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  As the number of Anari within his walls grew, however, he noticed that many of them were children and women heavy with child. As if the rebels themselves were reluctant to overtax Ezinha. As if they wanted his offer of shelter and protection only for those who most needed it.

  Which was not to say they didn’t have any armed men and women standing secret guard. They weren’t trusting him to provide all the protection they might need. Nor could he. Other than secrecy, he had little to offer. He had never had his own militia, nor felt the need for one. As physician to the emperor, he was nearly untouchable. As a man of influence, few would think of crossing him.

  But now he was crossing his own people, and rightly or wrongly, he felt uncomfortable about it. Since Mihabi had first left, Ezinha had undergone a radical transformation in his outlook and identity, and it still sat uneasily on his shoulders. Helping these Anari escape Bozandar, he realized, would have felt less like a betrayal. But instead he was harboring people who might well set out to kill others.

  And there things began to stick in his throat.

  Troubled, he went to the kitchen to find Ialla, and there he found Mihabi as well. Ialla had just finished directing a number of the women in preparing a meal, and relative silence reigned throughout the large house as everyone within dined. Everyone except Ezhina, who ignored the plate Ialla put in front of him.

  “Mother,” he said finally. “Brother.”

  They both looked expectantly at him.

  He spread his hands on the table and looked at them. Like every Bozandari male, he had taken military training and was expected to retrain several times a year. But despite the nicks and scars, his hands retained the look of a healer’s.

  “My son?” Ialla prompted.

  Ezinha sighed. “I find myself torn. I feel a strong need to help your people gain freedom, but if one of you should go from my house to kill my people…how am I to live with that?”

  Mihabi stopped eating. After a few breaths, he said, “I feel much the same, Ezinha. When I heard the song of Anahar and made my decision to leave, I was full of anger and hatred toward you and your people. Now, in the light of day, that anger dims, and the hatred seems misplaced. I do not know if I could kill Bozandari, and yet Anari blood runs in the marketplace. How am I to live with that? Anahar has called to us. My people must be free.”

  “Aye, you must. I agree. But I would that I might think of a means to do so without more bloodshed. I am sure there are those among both sides who deserve to die, but I am equally certain that there are even more among us who do not. But how is this thing to be stopped?”

  Ialla sat on the bench facing both of them. “It cannot,” she said simply, looking at Ezinha. “The Bozandari enslaved the Anari. We want our freedom. There are those among the Bozandari—many of them, in fact—who want things to stay as they are. We cannot petition your emperor or your judges to set us free. Already they have declared that it is legal to kill Anari slaves who flee their masters. We have no choice but to shed the blood of those who would keep us enslaved. And it is folly to wish it were otherwise. The Bozandari created this trouble. If the emperor will not end it, we must end it in blood.”

  “Mother,” Mihabi said. “Surely you have not become so hardened that you can see no other path to peace?”

  Now she turned to Mihabi. “Surely you are not so naive as to think we can simply put down our swords, plead our case, and be set free? Ezinha is a good and brave man, but he cannot speak for all of Bozandar. He knows this.”

  “Our mother speaks the truth,” Ezinha said. “We have no choice but to be soldiers now. Our only choice is under whose banner we will fight. As for me, I will fight for my mother. I will fight for the Anari.”

  The army of the Snow Wolves marched north through the winding valleys. Tom found himself keeping his distance from Archer, looking at Archer with a suspicious eye, as if he were waiting for Archer to fail them. Yet Tess and her sisters, Cilla and Sara, walked with Archer every step of the way. Only at night, after they had made camp, could Tom spend time with his wife.

  Even then, there was little time for talk. It was inevitable that some should be injured in the course of a day’s march. Each evening, the Ilduin tended to those, as well as to those who had taken ill. By the time Sara could come to their tent, she was exhausted by the day’s march and the evening’s duties, ready to fall into sleep. While Tom recognized the necessity of their situation, it was not a proper honeymoon. Nor was it what he had considered when he had thought of marriage.

