Shadows of Destiny Page 6

  The word of Grundan’s appointment spread quickly, and in the days that followed, as Tuzza visited other units, he found that each had added a snow wolf—the prophesied companion of the Weaver—to its pennant.

  “Your men speak of themselves as the Snow Wolves,” Jenah Gewindi said, walking beside Tuzza.

  Jenah, alongside Ratha and Giri Monabi, had been one of Archer’s three chief lieutenants in the campaign against Tuzza’s men. Giri had fallen in the battle of the canyon, and his brother Ratha was still observing telzehten. This left Jenah as the only Anari commander on hand to forge a command coalition with the Bozandari, and at Archer’s order he had spent the past two days with Tuzza in the Bozandari camp, observing their training and the appointment of new officers as needed.

  “Yes,” Tuzza said. “It began with the commissioning of one of your brethren. I have since been told that it was the decision of Rearmark Grundan and two of his fellow filemarks to add the Snow Wolf to their pennant. But it has served to rally my men, to give them a new sense of shared identity.”

  Jenah nodded. “This is important, Topmark. Even now there is talk of doing the same among the Anari.”

  “Your men would share the symbol of a Bozandari legion?” Tuzza asked, incredulous.

  “Perhaps,” Jenah said. “Perhaps we both share a symbol of and allegiance to something greater than either of our peoples. It is this that I have suggested, when I have been asked for my view on the issue.”

  “Very politic,” Tuzza said, smiling.

  “An alliance cannot be formed without such,” Jenah said with a faint shrug. “My people are no more eager to fight beside yours than your men are to fight beside us. Yet necessity commands it, and it falls upon men like us to make it possible.”

  “How many are you?” Tuzza asked. “We never knew, for certain, during the campaign past.”

  “We were never more than five thousand under sword, and fewer still in the end,” Jenah said.

  “Between us we are barely a legion strong,” Tuzza said, his brow furrowed.

  “Perhaps,” Jenah said. “But even if we were thrice thus, we could not count on weight of numbers in the march to Bozandar. And in our very weakness may lay strength.”

  “How so?” Tuzza asked.

  Jenah smiled. “Consider how your emperor would respond if three legions marched out of Anahar.”

  “That would seem nothing less than an invasion,” Tuzza said, nodding. “They would see no option but battle.”

  “Precisely,” Jenah said. “But an understrength legion, composed of Bozandari and Anari marching side by side. That can seem like a peace envoy.”

  “Let us hope,” Tuzza said. “My men have no desire to slay their brethren. However committed they may be to the Weaver, to lift swords against men they have known and fought beside before would be very difficult.”

  “Aye,” Jenah said. “Thus it would be for Anari also. No, our strength will lie not in numbers, but in the gifts of our Ilduin, and perhaps your own gifted tongue.”

  Tuzza looked at Jenah. “If our future rests upon my gift for clever speech, I fear we are all in graver danger than I knew.”

  “It will come to all of us to give what we can,” Jenah said. “Whether that will be enough rests on shoulders larger than our own.”

  Tess sat beside an icy stream, her feet bare and pink in the cold. The need to escape to quiet and privacy had driven her into the mountains by herself. She could still see Anahar’s beauty below, so she was in no danger of becoming lost. But the hike had made her feet tender, since it appeared her new boots were better made for riding than walking. She had soaked them in the stream until she could bear the frigid water no more.

  As she turned her ankle to one side, she noted again the tattoo of the white rose, still as fresh-looking as if it had been done within the past year or two. How did she know that about tattoos?

  For a moment, she closed her eyes, reaching for the information, but as always when she sought her past, it was as if the doors closed even more impenetrably. A small sigh escaped her, and she shivered a bit as the icy breeze caressed her feet. She should put her boots on again, before her bare feet sucked out all the warmth that her woolen cloak preserved.

  But instead she looked again at the tattoo, knowing in some unreachable part of herself that it was more than a pretty decoration. It said something about her past, about who she was. Perhaps it even said something about her destiny.

