Shadows of Destiny Read online

  “Mayhap not. What does it matter? I have been preserved for this time, these events. Perhaps if I acquit myself well and do what is expected of me this time, the gods will set me free.”

  She tilted her head back to better see him. “You would wish your own end? Are you sure that is a good wish for a man who will lead us in the war against Ardred?”

  Surprising her, he chuckled. “There are many ways a man can be set free. Perhaps at last I will be free to be mortal. Perhaps it will be something else. How should I know? The minds of the gods are ever opaque.”

  “I am coming to know that well.” She felt a wave of relief at his laughter, though she couldn’t have blamed him for being bitter about his lot. Nor could she imagine how awful these centuries must have been for him.

  “It’s a wonder,” she said slowly, “that the years did not drive you mad.”

  “Sometimes they did. I am grateful that I have little memory of those times, however. They are blurred in my mind, and all sense of time was lost. I sometimes lived like a beast in the forest, I believe.”

  “I’m sorry. Sorry and awed, for I cannot imagine surviving such a thing. How did you make yourself go on?”

  “I was promised,” he said slowly. “I was promised that someday my Theriel would be returned to me.”

  She stepped back even farther, and ignored the cold wind. For some reason she could not readily name, she felt…hurt. “Who promised you?”

  “Elanor. She came to me after…after the destruction. She promised that if I served her well, in the end I would see my wife again. I have clung to that promise.”

  “Are you sure you can trust Elanor? Or any of the gods?”

  He shook his head. “No. I freely admit I cannot. Their purposes are not ours. But…it is all I have. My heart died with Theriel, and the remaining ember is all that I have left. I must believe.”

  “I can see that.” She turned from him, letting his cloak fall away, letting the wind sweep over her and chill her to her very bones. She spread her arms as if to embrace the winter night. A snowflake, such as had never fallen in this valley in the memory of men, drifted down and landed on one of her fingertips.

  “I don’t know who I am,” she said slowly, watching the flake melt. “I don’t know where I am from. I have no promises to uphold me. Yet here I am, and I do what I must.”

  “Then perhaps your burden is the greater by far.”

  She turned suddenly and faced him. “What do they mean when they call me the Weaver?”

  “It is said that one day an Ilduin would come who could touch the warp and woof of reality, and bend it to her will.”

  “And they think I am that person?”

  “You wielded the Weaver’s sword in battle.”

  “Anyone could have wielded that sword.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not as you did.”

  She closed her eyes, remembering the moment when Tom had placed the sword in her hand and told her what it was. After that, everything had become a great blur. She had little memory of the battle afterward, and knew only what she was told: that she had led a force of men against a flanking attack and had saved the day. That later, with one word, she had caused the battle to instantly still.

  A great fear began to tremble in her, colder than the cold that surrounded her. “What does it mean? What is expected of me?”

  “I know not.”

  “The prophecies. If the Weaver is mentioned in them, there must be some hint, some clue!”

  “Have you not realized by now how prophecies are more riddles than foretellings? I cannot tell you what it is you are to do. I cannot tell you how to do it. You must trust, my lady, that when the time comes you will know.”

  “There is too much call for trust.”

  “I know.” He looked past her down the valley to where the fires burned in the prison compound. “They too must find a way to trust. For trust, I believe, is all that will save us from the wiles of Ardred.”

  She turned from him and looked down the valley, too, thinking of the men who must be huddled around those fires, despairing and perhaps even bitter in defeat, a taste that no Bozandari had known before. “Aye,” she said, her heart heavy with dread. “They, too, must trust. And perhaps that will be the most difficult thing of all.”

  That night, in her dreams, the white wolf came to her again, as he had twice in reality. He howled, a mournful, spine-tingling sound, then seemed to gesture for her to follow him.

  Through the mists of her dream, she slipped after him. As was the way of dreams, she never wondered why she followed, or what the wolf wanted of her. Nor did she feel any fear.

  Gradually the mist softened, then faded until she could see the woods through which they traveled. Always the wolf was just ahead of her, pausing in his easy, long-legged lope when necessary to let her catch up.

  At last they emerged into a clearing. Above, the sky glistened with a carpet of stars thicker than any she had ever seen. Then, around her, she heard the murmur of voices. She could not make out the words but sensed that she stood in the center of some invisible gathering.

  Until now, she had felt nothing, but as she stood there, her discomfort grew, because she felt as if she were being judged by some unseen jury. The wolf remained at her side, but his presence offered scant comfort. She began to think of fleeing from this haunted clearing. At that instant the voices fell silent.

  Then a woman stepped out of the shadows, her face concealed by a hood that cast it in darkness.

  “Many,” the woman said quietly, “are your sisters who have gone before you. To none of us fell the burden that now befalls you. Yet each of us, in her own way, has prepared your path with promises and prayers. We cannot tell you what is to come, for the gods make a game, and we are bound by their rules. But we will be with you, little sister. If you hear a whisper on the air, listen for our voices. All that lies between is a veil, and that veil can be pierced.”

  Before Tess could question her, the woman had vanished back into the shadows. For a second or two, she could hear the quiet murmur of the voice again.

