Skybowl, p.73
Skybowl, page 73
“. . . don’t matter,” Ruala was saying. “Not the horses or the deaths of the priests or any of the Azhrei’s evil magic. It’s what they came here to destroy. The Father of Winds showed them the way, told them how—” She broke off, breath catching in her throat.
How alone she’s always been . . . and what did I ever do to help her, love her, make her feel part of us?
“What?” Alasen demanded. “What’s he telling them?”
“That the White Sacrifice is set forth in their own—I mean, our own—sacred book of dragons.”
Left for them by me. Sioned stared straight ahead, stony-faced. Clever High Princess.
“Now he’s saying that the priests were the Azhrei’s attempt at a similar sacrifice, to the Goddess—something about sin, for which the Azhrei and all who follow him will have to die.”
Her last few words were nearly inaudible; the Vellant’im had let out a roar in response to their High Warlord.
“Killing a priest is a sin,” Sioned murmured. “And I killed a hundred.”
Ruala shifted in her bonds, trying to ease the strain on her shoulder. “He attributes it to Pol.”
“Of course. We’re only women.” Interesting, this concept of sin. Killing a priest, killing a Sunrunner . . . but you’d never get Andry to understand that.
The High Warlord waited for the tumult to die down. Reminded of their purpose, the Vellant’im seemed to have forgotten the army waiting down below—or were deliberately ignoring the Azhrei’s troops to show their contempt.
Ruala continued, a sentence or two behind the powerful bellowing voice above. “Now that the priests are dead, the White Sacrifice cannot take place. That’s what the Azhrei believes. But he’s—” She gasped, all the color draining from her cheeks and the sunlight harsh on the silver in her hair. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “No—”
Sioned turned her head as far as the ropes would allow. “Ruala.”
“Yes, I—I’m sorry—he says the Azhrei is wrong. It’s more important now than ever—and he will do it. He says they all remember how the High Warlord, with the priests’—permission? Blessing? I don’t know—”
A flicker of warm breeze stroked Sioned’s skin. The noise of the warriors’ approval assaulted her ears. The High Warlord stood with both arms raised, gold knife glinting in one fist.
She moved close to Ruala. “Tell me.”
“He killed his own eldest son—oh, Sioned, he used the boy’s blood to p–purify the ships, so the Father of Storms would give them fair winds—” She moaned, and if not for the ropes would have doubled over. “I think I’m going to be sick!”
Sioned left it to Alasen and Betheyn to calm and support her as they could. The High Warlord stuck the knife back in his belt and gestured. A young man all in white sprang forward with a rattling necklet of leather thongs and talons and teeth. This, too, was held aloft, to great cheering, before the High Warlord draped it around Meiglan’s shoulders.
Morwenna’s Elidi, Sioned thought. Trophies of his kill.
As if he’d heard her, he turned half around and stared directly into her eyes. A tiny smile curved his lips—neither sneering nor triumphant, nor even ferocious as she might have expected. Rather, he seemed to include her in some private joke that only she would appreciate.
He doesn’t believe a word of this, she realized suddenly. Not a single word or action. He knows what I know: that the God doesn’t care what’s done here any more than the dragons do. Whoever wins will claim holy favor. But people do what they do for their own reasons, and use Goddess or God or Nameless One to justify it. Nothing he’s saying is more than sounds on the wind. He’s playing them as skillfully as Meiglan at her fenath, every note perfectly chosen—and for him, utterly silent.
He inclined his head in sardonic acknowledgment of her shocked comprehension, black light dancing in his black eyes.
Yes, I understand, she thought. You can use their superstitions more effectively than Pol. You’ve been doing it for years—even to butchering your own son. And all of it because you hate us with the kind of passion most people never understand. Nothing else matters—not even a son. I am impressed by your ruthlessness, my lord. It appalls me, but I’m honest enough to admire it for what it is.
Actually, we seem to be two of a kind.
No, beloved, said a soft voice, its very gentleness vanquishing her despair. You and he are nothing alike. How can you think so? What he does is in the service of hate. The prize for him is death.
Her eyes shifted wildly, searching rocks and sky. Rohan? Only memory—but his voice lived within her more surely than her own heartbeat.
The High Warlord turned back to his warriors. A second youth clad in white climbed up to give him a velvet pouch. From this he extracted a glowing black rainbow split into six tear-shaped shards. Sioned wasn’t even looking at them with faradhi eyes, and still she could see power shimmering around the pearls, their aleva like a Sunrunner’s or sorcerer’s.
And it hurt. With the needle stabbing through her palm, the sight of them hurt. She looked away, and the pain faded.