  Now he was pitching their tent again, working alone as she and Tess and Cilla moved through the camp. The mood in the army had changed since their march through the canyon, and the reconciliation of Ratha and Tuzza. Distrust no longer dominated, and only a handful of brief scuffles had marred the peace of the past days. This, Tom thought, ought to have given him greater confidence in their cause. Instead, he simply felt alone.

  “Sara stays busy.”

  Tom turned to see Archer at his side. “Aye. There is much work for the Ilduin.”

  “Aye,” Archer said. “Let me help you pitch your tent, my friend. I have lacked for your counsel of late.”

  Tom simply nodded his assent, trying not to let his thoughts wander back to the dark warnings of the Eshkaron Treysahrans. And yet he could not escape them as he stood in Archer’s presence.

  “You are quiet, Tom,” Archer said.

  Tom nodded. “I am, my lord.”

  Archer’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Have I hurt you in some way, Tom Downey? For you are ill at ease with me, and have been since we left Anahar. If I have given you any cause for offense, I know it not, but I offer you my apology regardless.”

  “You have done nothing,” Tom said. “It is I who should apologize.”

  “Accepted,” Archer said. “Still, I know you, young Tom Downey, and you would not act thus without reason. I entreat you, not as your lord, but as a longtime friend to your father and, I hope in these past months, to you as well. Tell me what darkens your face, prophet.”

  “You have been a staunch friend to my father, and to me,” Tom said, choosing his words carefully, mindful of Erkiah’s admonition that Tom not discuss the prophecy with anyone. “Fear not that you have failed in that.”

  “If I have failed not in that, then in what have I failed?” Archer asked.

  Tom looked up at him. “Do you need my blessing, Lord Archer? You know you are a strong and good man. You have fought to liberate the Anari, and even now we fight to free the world from the icy grip that your brother has wrought. For time out of legend you have traveled this world, doing right wherever you found yourself. You are Firstborn, yet now you come to the lowly foundling son of a gatekeeper, seeking forgiveness for wrongs you have not committed?”

  Archer seemed to study him for a moment, as if stung by Tom’s words. Finally he spoke. “Yes, Tom Downey. I, Archer Blackcloak, Annuvil of the Firstborn, come to the lowly foundling son of a gatekeeper. For no man is lowly, save for the man who thinks himself or others to be so. I think not thus. Do you?”

  “No,” Tom said, looking down. “I am sorry, Archer. I miss my wife and spill frustration on you. I am sorry.”

  “Trust not your wife,” Archer said. “For in hope did she take you, in hope to remake you, and great her regret in the dark of the night.”

  Tom’s jaw dropped as he heard the words. “That is…”

  “The Eshkaron Treysahrans,” Archer said. “It is an old poem, thought by some a prophecy, though many a wiser man has deemed it merely the bitter rambling of a bitter soul. It speaks nothing of your love for Sara, nor hers for you. It foretells no betrayal by her, nor you of her. It speaks only the darkest anger of a man who cannot feel even a glimmer of hope or love or goodness in his soul.”

  “You have read it?” Tom asked.

  “As have you, apparently,” Archer replied. “And now I know why you feel ill at ease.”

  “The final stanza—” Tom began.

 
“Is no more to be trusted than those before it. The bitter rambling of a bitter soul, Tom. Nothing more.”

  “You did not read it,” Tom said, realization dawning. “You wrote it.”

  Archer paused for a long moment, then nodded. “Yes, Tom. I wrote it in a time when I could see no good in the world, and even less in myself. I have not always lived the life of my legend. Often, I was less than the lowest beast, drowning in sorrow and pain and shame. It was in such a moment that I put quill to parchment and wrote those words. I have long wished I could find every copy ever made and destroy them, for too many have sought wisdom in the ravings of a madman.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The camp had settled into quiet by the time Archer and Tom finished erecting the tent and Sara’s few conveniences. Then Archer did something that sent a shiver through Tom.

