The Seer - eARC (72 page)

Tayre was, he knew, a fairly capable shot from horseback. The last time he had needed to call on this skill he had been riding hard along a rocky bank, aiming to miss three targets on a moving raft, and had placed the shaft right where he wanted it. But this—this was a level of capability he had never seen before. His uncle would have loved it.

Were the Teva actually laughing? He could not be quite sure from this distance, but it seemed to Tayre that they were. The riders, that was, not the so-called laughing horses. Though for all he knew, they were, too.

The Teva, it appeared, also loved this.

They were shooting without pause now, letting fly arrows in fast succession. More Arunkel cavalry soldiers were hit, folding and dangling from stirrups, slipping off their horses and being trampled underfoot.

In moments the two lines of cavalry were ragged, the riderless horses overshooting the Teva line, seeming to have other goals amidst the buildings of Ote.

Odd, that; these were trained Arunkel warhorses, here to fight, eager to engage, wanting to do damage. What could have so distracted them?

Then Tayre saw that they were following riderless shaota, out of sight, beyond the farthest buildings of Ote.

What?

Ah. The shaota must be mares. In heat.

Very clever mares in heat.

One more expensive loss for Arunkel. Warhorses were pricey investments.

The army’s archers finally came in range and let fly a cloud of arrows. A few Teva doubled over on their horses, their shaota backstepping fast off the field, far better directed than their Arunkel counterparts had been.

But range went both ways. Now the Teva sent blindingly fast streams of arrows into the line of Arunkel archers, who did not get a second chance to shoot.

What cavalry remained atop horses was now closing on the Teva, swords drawn, charging the small horses and riders. The Teva waited, letting them come far closer than Tayre thought they should. When Arunkel horses started to stumble and drop, he understood why, but not how. It was such a fast move that it took some repetitions for him to work it out.

A Teva would flatten against the horse, while under them the shaota stretched its head forward, then gave a fast, round, sidekick to the nearby warhorse’s legs, hitting the larger animal hard in the knee or the belly. As the Arunkel horses stumbled or fell, they took their riders down with them, mangling them underfoot.

Men howled. Horses screamed.

Those Arunkel horses that managed to get back to their feet limped away, no longer interested in fighting, let alone in giving their riders the opportunity to remount.

By the time the infantry reached the town, the cavalry lines had gaps through which the Teva might have easily ridden, leaving Ote vulnerable to the thousands of Arunkel soldiers still running toward them. The Teva had done exceptionally well thus far, but unless they had some additional play to make, Tayre’s wager was on Arunkel.

Arunkel was still the larger force. Still about to overrun Ote.

He looked across the field as the time for a last-minute Teva asset ran out. Then he saw movement at the walls of Hanatha.

Streaming out of the broken gates of the town was a gathering line of hundreds, all holding pikes, billhooks, halberds, and running toward the backside of the advancing infantry. The way they held their weapons did not put Tayre in mind of determined townspeople desperate to defend their homes. No; these were soldiers who knew their trade. Who had fought before. Who were they? Where had they come from?

Arunkel army deserters, Tayre suddenly realized. Now a thousand or so strong, the mass of ex-Arunkel military were charging in credible formation toward an infantry that had just noticed this attack at their rear, some of them only now turning to meet it, while at their front the Teva were still making them into pincushions.

As the deserter army met the line of Arunkel infantry, the deserters swung billhooks and halberds, hooked aside shields, poked through defenses, tangled opponents’ feet. Arunkel soldiers went down, hard, fast, and in large numbers.

Gone was the Arunkel army’s careful geometries. The infantry retracted in some places, spread too wide in others, their greater numbers no longer a clear advantage. The field turned into a fog of chaos and cries and slaughter.

Tayre was no longer sure who he would bet on.

“Here it is,” Jolon said, gesturing to a large circular pit in the ground, a bowl of terraced earth. At the bottom an embedded arch of tunnel led into blackness. Distantly they could hear the sounds of battle, of horns and drums and the cacophony of thousands of men shouting and howling.

Maris felt her way down through her feet into the earth, finding the trails of gold that wound through the rock below, finding also the pile of bars and coins.

“We put it all inside,” Jolon said, “all that we cast and minted. To return it to its kin. We hoped to bury it, as we had first intended, before the Arunkin came.”

“Gold buried by Iliban does not typically stay buried,” Gallelon said, slowly walking around the circumference of the large pit.

Jolon nodded soberly. He looked at Amarta. “What now, Seer?”

“Move back,” she answered.

