The death-mage shrank back as if her words were as deadly as his wand. The two Xenoth on either side of him seemed to notice something amiss at last.

  “What is the lowling wench blathering about?” demanded the one armed with an ice gem wand.

  “Silence her!” ordered the one on the other side. “Then get back to work. These lowlings are putting up a vicious fight, curse them! If too many get in among the trees before the rest of our force comes, some may slip through our fingers.”

  The death-mage raised his wand and aimed. Maura braced for the pain to gnaw at her in its particular way. Having felt the torment of an ice gem and a shadow gem, she had hoped never to endure another. But if that was the price for this confrontation, she was willing to pay it.

  The poison gem was pointed straight at her, yet Maura felt no pain. It must take an effort of will to trigger and channel that terrible power. It appeared the death-mage was unable to make that effort against his own flesh and blood. Perhaps she reminded him too much of the woman who had made him feel tenderness and passion, back when he still had a heart.

  “You cannot do it, can you?” Maura challenged him. The last thing she wanted from him was leniency.

  He shook the wand and glared at it, his mouth clenched in a rigid line. Still Maura felt nothing.

  She raised her hand and held it out. “Give me that thing.”

  Now he glared at her. “You are immune to it, somehow.”

  “I am as vulnerable as anyone else.” An unwelcome notion took stubborn root in her mind. “Perhaps you are, too.”

  She wanted to hate him for being what he was and doing the things he’d done to keep her people in fear and bondage. Most of all she wanted to hate him because he had tainted her and made her question everything she’d believed herself to be. That hate would be a measure of her identity as an Embrian and her loyalty to her people.

  Hate could be a potent weapon. But suddenly Maura found herself disarmed, unable to summon its power any more than her father could summon the power of the poison gem against her.

  “Give me...” Her outstretched fingers began to tremble and her eyes prickled with tears she scorned to shed, for they would make her look weak.

  Reeds bend before the mighty rage of the storm. Langbard’s words welled up from the depths of her memory to remind her of a long-ago lesson. Does that make them weak? When the storm passes, they rise again and flourish. Let your heart be supple as a reed, dear one, and as strong.

  “Give me... your hand.”

  She stood near enough, now, that if he leaned over the neck of his mount, he could do what she asked. But would he be able to bend so far?

  Behind the black hood that hid his identity and humanity, his eyes glittered with what looked like terror. By refusing to bend, would he be broken by the tempest raging inside him?

  The wand that was both his weapon and his shield lowered. He swayed in his saddle—falling more than bending. Then his hand thrust out toward her, as if some powerful force of restraint had suddenly snapped under pressure.

  Maura lunged forward to catch his fingers in hers. But the tips no more than brushed when his jerked back and he let out a howl of pain that startled both Maura and his mount.

  It stopped almost as quickly as it had begun and Maura heard the death-mage beside him growl, “Don’t be a fool! Give the little wretch what she deserves.”

  She’d stumbled several steps backward when his horse reared. Now the pain she had invited moments ago engulfed and consumed her. Every fiber of her body seemed to burst into flame at once. She drew breath to scream but before a sound could escape her lips, the fire in her flesh extinguished, leaving her limp and shaken. Another cry rang out, deep and rasping with a shrill edge of shock and rage.

  When her vision cleared, Maura could see her father and one of the other death-mages pointing their wands at each other. Having engaged in two such duels, she knew if it lasted very long there would be no victor.

  “Stop!” She struggled up from the ground and moved toward her father.

  She had taken only a single stumbling step when she heard the pounding of hooves behind her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist to pull her off the ground and onto Rath’s horse. They galloped toward Aldwood.

  “Don’t scare me like that, aira! When I saw you walking toward that death-mage, I near spewed my guts right then. The Han I was fighting might have taken my head off if Tobryn hadn’t jumped up and grabbed him by the hair.”

  “Please, Rath.” Maura struggled in his arms. “I must go back to my father. He saved my life.”