  Squatting beside a stack of wood and kindling prepared for the night’s fire, Archer didn’t bring out his flint and striker to ignite the tinder. Instead he passed his hand over the wood, murmured a few words, and in the blink of an eye a fire arose, burning as if it had been so for hours.

  Tom gasped. Archer looked over his shoulder. “I wondered if I could do that again. It seems I can.”

  Tom edged closer and squatted beside him. “You have magicks?”

  “I used to have more than such simple ones. After the great war, I lost the abilities. Not that I much missed them. I can build a fire without it. I can do many things without the old lore. And perhaps that was part of the lesson.”

  “That may be.”

  “Or, perhaps, the world is changing in such a way that magicks are growing more powerful again.”

  “I thought the Ilduin were the only ones who could do such.”

  Archer sighed and sat with his legs crossed on the cold desert ground. “They always had the greatest magicks. But in the first times, many of us had minor powers. Powers that helped lead us into trouble.”

  “What else can you do?”

  “I know not, nor am I sure I want to.” He frowned. “You do realize, Tom, that if the world is changing in such a way that my powers begin to return, my brother’s powers will return as well.”

  Tom felt another shiver of fear. “What powers did he have in the past?”

  “Have you ever met someone who, when they spoke, could persuade you to believe almost anything?”

  “Not really. I have met some with great powers of persuasion, but not such that they could overcome my sense.”

  “Ardred could persuade you the sky was green if he bothered.”

  Tom turned that around in his mind, trying to grasp that kind of ability. “And you? Could you not?”

  “No. It was not my gift. Nor am I sure that much would have changed had it been. The gods know I have had ample time to think on it. Ardred’s persuasion helped lead us to paths that divided our people and our cities, but I am not sure that had it been otherwise the outcome would have been so very different. The Firstborn were inherently flawed.”

  “How so?”

  One corner of Archer’s mouth curled, and he reached for a stick to poke at the fire. Sparks showered upward toward the inky sky, where an unexpected flash of lightning explained the lack of stars. Rain in the driest of Anari lands? Surely that was remarkable.

  “Well,” Archer said slowly, “I allowed myself to engage in war with my brother, to the detriment of all. And many joined both sides. Is that not a flaw? And of course there were others, lesser ones, but flaws all the same.”

  “And thus the Anari.”

  “And thus the Anari.”

  Tom stared into the leaping flames, trying to imagine all the things that must have led to the attempt to create a perfect race in the Anari. Trying to imagine how awful it would be to find oneself in a war against one’s brother. Trying to imagine even a small part of the horrors Archer had been through.

  Horrors that must have changed him, some little voice in his head whispered. Horrors that gave rise to the Eshkaron you just read. Were they not an unguarded glimpse into this man’s mind?

  A shudder passed through Tom, like a frosty wind passing through dessicated leaves. He was not at all happy with the direction his thoughts were taking. “So if you and your brother regain your powers, what will that do to the rest of us who have none?”

  Archer’s gray eyes, reflecting the dance of flame in the eeriest way, settled on Tom. “I wish I had an answer for you, Prophet. But I cannot see beyond the dark veil of the next moment in time. Had I been gifted with prophecy, none of the evils that befell the Firstborn might have happened. Certainly I would not have contributed to them.”

  He turned his attention back to the fire. “Theriel…” he murmured quietly. “My Theriel. The first White Lady so pure of heart and soul. She warned us. She warned me. She begged me not to yield to my brother’s provocations, nor to try to create a better race. She asked me, If the gods could do no better than us, what makes you think you can do better? But I was so convinced we could make a world without war.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “You see how well I succeeded. Theriel would have no part in the creation of the Anari, save to bless them with long life and the gift of great art. Then she walked away and told us we must come to our senses. It was her death in the end that provoked the final battle. That caused her sisters to blast Dederand, the Second City, into a plane of glass.”