“What?” Gallelon asked, glancing at her as he continued his circuit.

“We stand farther back, ser.” Amarta said. “There, I think.” She pointed to a spot some ways behind them.

Gallelon looked a query at Maris, who gave him a look that said, yes, unlikely as it seemed, Amarta was probably right. He gave a her brief raise of his eyebrows and continued his slow walk.

She knew what Gallelon would be doing now, in addition to taking possession of the land over which he walked: he would be trying to make sense of Amarta, as Maris once had. He would delve into her with his etheric fingers, and find what Maris had: that Amarta was no mage. Barely a Sensitive.

Unique beyond reckoning.

“It will turn,” Amarta said gesturing at the mine. “Like a huge pot being stirred.”

“Will it, now,” Gallelon muttered, the blandness of his tone a contrast to what Maris felt him doing above and below.

The distant sounds of horses, shouts of battle, all gave the impression of quieting. A weight pressed in, like the air grown thick and heavy before a thunderstorm. With each step Gallelon took, Maris felt him change the etherics of the land beneath his feet, weaving his ownership through the tendrils Maris was sending deep into the ground.

Then he began to sing, very softly, a litany of ancient words. A mage-song she remembered from her youth. Beautiful and poetic, it was the sort of thing that gave Iliban the mistaken impression that mages used spells. Rather, it was a means to focus attention, to quiet and clear one’s mind, to bring one’s spirit into alignment with the etherics all around. Or to bring two mages into alignment with each other.

She began to sing with him, and together they took the mine, holding the land below and the air above. The ground and air rang with their tuning, a loud sound that an Iliban might mistake for silence.

Finishing his circuit, Gallelon came to stand next to her.

“You want the mine sunk?” he asked Amarta.

“Yes, but also—” She moved her hands up and out. “Over the battlefield.”

“Down,” he said. “And up. Yes. Are you ready, Marisel?”

Ready to move earth and sky, to sink metal deep and raise it high? She had never done anything like this. Keyretura. That’s who they needed.

With that thought she realized she had unintentionally strummed the cord that connected her to her
aetur
. She felt a distant, faint reply.

Go to the Rift in my stead, Maris.

She spread her fingers, let the gathering power she and Gallelon were creating stream in and out of her, through her feet, palms, fingertips. Up and down her spine. She breathed in and out with the heartbeat of the land.

Perhaps even drew on Keyretura. Just a bit. Just enough.

It did not take much of a touch to bring alive the link she and Gallelon had forged years ago in each other’s arms. She felt his etheric grip now: tight, secure, affectionate. An echo of their passion. She heard herself laugh a little in delight.

“Maris,” Amarta whispered from nearby. “This must happen soon.”

So much focus on the etherics she and Gallelon were making that Maris barely saw light and dark, sensing Amarta through the pressure of her spirit. She touched the young woman’s shoulder. “Will you trust me, Amarta?”

Under the ground where she and Gallelon worked, he now took hold of her but at the same time pushed her away, creating a taut line between them, a building tension.

At the center of the pit, the ground began to pulse and tremble.

“I will,” Amarta answered.

Maris went deep underground, leveraging off the building pressure between her and Gallelon to impart motion and heat. Rocks that had moved slowly for eons began to grind and push, taking dirt and roots and bits of metal with them. Under the ground everything began to shift, to turn. Like a huge stewpot being stirred.

Heat and then more heat. Motion and more motion. Together she and Gallelon built force down and up, both, drawing the many veins of gold together, creating rivulets that began to find their heavy way deeper and deeper into the earth. The pile of bars and coins, now melting, Gallelon held near the surface.

One golden mass near the surface, the other sinking below. A stewpot, yes, but also a boiling kettle.

From deep below came a rumbling, and the ground shook. Maris took the wide stance she knew from years on the ocean.

A violent sundering broke the mine’s archway, and it collapsed. The ground rippled, rocked. The four of them backed away from the edge.

The earthen bowl was now churning, picking up speed, a swirling of black and brown shot through with trails of molten gold, all spinning around a central hole. The edges of the pit began to crumble, falling inward to join the fast-moving whirlpool of liquid earth and bright sparkling lines of gold.

While the swirling earth that had been the mine ate away at the land surrounding it, the whirlpool widening and deepening, the four of them backed farther and stood at the spot Amarta had indicated.

“Now,” Gallelon said.

Or maybe he didn’t say it, but Maris heard it clearly.