  Then she was alone in the clearing with only the white wolf.

  He nudged her hand with his cool, damp nose and she blinked.

  And gasped. For she no longer stood in the clearing at all, nor was it any longer dark.

  Dawn was breaking over the mountains to the east, wreathed in red and pink and orange, the globe of the sun not yet visible.

  Nor was she in her bed. She stood halfway between Anahar and the compound housing the Bozandari prisoners of war.

  The frigid morning air made her cheeks sting, but she was still surprisingly warm. Looking down at herself, she saw that she had dressed in her fine white woolens and boots, with her cloak about her shoulders. Had she done that in her sleep?

  A sound behind her made her swing sharply around, and she gasped as she saw the wolf was still with her.

  What was going on? Had she been dreaming? Or had she been awake in some netherworld? Had long-dead Ilduin really spoken to her?

  Or was she simply losing her mind?

  But then the wolf came toward her and shoved his big, soft head beneath her hand. Instinctively she scratched him behind the ears, and marveled at how silky his coat felt.

  She must have been sleepwalking, she thought. Thank goodness she had dressed before setting out from Anahar. Else she would be frozen and dead right now, it was that cold.

  She was about to return to the city on the hillside when the wolf tipped back his head and howled. It was a beautiful sound, music unto itself.

  And it was answered. Tess felt her scalp prickle as wolves howled back from the awkward, hardy trees that made life for themselves in the green desert that was the Anari lands. The sound was eerie, as eerie as anything she had ever heard. There must have been dozens of them.

  But then they emerged from the trees, still howling, a harmony among their voices that reverberated until it sounded as if they numbered in the several
dozens. But there were only seven more of them, all as white as the one that stood beneath her hand.

  She should have been terrified. She should have fled. She should have tried to call on her powers for protection. Instead she remained rooted to the spot as the wolf pack ran toward her, their yellow eyes bright, mouths relaxed in smiles, as if they were coming home.

  When they reached her, their howling stopped and they began to make quiet whimpers and whines as they swirled around her legs, sniffing her as if to learn her. Then, as if by silent order, all seven sat on their haunches and looked up at her.

  She spoke, not knowing what else to do. “What do you want?”

  The only answer she received was from the pack leader. His head moved from beneath her hand so that he could tug at her robe with his mouth.

  He pulled her gently.

  Toward the prison compound.

  And all the others followed, as if they were tamed beasts at her beck and call. But she knew otherwise, and wondered what it all meant.

  Ras Lutte, formerly overmark of the Bozandari army, approached his ruler slowly, as if hoping to avoid notice. He had news to bring, and bring it he must, for such was his duty. But he knew the meaning of the dour visage upon the throne, a face that seemed to bear the weight of the gods themselves upon its features. Lutte was all too familiar with that expression. It had been months, it seemed, since his ruler had borne any other.

  Yet the ruler was still an astonishingly beautiful man, fair of complexion, golden of hair, blue of eye. To Lutte and others, it seemed he might even be the spawn of the gods, for never had a man so handsome and charismatic ever been seen before.

  Until this brooding had begun.

  But at least no one died from these silent broodings.

  “My lord,” Lutte finally said, after placing his right fist to his heart and bowing at the waist. “I pray that I disturb thee not, yet the woman has spoken.”

  The man on the throne looked up slowly, as if all of his strength were required simply to lift his head. Lutte could not be certain, but he thought he saw tears in his ruler’s eyes. Immediately, Lutte lowered his gaze to the floor. Such things were not to be seen.

  “What is it, Overmark?” the ruler asked, each word seeming to wend its way from the bottom of a deep cavern.

  “The Weaver summons the wolves, my lord. Soon, the woman says, the Enemy host will march.”

  The man’s eyes closed for a moment, then he nodded. “Just as it was foretold.”

  Lutte knew little of prophecy and trusted less than he knew. He was loathe even to trust the woman who sat in her room like the shell of a human being, hardly taking even food or drink, her body nearly as desiccated in life as any Lutte had seen in death.

  He was a man of science and mathematics, the science and mathematics of war. Born into the Bozandari peerage, trained in the Academy of War, tested in battle, proved in a half-dozen campaigns. His exile after an affair with a topmark’s wife had not changed his nature. It was possible to take the soldier out of the army, but never to take the army out of the soldier. Now he had found another army, and he had taken to the task of training the ragged band of outlaws and exiles into a smoothly functioning fist to be wielded at his will.

  But not his will. The will of his ruler. And the will of his ruler was guided by prophecy and the mumblings of the woman. It was, Lutte thought, a shaky foundation upon which to base a campaign. But he had learned loyalty in the academy, and his personal dalliances aside, his professional loyalty was a matter of pride.

  He relayed the woman’s words as if they were those of the most accomplished spy, not because he trusted her or her ramblings, but because it was his duty to do so.

  “If this is so,” Lutte said, “then our agents in Bozandar must be at their task. Surely Bozandar can crush the slave people and end this rebellion.”

  “Bozandar will not be our ally,” the ruler said. “In the end, it will come to us and us alone. It will come to me. For only I can slay my brother.”