  Gingerly she poked a hand out from the shelter of her cloak and touched it. Within, she felt no reaction to it at all. At this moment, it was nothing but a pretty little bit of folly.

  But it was her only true link with her past, that and the memory of holding her dying mother in her arms, a memory that Elanor had returned to her. An unhappy, unwanted, inexplicable memory. It told her almost nothing, and she had a crying need to know something.

  If she was a pawn of the gods, and it appeared she was, then why must she take every action in blindness? Why was she permitted to know little of any real use?

  Her own powers, powers that had been steadily revealing themselves, terrified her. If she was capable of so much, ’twould be better for everyone if she knew how to control this wild talent. Instead she discovered her abilities in moments of dire need, and so far as she could tell, other than healing, she had little say in what she did.

  She lifted her fingers from the tattoo and studied it for another few seconds, then sighed and pulled her white leather boots on again.

  For some reason, nearly every piece of serviceable clothing she owned, from the very first clothes given to her by Sara so long ago at the Whitewater Inn, was white. When she had asked the bootmaker to make her a fresh pair, he had made them white. She was quite certain she had not asked for that. The same had happened with every other item that she requested.

  A little smile curled one corner of her mouth. Only her gown for the wedding had been a different color, and now that the wedding was past, she had no excuse to wear it. It was as if some silent conspiracy existed, insisting she wear only the color of the white wolves, the White Lady, the Weaver.

  Shod once again, her feet numbed enough that she did not feel the mild irritation of her new boots, she resumed her hike, now heading toward Anahar. The quiet and solitude had allowed her to relax, a luxury she rarely knew. For a little while she had stopped worrying at the temple for more information, she had escaped councils of war, and the cacophony of voices that accompanied the crowding of the city of Anahar by Anari summoned from far and wide to battle.

  A snatch of music danced across her mind, and she recalled the day that Anahar had sung. The rainbow-hued city had gleamed from within its every stone as the music had emerged from them, sending out a call to every Anari, a call that could be heard nearby with the ears, but elsewhere with the heart, according to the Anari.

  And the Anari had come from far and wide, dropping every task to answer the summons. They had become the army that had defeated Tuzza’s legion.

  Now Tess wondered if Anahar would sing again, for it seemed they were about to march again, this time toward Bozandar.

  The chill that passed through her then had nothing to do with the weather. She could not imagine that the remains of the Anari army, even allied with the remnants of Tuzza’s legion, could withstand the might of Bozandar, be it only one fresh legion strong.

  Yet march they must, for more than their own lives hung in the balance. It was a somber, sober burden, one which weighed more heavily with each step toward the city.

  Again the snatch of music danced across her mind, as if trying to tell her something, but before she could reach for its meaning, it was gone again.

  Perhaps Anahar was calling her, telling her it was time. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she realized this was not Anahar calling her. No, this was something else, something far darker than Anahar could ever be, even in the silence of the blackest night.

  Yes, Tess. You will come. But not for their sake. Yo
u will come for me!

  Tess slammed down the walls within her mind, even as she began to run toward the city. Blisters bedamned. She knew she had not the strength to withstand this attack alone. She needed her sisters.

  She needed them now.

  Archer had been looking for Tess, to confer with her about the army’s departure. She was, whether she knew it or not, the only true unifying point for the two groups who would march toward Bozandar. Not even his own birthright, Firstborn Son to Firstborn King, would unify in the way the Lady Tess’s mere presence seemed to.

  Nor did he begrudge her that, though he still wondered about her origins. For his part, he had no desire to be the rallying point for what was to come. He would simply do his duty and use his expertise as needed. Having once heard his name used as a rallying cry, and having seen what followed, he never wanted to hear it that way again.

  ’Twas then that he spied Tess hurrying out of the wood at the far end of town. The way she was racing and stumbling concerned him, and he spurred his mount toward her, his heart suddenly hammering.