With all her focus Maris pushed down, while Gallelon pressed up. She sank the veins of gold deep into the dark earth while Gallelon took the molten mass that was once coins and bars and expelled it upward like a grain silo exploding.

With a sound like thunder, the gold of the whirlpool sank down into a small hole at the center and the swirling earth spat out a golden cloud into the blue sky overhead.

At first Tayre thought a peculiar, sudden rain shower was falling, catching sunlight. Perhaps a fast dust storm had come upon the field.

But the truth was more astounding yet: it was raining gold.

Absorbed as they were in killing each other, it took some moments for the Arunkin, the Teva, and the deserter army to take note.

As tiny flakes of what seemed sparkling sunlight floated slowly down to the field, some Arunkel soldiers stopped in open-mouthed shock. Thus distracted, many were slain by their single-mindedly focused attackers before they, too, noticed the strangeness falling around them and slowed their butchery.

Shouts took on a distinctly different tone as soldiers looked around in wonder and the dust and flakes began to cover the ground in gold.

Horses—shaota and Arunkel alike—shook their heads and snorted to clear the dust from their nostrils.

In minutes the battle had stopped. Many soldiers were now on hands and knees, sweeping up the flakes, stuffing handfuls of it into their pockets. Others simply stared at the sky in amazement or at the ground uncomprehendingly.

A warbling trill from one Teva was taken up by another and another and then all, an eerie sound that carried across the field. The hundreds of Teva pulled back and fell silent, gathering at the edge of Ote, where a figure stepped out of a long building.

Taller than the surrounding Teva, he looked very much like the Lord Commander of Arunkel. At his side stood three Teva.

He held up a long pole. At the top was a white flag.

The battle was over.

Tayre had no idea how, but he was certain the seer had brought all this about. He smiled at this thought and climbed down the tree to get on his horse and leave Otevan before the remaining Arunkel army did.

He had finally decided what to do with all he now knew about the Houses and their various treasons. While he didn’t need the money or the influence, he was intrigued by the young queen and her consort’s efforts here and wanted to see what they would do next. So he had decided to merely let the Houses know that their work had been seen.

Sometimes a little light on the board could make for a far more interesting game.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Innel and his company were the first to arrive at the palace. The full army, under Lismar, would follow.

Lismar was not particularly happy, but Innel was confident she would learn to be, once he made clear to the queen that her counsel had been crucial to his success at Otevan. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. It was necessary.

He dismounted, one-handed, his right arm still tightly wrapped. He wondered if his shoulder would ever be right again and dimly remembered someone saying it wouldn’t.

One problem at a time.

He handed the reins to the stablemaster. First, he decided, the queen. No, first the Teva.

As twenty and some Teva riders entered the courtyard behind him, the stablemaster’s eyes went wide.

“Guests of the crown,” Innel told the stablemaster, hoping that the collected stablehands now gaping at the small, striped horses and their dismounting riders would gather their wits and soon be useful. “The shaota are guests as well,” he told them all loudly. “Don’t restrain them. Keep crowds away. Let the horses do what they like, go where they will. Unlimited food and water. Do you all understand me?”

Mute, awed nods.

Jolon and Mara stood near him, looking around curiously.

“We will get you settled,” he said to Jolon. “Then we will meet with the queen.”

“And renew our treaty, Arunkin.”

“And renew our treaty, Teva,” Innel said.

He now understood the written histories of the Teva. Or rather, the
lack
of written histories of the Teva. Why the Teva treaties ended up renewed. Why the old king had warned him not to make enemies of them. The various insurrections around the empire, who was behind them, and what it would take for the Anandynars to gain Teva support again.

Yes, some things were best left out of the histories.

He left the stables, taking the walkway to the palace, trailed by Nalas and twenty Teva. Heads swiveled to follow him, mouths dropped open. Srel dashed and ducked through the tangle of people surrounding him to reach his side. The smaller man’s gaze quickly ran across his visitors.

“Srel,” he said, happier to see the smaller man than he would have thought possible. “I need—” Where to start? “Rooms for the Teva. Honored guests, so the best. Let me see . . . Cahlen is in chains in one of the approaching wagons and not at all happy about it. Get her to her room. Gently, if you possibly can. You’ll need a lot of men. Guards on her door until I can plead her case with the queen.”

“Ser—”

“The seer . . .” Innel slowly climbed the steps to the palace’s kitchen entrance, finding himself out of breath, pausing a moment. “She’s not far behind, escorted by a good many guards, but not to keep her restrained. To protect her.” Though he doubted she needed it. “Give her”—What? He and the seer both knew now that he could no longer hold her. He had decided to stop trying—“whatever she wants. Anything. Food, horses, carriages. The location of her family.” He resumed his march forward into the palace, his entourage surging forward with him.