  Unless she acted swiftly, he would pay for it with his own.

  “Your who? He what?”

  “The death-mage. My father.” Maura grabbed the reins higher than where Rath held them and pulled to bring the horse about. “They told him to use his wand on me, but he couldn’t. And when one of the others did, he...”

  “I will do what I can.” Rath wrested control of his horse back from Maura, then slowed the beast and eased her to the ground. “If you promise to stay in cover and see to the wounded. Will you?”

  This dangerous task would require the horse’s speed unencumbered by an extra passenger. It would also take a man’s kind of strength and Rath’s quick wits.

  “I will.” Maura nodded so hard, her whole body quivered. “I promise. Now go!”

  There were no Han close by but still she retreated behind the nearest tree, in case a stray arrow flew her way or a mortcraft wand pointed at her. Peeking out from behind the broad trunk, she watched Rath speed back toward the death-mages.

  But he was too late.

  Some of the other rebel warriors had seen a chance to remove the greatest obstacle between their beleaguered army and the refuge of the forest. They fell on the dueling death-mages, hewing them down with quick strokes before taking advantage of the unguarded backs of the others.

  Maura’s legs felt like slender twigs, straining to hold her upright. The great open space around her suddenly seemed empty of air.

  She told herself not to be foolish. Why should she care what became of a man she had wanted to hate until a few moments ago? Just because he’d resisted the urge to harm her then come to her aid when someone else had tried?

  Even that did not explain the baffling sense of loss that engulfed her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT WAS ALL over by the time he rode back.

  Part of Rath rejoiced at the destruction of the death-mages. A vital path to Aldwood now lay open for his army. Besides that, he hoped the loss of so many Xenoth might make the Han hesitate before attacking Vang’s stronghold, thus buying him some desperately needed time.

  But his satisfaction was tainted with regret as well. He had come to believe in the way of the Giver enough that he could not exult in the taking of life—not even of his worst enemies. Besides that, he felt a vague sense of waste. These had once been men of power and ability. What might they have accomplished in the service of some better cause? Now they would never have that chance.

  “Gather up those wands!” he ordered the men who’d done the grim deed. “Take them to Aldwood Castle for safekeeping. I do not want them falling back into enemy hands.”

  Though these rebel fighters would not recognize him without all the trappings of the Waiting King, they responded to his air of authority and quickly obeyed his orders.

  Rath leaped from his saddle and knelt beside the death mage whose gaunt hand still gripped the green-gem wand with fierce will. Though he did not appear to be bleeding much, he had neither pulse nor breath. Rath pried the wand from his cold fingers then closed his unseeing eyes with a gentle touch.

  This man embodied all the cruel domination of his people and yet... If not for him, Maura would never have been. Rath had neither the time nor the wisdom to unravel the complicated riddle of his feelings.

  Hefting the body up, he found it surprisingly light for its size, as if it had never been a whole man at all but only a hollow shell of one. He slung it over the back of his horse, which he led back toward the spot where he’d left Maura. She darted out of the woods when she saw him coming.

  “I’m sorry.” Rath nodded toward the body. “I was too late. If you don’t want to bother about him, I can—”

  “No!” Maura’s face betrayed some of the contrary feelings that battled within her. “I don’t want to... but I owe him something.”

  “I know.” Rath shifted the body off the horse’s back onto his own shoulder then set off into the woods.

  Not far in, he found a flat grassy spot that was strangely quiet. There he laid down his burden.

  “You’ll need water.” He handed Maura his drink skin.

  Whether or not he agreed with what she was about to do, it would keep her off the battlefield. That might be the third best service this death-mage had ever done.

  Rath gathered Maura into a swift embrace, pressing a kiss to her furrowed brow. “I’ll come looking for you once we get our forces under cover. For now I must go find Delyon. If only I’d known...”