  Again he is on about his brother, Lutte thought. As if the rest of the world were mere pawns in this sibling rivalry. Lutte had heard the whispers, that his ruler was in fact the second son of the Firstborn King, but he did not believe them. The children of the Firstborn were long dead, if ever they had existed. Lutte needed no ancient good or evil to empower him. The evil of the human heart more than sufficed to afflict the world. And only the good of the human heart could bring it comfort. The rest were tales, legends, myths told to fortify the sheep against the hardness of life, and make the sheep compliant within it.

  “Is there anything else?” the ruler asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then go,” the ruler said. “Tend to your numbers and your geometries. And pray that you never stand on a field where straight lines bend and twice two is not four.”

  He did not read my mind, Lutte thought as he bowed and turned to leave. His face had betrayed his skepticism, and his ruler knew of his reputation. It was nothing more.

  What a pity, Ardred thought as Lutte left. What a pity that such a talented young mind should lack the most essential of all knowledge: the numbering of the gods, the geometry of the soul.

  Lutte was a good soldier, but poor counsel. What he lacked, Ardred most needed. For no man can make war upon his brother with lightness of heart, whatever their past. Once, Ardred had laid siege to Annuvil. Now Annuvil would come to lay siege to Ardred.

  Lutte thought he knew what danger lay when two men loved a woman, for such had been his crime. But he knew nothing at all.

  Ardred must kill his brother. The world could not be stitched back together until Annuvil was dead. Only then would the glory and true power return.

  And all this for the love of a single woman.

  Theriel.

  Chapter Three

  The rustle began at the edges of the Bozandar camp. Muted gasps and movements filtered through the camp as if through the muscles and sinew of a waking giant, slowly willing it into motion. Tuzza put down his pen and emerged from his tent, his senses alert for any hint of danger or malice. He felt none, and slowly made his way through the gathering throng of soldiers at the eastern fence.

  “It cannot be!” one man whispered.

  “They cannot live so far south!” another added.

  “My eyes deceive me, for they bend to her!”

  Tuzza shouldered his way through until he could see for himself what had caused such a stir. And his mouth dropped open.

  There stood Lady Tess, a semicircle of snow wolves arrayed behind her, silent yet alert, their eyes fixed on her as if she were their pack leader. One of them, however, stood beside her, golden eyes searching among the soldiers until at last they fixed on Tuzza. A shiver ran through him as he made eye contact with the beast, a recognition of something preternatural and unexplainable.

  So it was true.

  Tuzza instinctively lowered himself to one knee and bowed. He had no need to speak, for his men were still soldiers, whatever their current lot. They knelt with him.

  “Rise, Topmark Tuzza,” the woman said, her voice quiet but firm. She spread her hands behind her, indicating the wolves. Then the fingers of one hand returned to rest on the head of the snow-white beast beside her. “Rise and make way for your Lady and her court.”

  “Fall in!” Tuzza commanded.

  Some, those whom fortune had placed at the rear of the battles and who had not needed her healing touch, grumbled. But they were the fewer, and the looks of their comrades shamed them into obedience.

  “Dress ranks!” Tuzza said.

  Even in those who grumbled, the first act of obedience had rekindled the training and drill that countless hours had transformed into automatic responses. The men adjusted their spacing, and soon stood in lines so straight that they might have been set down by a surveyor.

  Tuzza faced Lady Tess. “My men stand ready, m’lady. We are at your service.”

  “Very well,” Tess said, now striding tow
ard them as if she were gliding on air, the wolves in her train.

  She marched to the front of the formation, then turned to face them. Once again the wolves took up their places behind and at her side. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong, a bell ringing in the soul itself.

  “I am she who was foretold,” Tess said. While she loathed the words and what they meant, she knew their truth. She could not hide from herself any longer. “Believe, or disbelieve. But disbelief will be your doom, for you will disbelieve that which you now see for yourselves. Topmark Tuzza stands at my service. Where stand you?”

  For long moments, the host stood frozen. Tuzza stepped forward and ranged himself beside the lady. Now, perhaps, he could quell the unrest in his ranks and refashion from them an army. He spoke quietly, yet pitching his voice to reach even the most distant of ears among his men. “The days we learned about as children, the days we thought were mere tales fashioned for our amusement, have arrived. While we may have to fight our brethren, our purpose is not to bring about the fall of Bozandar, but her salvation. For the Enemy we fight would bring the death of all.

  “Stand with me, my men, for the sake of your families, for the sake of your children yet unborn. For if we do not stand now, we shall face the fate of the Firstborn, and never shall our names be heard again.”

  He could see his men wavering, uncertain in their loyalties. Outside the walls of the compound, however, the Anari guards bent their knees and made signs of fealty toward the Lady Tess. Then the wolves began to keen, a sound that made the hair on the back of a man’s neck rise, that sent a tingle running along even the bravest spine.

  With a simple movement of her hand, the lady silenced the wolves, a sight so shocking that many doubtful hearts were swayed.

  “Brave men of Bozandar,” she said, “declare yourselves now, for your entire future is writ in this moment.”