring at him, her dark eyes blazing with sudden fire. “You mean—strike now? Free the men now?”

“When Altiokis comes to Mandrigyn, yes. Can you?”

She took a deep breath. “I—I don’t know. Yes. Yes, we can. Eo’s made copies of the keys to most of the weapons stores and gates in the mines . . . Amber Eyes can get word to Tarrin to be ready . . . ” She was shivering all over with suppressed excitement, her hands clenched in the velvet of her skirts.

“Lady Wrinshardin can get word to the other Thanes,” she continued after a moment. “They can be ready to strike once we’ve freed the men.”

“No,” the Wolf said. “The Thanes are always ready to fight, anyway—we won’t give Altiokis the warning of a rumor. He’s here to investigate the rumors Gilden and Wilarne started the night they burned the Records Office. How soon will they arrive?”

A meeting was called that evening in the orangery, the heads of the conspiracy arriving secretly, slipping across the canals and through the tunnels to assemble in the vast cavern of the dim room. Amber Eyes came in with Denga Rey, their constant company in the last few days since Amber Eyes had parted from the Wolf explaining a lot of things about the gladiator’s commitment to the cause. Gilden and Wilarne arrived by separate routes—a different sort of friendship, the Wolf thought; probably closer, for all its lack of a physical or romantic element. Having waded through the morass of their jokes, verbal and otherwise, he had developed a hearty sympathy for his half-pints’ respective husbands.

After a few minutes of the swift crossfire conversation among those four, Sun Wolf saw Yirth arrive, fading soundlessly from the shadows of the door and moving like a cat to take her place in the darkness beyond the single candle’s flicker. She’d been there almost ten minutes before any of the others noticed her, listening, her crooked mouth smiling; Denga Rey’s expression when she finally did see her was almost comical. But when they heard the sound of the door closing again, and all eyes turned—as they always did—to watch Sheera stride into the circle of the candle’s light, Sun Wolf felt the witch’s gaze, brief and speculative, touch him.

Sheera sat down among them, and her look traveled from face to face. “Well?”

“Eo says the keys are ready,” Gilden reported.

“Yirth?”

“I have read and studied,” the witch said softly, “everything that my master left me on the subject of Altiokis and upon illusion. I am as prepared as any can be who has not crossed through the Great Trial.”

Sheera smiled and reached across the table to clasp the long, heavy-knuckled hands. “It’s all we ask of you,” she said. “Amber Eyes?”

“Cobra just got back from the mines,” the girl reported in her low, sweet voice. “She says they expect a force of about fifteen hundred with Altiokis, leaving about that many in the Citadel. Cobra says Fat Maali was going to see if she could find Tarrin himself. She’ll come to us directly here.”

Sheera’s face was half in shadow, half edged in the primrose softness of the dim light. Sun Wolf, watching her, saw the change in her eyes at the mention of Tarrin’s name, saw the champion, the war leader, the woman who would be Queen of Mandrigyn, change suddenly for a fleeting second to a girl who heard her lover’s name. In spite of all she had done to him, his heart went out to her. Like Starhawk, she was seeking, with single-minded brutality, to find and free the man she loved.

Then she was all business again. “Captain Sun Wolf?” she asked. “Would you say the women are ready?”

“I’d rather have another two weeks,” he said, the harsh scrape of his voice startling in the gloom. “But I think Altiokis’ absence and fewer troops make up for the lack. I have only one request of you, Sheera.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said. “Yirth, I was going to ask you—”

“No,” Sun Wolf said. “It isn’t that. I want to lead the troops myself.”

The silence was as echoing as the silence that followed thunder. The women were staring at him, openmouthed with astonishment. In that silence, his eyes met Sheera’s, defying her to refuse to let him shove his nose in her right to command.

“You may be a decent commander,” he said after a moment, “and you may even be good, in about another five years. But I’ve trained these women and forged them into a weapon; and I don’t want that weapon being broken by inexperience. If you’re taking on Altiokis, you’ll need a seasoned leader.”

Sheera’s eyes were wide and dark in the candlelight; surprise and relief at having a seasoned general and fighter like the Wolf struggled with resentment at being supplanted and relegated to second place. After a moment of silence, she breathed, “Would you? I mean—I thought—” The resentment faded and vanished, and the Wolf smiled to himself.

“Well, we both thought a lot of different things,” he growled. “And if I’m going to mess around with magic, anyway, I want to make sure the job gets done right.”