  His voice trailed off, but she replied with a brief nod of understanding and reassurance. “Go. But be careful.” She glanced toward the long, black-robed form on the grass. “If I ever had to do this for you...”

  The ache in her words brought a lump to Rath’s throat. He’d had to do this for her once, though the Giver had granted them another chance. There was a limit to how many such chances a person could hope for.

  “Don’t fret about me. I’ve spent my whole life wriggling out of tight spots.” Still, it was not easy for him to let go of her, stride back through the trees and climb into his saddle to rejoin the battle.

  The situation he found on the field heartened him. The fall of the death-mages seemed to have inspired the rebels. Most of the Hanish riders had been taken down or driven off and the ragtag army now streamed toward the welcoming arms of Aldwood as night began to spread its protective cloak over them.

  But far too many of his men staggered toward the forest, hauling wounded or slain comrades with them. Each one Rath passed gave his heart a pang. He wished he had Idrygon’s detachment to think of them as nothing more than pieces to move in a game. But to him they were comrades who’d placed their faith in him—trusting him to make their blighted dream of freedom come true.

  How would he live with himself if he let them down? Even if he died trying, he was not certain he would find peace in the afterworld if he failed his people.

  “Wolf!” a familiar voice hailed him. “Leave it to you to show up when there’s trouble afoot.”

  “Anulf!” Rath reined his horse to a halt and scrambled down. “I heard you were here making a nuisance of yourself. And Odger, too! The Han will be shaking in their iron boots!”

  A chuckle caught in his throat when he spotted a wounded man slumped between them. “Theto?”

  Anulf shook his head. “A farmer from a ways north. A good fellow, but he should never have got caught up in all this—him with a pretty wife and a fine family back home.”

  “Newlyn?” Rath fumbled at the farmer’s throat for a pulse then let out a shaky sigh of relief when he found it.

  “Aye, that’s his name.” Anulf pulled on Newlyn’s arm to bring it tighter around his shoulder. “A friend of the lady’s. Shame she couldn’t have talked some sense into him.”

  “Is he bad?”

  “Not good. Lost some blood. I bound his wound the best I could, but...”

  Then from up on the ridge Rath thought he heard someone call out, “The king!”

  Oddly, it didn’t feel strange that they meant someone other than him. Yet he did not like the tone of the call—it sounded like trouble.

  “Take Newlyn over that way.” Rath pointed toward the western edge of the forest. “Maura’s there. She will help him, if anyone can.”

  With that he remounted. “I must go to the king’s aid.”

  “Watch your back, Wolf!” Anulf called after him. “I want a pint with you after all this ruckus settles down!”

  “So do I!” In spite of all that weighed on him, Rath laughed. “If you’re buying!”

  He threaded his mount through the shadowy throng making their way toward the forest. Once he reached the edge of the crowd he was able to make better speed up the slope. What he saw when he reached the crest made him want to turn and race for Aldwood with the rest.

  The setting sun had fallen below the barrier of clouds, but not yet disappeared behind the peaks of the Blood Moon Mountains. Now its dying rays reached out to glint off Hanish armor. Rank upon rank upon rank of it.

  Rath hadn’t thought there could be this many soldiers in the whole empire! In a massed battle, the rebels would be overrun and butchered. Given how fast the Han were coming, Embrian stragglers were in danger of being overrun before they got up the hill, let alone down to the forest.

  Rath rode up to a mounted Vestan soldier paused at the crest of the ridge. “The king, where is he?”

  “There.” The fellow pointed. “In a bit of trouble, by the look of it. I would go to him but Lord Idrygon ordered me to stay here and keep these men moving.”

  Gazing into the distance, Rath squinted against the glare from the Hanish armor. He thought he could pick out one figure larger than the rest.

  “Not that the likes of us would be much use to such a great hero,” said the Vestan.

  “Oh, he needs us, all right.” Rath gave his horse a nudge to head down the far slope. “Nobody’s that great a hero.”