  When he reached her, he saw terror on her face. He slipped at once from his saddle and reached for her, swinging his cloak around her to cover her even as he assumed a protective stance, hand on his sword hilt.

  “Are you pursued?” he demanded roughly. “Has someone hurt you?”

  “No…no…”

  He relaxed, but only a little, as he felt a shudder rip through her.

  “It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s him.”

  “Him?” In the deepest part of his heart he knew who she meant, but he didn’t want to accept it.

  “Him,” she whispered again, as if afraid to speak his name. “I feel him again. He is near in my thoughts, his touch so cold…colder than ice. He wants me.”

  At once he wrapped his other arm around her, as if he could shield her from the assault. As if anything could. “Tess,” he said. “Tess…” It was all he could say. He had no idea how an Ilduin might fight such an assault on her mind. No idea how to protect her. All he could do was give her the sound of his voice and the touch of his arms for her to cling to lest she be swept away.

  She shuddered against him, as if from great cold or great effort. “He knows,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Knows what?”

  “He knows you are here. He knows we are coming. And he wants me.”

  He hesitated only a moment, then with one easy movement lifted her onto his saddle. An instant later he was behind her and they galloped toward the city.

  “Take me to my sisters,” Tess begged. “He wants all of the Ilduin! And none of us can withstand him alone.”

  I could have, Archer thought grimly as his mount devoured the distance in hungry strides. He had had countless opportunities to deal with Ardred, when they were children or even young men, before the evil had taken root and transformed his brother into his enemy. He had missed them all. But not again. I could have, and this time, I will.

  Chapter Eight

  Ratha looked at Cilla, uncertain of what to say. She had been with him for two days now, though she had yet to speak a word beyond their brief opening greeting. Nor had he. The initial stage of the telzehten was observed in silence, apart from the customary prayers, and in silence they had remained. But now they had completed that stage, and were supposed to move on to the celebration of a life well lived. And while Ratha knew his brother had lived life well, he also knew that in the end of Giri’s days, an awful bloodlust had consumed him.

  Worse, Ratha knew that he, too, had fallen victim to that bloodlust before his sojourn in the desert, and now was perilously close to succumbing again. To openly discuss these things risked falling into the pit that yawned beneath him like a gaping maw. And yet he knew he must face his demons eventually whether alone or not.

  Even so, his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, and the concerns he most needed to share were the very things of which he must not speak.

  Still, as the closest blood relative, it fell upon Ratha to speak first. At last the silence grew too oppressive to bear, and he drew a breath. “Giri was a man of honor.”

  “Aye, cousin,” Cilla said quietly.

  “More than once did he risk his life for those whom he loved, and in the end he gave his life for the freedom of the Anari,” Ratha continued.

  Cilla nodded. “He spared nothing.”

  “Not even his own soul,” Ratha said, tears forming in his eyes. “I have prayed that the gods will forgive him for what he became.”

  “He became hardened,” Cilla said gently. “War is a cruel undertaking, cousin.”

  “That it is,” Ratha said. “Perhaps if we Anari had been more suited for it…”

  “I fear that no one can be truly suited for it,” she replied. “Or perhaps that no one should. I fear that any people truly suited to war would be too cruel and horrible to bear imagining.”

  “Perhaps that is true.”

  Cilla let a moment pass before speaking. “Giri was a man of laughter.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ratha said. “And some of the stories he told…I could not repeat in the presence of a woman, not even my cousin.”

  Cilla smiled. “Of that I am certain. There was nothing about which Giri could not laugh, even those things at which most of us would blush.”

  Ratha closed his eyes, recalling the long days riding with Archer, when he and Giri had often passed the time with jokes and songs.

  “He liked to tell a story of a woman who was out in the field gathering wheat when she came upon a red desert adder. The woman asked of the adder, ‘Why do you have fangs, and venom that kills?’ The adder replied, ‘It is only to defend myself, or to kill prey that I may eat.’ The woman was unconvinced, and said, ‘I would never use venom to defend myself!’ The adder simply smiled. ‘Why must you lie, woman? For I have heard you speak to your husband!’”