“Ser?” Srel sounded surprised.

From his other side, Nalas spoke up. “I’ll see to Amarta’s family, Lord Commander. Let me check on them and make any necessary arrangements.”

Innel nodded. “Do so. Also, I want—”

“Ser,” Srel interrupted. “A number of people are demanding to see you the moment you arrive. The queen is foremost among them.”

There would be wild speculation at his arrival with the Teva, never mind the shaota, the striped horses straight out of children’s tales. When the seer arrived—when the army and Lismar arrived, for that matter—the rumors would burn through the palace like a fast fire.

The truth, he realized, would have a hard time slipping in.

Probably for the best.

“What do they say, Srel?”

“That the Teva have joined the empire. Willingly. Unwillingly. That they won a great battle. That you did. That the fortune-teller walked through walls of stone to lead you to victory. That you found a treasure trove at the bottom of the Rift. That you made it rain gold. That you saved the queen’s life all the way from Otevan when she was attacked a week ago. No, no, ser—she’s fine. But you should see her first.”

Innel took a deep breath. He stank of horse and days on the road. “Let me clean up.”

“No, ser. You don’t have time. The Houses are lining up to see her. They are most insistent. You should be there.”

The Houses were wasting no time. Now that he had evidence against a number of them—and that apparently no secret—they would understandably want to see the queen before he did.

A glance behind told him that in addition to his guard he was being trailed by a crowd of aristos and clerks, all acting very important and necessary. Along the halls, people in all colors—green and cream, red and black, some from the Houses—all flattened against the walls to let them by.

One flight up. Another pause to recover his breath. Another hallway. Another set of stairs.

The queen’s seneschal met them. No words from the pinched-faced gray-haired man, only a silent nod of acknowledgment to Innel as he led them to the lesser of the queen’s audience chambers, the very one in which Innel had set down his brother’s body, years ago.

Innel paused, saw the Teva delegates off with Srel, and went inside alone.

She sat on the raised dais in a chair of wood and bronze, one hand draped down over the side, her fingertips on the head of one of the dichu dogs. Chula. On her other side, Tashu lay on his belly, ears up, watching Innel.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a quick bow. “I need to tell you . . .” Where to start? “Otevan. No, the Houses—”

The queen’s seneschal stepped into the room, shutting the door behind as he spoke.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. House Etallan’s eparch has arrived. You said to send her in. What is your wish?”

“Send her in,” Cern answered. Then to Innel: “Etallan waits poorly.”

In came the eparch, her husband the Minister of Chimes, Tok, and another ten of them, all dressed in the charcoal and light orange of Etallan. They held before them a wide-eyed young man, hands tied, lips wide around a thick gag. He was grunting and shaking his head.

Innel drew his sword left-handed, a reverse grip.

“You don’t want to do that, Lord Commander,” the eparch said to him with a flat stare.

“I accuse you and your House of treason,” Innel said. “You are responsible for smuggling gold from Otevan, across the empire and into Perripur. You counterfeited Arunkel coin, and brought it to the treasury as legitimate tax revenue, undermining the queen’s currency.”

“Innel,” said Cern warningly.

“Etallan was at the helm of the infusion of forged coin and gold into Arunkel, Your Majesty. I have proof, from marked tools to witnesses. These are traitors.”

“We deny it,” Tok said, hands raised in a gesture of placation. Or surrender. “A moment’s consideration, Cohort brother: it was my revelations that sent you to Otevan in the first place, from where, I notice, you have returned victorious. As we knew you would.”

“Innel,” Cern said again, her voice a growl. “Watch yourself.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the eparch, dipping her head to Cern. “We are grateful for your royal wisdom. We deny any wrongdoing. However, we must confess that unbeknownst to us, one of our own, this one, named Eregin, has had dealings—indeed a sort of twisted alliance—with some persons at Otevan.”

Some persons.
Carefully not naming the Teva, now that it was clear Innel had reconciled with them.

The eparch pushed the man sharply and he stumbled forward. “Your Most Excellent Majesty,” the eparch continued, “and Lord Commander. We present him to the crown for Your Majesty’s justice.”

“What?” Innel croaked.