  His entrails tied themselves in knots as he rode toward the Han. He had told Delyon to keep as far away as possible from his brother. Clearly he should have told the young scholar to give their enemies a wide berth, too.

  The ragged rear of the rebel force seethed with chaos. Teams of riders grabbed the hindmost marchers and carried them farther up the slope before coming back for their next load. Vestan archers covered the disorderly retreat, firing arrows to discourage the boldest of the pursuing Han from drawing any closer. An answering hail of arrows fell like lethal rain upon the rebels, now and then finding a target. The heath was littered with bits of gear men had cast off to make better speed.

  Here and there, parties of horsemen burst from the Hanish ranks to make swift, violent strikes against the fleeing Embrians. Each time they were beaten back by rebel riders, including one giant warrior who scattered the Han with every plunge of his massive mount and every swipe of his huge sword. Rath hoped the enemy did not guess what he did—that Delyon was having trouble controlling both the beast and his blade.

  A qualm of shame gripped him for having put the young scholar into a dangerous situation for which he was unprepared. He spurred his horse toward Delyon. The next while passed in a desperate, darkening blur as he helped fend off a series of attacks and herd the last remnant of his army toward the temporary safety of the forest.

  By the time they reached sight of Aldwood, most of the clouds had blown away and the moon had risen, nearly full. That silvery-white moon was the rebels’ heavenly ally, shining off the armored Han to make them easy targets for bow fire. Meanwhile, their shadowy leather-clad foes slipped with ease into the friendly darkness of the wood.

  Rath feared the Han might pursue his men into Aldwood, in spite of the dark and their distaste for forests. To his vast relief, they stopped and withdrew out of bow range. Their commanders must have decided to wait until morning when they could see to attack and savor their victory.

  Would that be time enough for Maura to recover the magical staff? And if she succeeded, what manner of wish should Rath make with it to gain his people’s freedom? After all, he would only get one.

  Maura stared at the still figure, shrouded in black, lying on the grass in that tiny glade. The drink skin in her hand felt as heavy as a brimming wooden bucket from the well behind Langbard’s cottage. Could she bring herself to do what part of her felt she must?

  To perform the ritual of passing on a man who had lived his whole life in opposition to the Precepts of the Giver seemed like a violation of those sacred teachings. And how could she stand to share the memories and experiences he had collected during his life? She would rather bathe in a festering bog or eat swill from a hog’s troth! It felt obscene to undertake so intimate a connection with someone she had never known or wanted to know.

  And yet... she could not deny the subtle tingle of curiosity to learn how he and her mother had come together and what had passed between them. By itself that would not have been enough to make her do this.

  But her spirit had once been where his might be now. If he had gone to that place of endless crushing, suffocating darkness, it was because he had come to her rescue. Besides that, no matter how much she might resist the idea, his blood flowed in her veins. If he remained forever a mystery to her, then part of her would be forever incomplete.

  Maura knelt beside him and drew back the black hood that hid his humanity. She let out a gasp at the sight of his face—so gaunt and hairless. Even in death, his features did not look peaceful.

  Taking the stopper from Rath’s drink skin, she dabbed a little water on the death-mage’s hands and lips and brow, all the while chanting the ritual words. Was there enough water in the whole Sea of Dawn to purify his thoughts, words and actions?

  Reluctantly she let her spirit rove, searching for him. Calling.

  Would she be able to reach him? Maura wondered when she received no answer. Rath had almost failed to find her when he’d tried.

  Then she sensed a presence, as she had sensed Langbard’s during his passing ritual.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I do not know what this place is.” How could she explain to him, when she barely understood, herself? “But I may be able to put you on the path to the afterworld, if you are willing.”

  “The afterworld? Dareth told me about it and about your Giver. I doubt I would be welcome there.”

  Something about his apprehension stirred her sympathy a little, but she did not want to feel that for him. Curiosity and obligation were difficult enough.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26