  Cilla laughed, a rich, hearty laugh that seemed to unlock something within Ratha. His own laughter and tears burst forth in equal measure, each riding upon the waves of Cilla’s laughter, but continuing long after as he recalled the times that he and Giri had combined to make even Archer turn red and cover his mouth.

  This was the Giri that Ratha could celebrate. The brother who, no matter how long the days or how rocky the journey, could bring even the stones to laugh. The brother who had hidden pebbles in Archer’s boots, so tiny and placed so well that with every step Archer felt a tickle between his toes.

  It had taken Archer half a day to find the pebbles, and three days more to plot his revenge on Giri, carefully weaving a string of nettles into Giri’s breeches that left him hopping and howling until he could find and break open a soothing reed.

  For his part, Ratha had laughed along with Archer at his brother’s discomfort, for such were the just desserts of the prank Giri had played, and he knew the nettles were as harmless as the pebbles Giri had employed for his own amusement.

  As he told Cilla of these times, and many others besides, her peals of laughter echoed through the rocks below, and the stones themselves seemed to respond with a quiet glow that spoke their approval. She told him of one of her cousins who had been the happy, if unsatisfied, host of Giri’s first clumsy kiss. Her description, doubtless embellished in the telling, left Ratha holding his sides and wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “Giri was a gift to us all,” Ratha finally said, when he could catch his breath.

  “Yes, he was,” Cilla said. “And whatever he became, dear cousin, he became it only because he never lived by half measures.”

  Ratha nodded. “That he did not. Whatever he was, in whatever moment he lived, he lived it fully. And if he lived war no less fully than he lived all else, I pray he did so not from malice but from the same completeness with which he gave every day of his life.”

  Cilla reached out and took his hand. “If we can see him thus, my cousin, how could any just and merciful god not see him likewise?”

  Ratha did not withdraw hi
s hand, for in that simple touch he felt the beginning of something he would not have imagined possible only days ago. He felt the beginning of healing.

  “I will always miss him,” Ratha said.

  “As will I,” Cilla said. “But he lives on in our hearts, and in our memories. And I dare say with surety that he lives on beyond the veil, and even now plots his mischief with the gods.”

  “If that be,” Ratha said, “then I pity the gods.”

  “Share a meal with me, cousin,” Cilla said. “You have fasted enough.”

  Something in the quietness of her voice, in the softness of her touch, in the laughter they had shared, and even more, in her having come to share his grief, reached through the anguish that had plagued his soul from the moment he had seen Giri fall. To spend time alone was an honorable thing. But to return to his people, and his duty, was no less honorable, and all the more so in this time of need.

  “Yes, cousin,” he said. “Let us return to Anahar and eat together. For duty weighs upon us both, and to duty we must return. But first let us feast in honor of Giri.”

  “Long have I waited to hear those words,” Cilla said, rising with him.

  “And others that I cannot yet say,” Ratha added, a wry smile on his face.

  Cilla laughed. “Tease me not, cousin! Come, strike your tent before I smite your heart!”

  Ratha joined in the laughter as they made their way back to Anahar.

  Many days and hours of sorrow still lay ahead, but a glimmer of acceptance had at last eased Ratha’s heart.

  It was terrible, thought Tess, to rip Sara from the arms of her groom yet again, but it could not be avoided. Come, she cried to her sister in her mind. Come to the temple at once and bring Cilla!

  The answer was not one of words, but one of feeling. She felt Sara’s startlement, followed by a burst of fear. Then: Cilla is in the mountains, with Ratha.

  Then summon her now!

  Archer continued his gallop through the streets of Anahar, his mount’s hooves striking fire from the cobbles, though it was forbidden to ride this way in the city. As people scattered before them, they were recognized, and their haste awoke fear.