  Tom shivered again. “So terrible.”

  “There are not words for it. Theriel’s death…I know the stories say my brother killed her. But he did not. He captured her, and sought to make her his own, just as he now seeks to enslave the Weaver, Second White Lady. My Theriel died by her own hand rather than break her vows to me. And with her died our son.”

  “I am so sorry….” Everything in Tom constricted as he thought how he would react if such happened to Sara. He doubted he could remain sane.

  “I lost the best part of myself when I lost Theriel,” Archer said. “I have heard many say that, but it was most certainly true in my case. Her gentle hand and words ever sought to guide me to righteous paths, to the good that I could do. I should have heeded her better. Instead I fell into the pit my brother set for me, allowed myself to become angry, and once I was angry it was but a small step for him to provoke me and my fellows into the war that he wanted.”

  “But why did he want a war?”

  “Of that I am not certain. I suspect the gods had a hand in that. Certainly our father treated us as equals. He was the high king, and I was the firstborn son, but he gave us each dominion over our own city and lands, and while one city was called Samarand, the First City, and the other Dederand, the Second City, they were merely names. But, of course, he desired Theriel. Perhaps that was the thing that most insulted him, when Theriel did not choose him.”

  “But doesn’t the story say she chose neither of you?”

  One corner of Archer’s mouth lifted in a bitter smile. “Our father would have been a far wiser king had he not hidden Ardred and me where we could hear the lady’s words when he asked her which of us she would marry.”

  “I remember the words from the story,” Tom replied. “She said, ‘If I marry Annuvil, Ardred will kill him, and I cannot marry Ardred.’”

  “Aye, ’tis as she spoke. The words are graven on my heart as if by a hot brand. The joy that filled me that day made me blind to the insult my brother felt. And yet, as I repeated her words over the years, I have realized the wisdom they evinced. Had we not been able to overhear her, my father might have simply let her go on her way, and ceased pressing her to wed either of us. In that, as brothers, we would have shared an equal loss, and perhaps that would have eased matters between us. Instead we heard, and knew, her preference. What had before been difficult, thereafter became impossible.”

  “But yet, should that not have been simply between the two of you?”

  “As I said, we were flawed. Ardred had long built a faction to support himself. It gave him weight in council, and made it cle
ar that if anything happened to end our father’s reign, he would be the one to take the role of High King. I thought I did not so much care, for Samarand was quite enough to occupy me. As was my beautiful wife, once we wed. But my father, unbeknownst to me, had noted Ardred’s desire for the high throne, and because Ardred desired it, my father felt him unfit. So it was that another faction was raised at my father’s behest, though I did not know it. Many gathered around me, and added the weight of their words to mine. We soon found ourselves at odds over many public projects.

  “Then Ardred persuaded the people of Dederand that Second City did not simply mean that it was the second city the Firstborn built. No, with his silver tongue he persuaded them that they were considered to be second in every way, that their influence was less than that of Samarand, that their wishes meant less…. Need I go on? Before long, jealousy and envy became the bane of the Firstborn. And between them they led to wars. At first the skirmishes were brief, a handful of fighters here and there trying to make a point. But as the conflicts became more common, it was as if the Firstborn developed a taste for them. Or if not a taste, at least a numbness to the horror.”

  Tom nodded. “I hope that never happens to me.”

  “I pray it will not, Tom. For men become worse than the worst of beasts when they no longer care how they slaughter others. War grew like a fevered illness, fed by unreasoning jealousies and resentments, and eventually by revenge. And I was no better than the rest.”

  “I think you undervalue yourself.”

  Annuvil shook his head. “I have learned my lessons painfully, Tom. And I learned them when it was too late. Theriel argued in councils, telling us how foolish we were. She tried to persuade us back to sanity, but no ear seemed to hear. I even think…I even think I lost a part of her then.” He shook his head as if to drive out a pain. “I know I failed her. I was not the man she thought.”