“Alas,” the Eparch said, “that he took upon himself to inveigle with those at Otevan, his actions so terribly ill-considered . . .” Her expression was a show of sorrow and distaste, copied by the rest of Etallan as if practiced. “He stole mining and minting equipment. Others helped him, of course, but they were blameless, taken in by his charm and bribery.” She scowled at the gagged man, who shook his head, wide-eyed.

“Do you think us such fools as to believe—”

“Innel,” Cern said sharply. “If they say this is the man, we must accept that.”

“But he is a scapegoat, Your Majesty. Nothing more. A sacrifice. Let them get away with this, and what next?”

“What next?” Tok echoed. “Next we stand behind the crown, just as the crown upholds our charter. No one, least of all Etallan, wants the queen’s reputation tarnished by this”—A wave at the bound man— “beast. Thus do we demonstrate our loyalty.” He bowed deeply.

“We need the Houses,” Cern said softly to Innel, “as they need us.” She did not look pleased, but she met his look evenly. “Put away your blade, Innel.”

She was right. Through the centuries the Anandynars had ruled only with the support of the Houses. If it came to open conflict, which it never would, the crown would have a hard time standing against Etallan.

But now it was also clear Etallan would not prevail, either. They had made their play and it had failed. This bound man was their gesture of conciliation, their admission they had lost.

How to make sure they would not soon forget? His mind raced with possibilities.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, exhaling, letting himself slump as if he were complying reluctantly. His head dropped. Looking down, he gauged distance, set his expression to seem bitter and resolved, shuffling forward a little as he did. In the rounding of his shoulders, his blade tip dropped down and back.

So many hours and days and years spent in study. The Houses and their histories. Warfare and weapons.

Swinging at posts wrapped with straw, over and over, to learn to slice the straw but not the wood. Later to cut the post clean off.

It was a barely possible move at the best of times, what he was considering, even if it were his strong hand. To miss would paint him as rash and ineffectual when his reputation was already poised, ready to topple one way or the other, what with the costly win at Otevan. Even with the Teva’s treaty renewed and the mine’s destruction.

Flawless. It would have to be flawless, timing and motion exactly right, even though it was his weak hand. If he was not absolutely sure, it was beyond foolish to even try.

Low to high, left to right.

The seer’s words suddenly came to him, making perfect sense.

He took a loose grip toward the pommel of the sword, turned his hips just so, inhaled and in one motion stepped forward, right foot compassing behind and touching down exactly as the blade in front found its target. As the metal sliced through neck and vertebrae the man’s head came off his body, his knees buckled, back arched, and the bloody, open neck sprayed backward across Etallan’s eparch, Minister of Chimes, and Tokerae, spattering their faces and clothes.

Innel’s sword finished its arc.

There was no resistance as his blade separated head from body. It was an ideal cut.

Flawless.

A stunned silence took the room. As the blood-splashed faces of House Etallan took on expressions of complete shock, Innel drew the flat of his blade between his sleeve and side to clean it, then sheathed it.

His action was either well-done or he was in a great deal of trouble. He turned to his queen and dropped to one knee to wait and find out which it was.

The torso of the man named Eregin had fallen to its back, legs splayed. The head had rolled and came to rest at the wall, dribbling blood along the way.

In the stillness that followed, Innel could hear his own breathing and the snuffling of the dogs, who were sitting up, ears forward, noses twitching.

Cern stood from her throne of wood and metal. She looked at him a moment, then at the group from House Etallan.

“Now you have it,” she said with a voice like steel. “My justice, meted out. Take the body of your kinsman and go.”

The eparch urgently motioned to two of her family. When they hesitated she snapped her fingers at them, expression tight. They took the body by the arms and dragged it out the door. At her further direction, her husband, face gone white, looking profoundly ill, took the head by the hair and followed.

Innel stood as the family bowed and hurriedly left the room. Tok was last to leave. He paused and looked at Innel.

“The queen’s colors suit you, Tokerae dele Etallan,” Innel said.

For a moment Tok seemed confused by this, then he smiled weakly and nodded, wiping his bloody face on his sleeve.

When the door closed and they were gone, all that remained was a splattering of blood on the floor and the trail where the head had rolled.

Cern took a long, deep inhale and slowly let it out. She looked at him. “That was”—she seemed momentarily at a loss for words—“daring of you. You took quite a chance.”

“Are you pleased with me, Your Grace?”

Her expression answered him, the small, growing smile on her face. Before she could speak, the door opened again.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but House Helata’s eparch has arrived. What is your wish?”

“Send him in,” Cern said, giving Innel a measuring, sidelong look. “It seems to be a good day to speak with the Houses.”