A glance at Alasen told her she couldn’t feel it. Ruala didn’t, either. An indication of power, perhaps—Johlarian had to concentrate to sense the pearls, but Saumer had no trouble. Neither did Pol and Andry. Merisel had worn them—once. With gifts as strong as hers, their contact with her flesh must have been like black lightning.
The two young men came forward once more, carrying heavy silver poles twice their height surmounted by golden dragons with outstretched wings. Around the poles was wrapped thick white cloth; unrolled, it formed a taut curtain behind Meiglan and the High Warlord, sealing them from Sioned’s view. To the left stood yet another youth, supporting a tall staff from which the crowned lightning-bolt banner flared.
More sons? Sioned wondered, noting the set of their bones, their height, the touch of additional arrogance common to offspring of the truly powerful. Then her eyes were drawn to the shadow play on the white cloth. The sun was fully risen now. Meiglan and the High Warlord were outlined against the white cloth like thread-sketchings of a tapestry.
“Sioned—he’s going to kill her,” Ruala hissed. “What are we going to do?”
“Wait,” she said.
“For what?” cried Alasen.
One sketch lifted the long, sharp shadow of a knife. Sioned tensed for the splatter of red blood on white cloth. The Vellant’im bellowed for Meiglan’s death—
—and then blurted in surprise and terror.
A subtle, familiar tingle at the edges of her mind announced a Sunrunner’s presence nearby. As it strengthened, so did the burning ache in her hand.
Alasen stumbled against her, choking. Sioned almost lost her balance. “Ruala—help us!”
Hard hands held her upright, digging into her arms. The last thing she thought before the pain and the colors swept over her was, Well, Andry, my lad, you certainly have a sense of timing.
• • •
He knew the instant he gathered Evarin, Hollis, Chayla, and Jeni into the conjuring that not even with the dranath would he be able to manage it. Not in the spectacular fashion demanded, with dozens of fiery warriors springing from the sand. He disciplined two very practiced and two very raw powers with casual skill, sending Fire across the Desert in a distracting whirlwind. He broke it into separate pieces and began the first few images simultaneously. A few would not be enough. He could establish them and let the others maintain them as he conjured more, but the most he could hope for was ten or twenty. He needed dozens, and to do it, he needed power.
So he reached for the most powerful Sunrunner he knew.
He saw her there, just below the rocks and the white banner stretched behind the High Warlord, sunlight shafting through a break in the crags to strike sparks from her green eyes. Alasen beside her, Ruala, Betheyn and Isriam nearby; each brutally bound. Behind each was a warrior of many, many kills.
Damn them! But he shoved his fury and outrage aside and wove a net of light to fling around Sioned.
Shock ripped through him. No! It shouldn’t hurt!
Andry—the needles—find Riyan, quick!
He hadn’t known he’d sent the words until Sioned answered—a feeble mockery of her usually crisp mental voice. He didn’t understand what she meant, but he could feel her colors bleed at the edges, stinking of cruel iron.
Andry, please! Ruala can’t shield us alone!
He sought, and found, and wrapped the startled colors through the sunlight. Instinct and familiarity made Riyan weave himself with Ruala, and together they spun protection for the vulnerable faradh’im. The pain eased, not entirely gone but bearable.
It was the best Andry could do for them. He began to work.
A dozen columns of flame burst from the sand, growing arms and legs and swords. Dozens more formed behind them, around them. An army sown of dragon teeth rose from the Desert at the Lord of Goddess Keep’s bidding, and he laughed within himself as horrified Vellant’im scrambled up Skybowl’s hillside, dropping their swords in their frantic haste.
We’ll win without even a fight! he exulted. Sunrunners and sorcerers together—under my direction. Not Pol’s. Mine.
And Sioned made not a murmur of protest, or any attempt to work on her own that would siphon power away from him.
Well, it was time she got into it. With both of them conjuring, they could send the enemy screaming into the Desert for Tilal to pick off at leisure.
Take the west, he told her. When she gave no answer, he called on dranath to increase the force of his words. Sioned! To the west! Another fifty or so, and we’ll have them!
. . . can’t. . . . Her colors shivered. Use me, Andry . . . but I c–can’t . . . work. . . .
He sensed it then: Riyan and Ruala had put their energies into guarding him. The Sunrunners would not die, for the conjuring was his alone. But by weaving them into its structure he was causing them unbelievable agony. Sioned, Evarin, Hollis, Chayla, Jeni—Alasen—he cursed himself for a careless, thoughtless, overconfident fool.
. . . that’s d–dranath for you. . . . Sioned’s voice was a mere whisper now. Finish it, please . . . can’t stand . . . much more. . . .
He released them one by one, as quickly as he dared. And heard their moans at the surcease of pain.
The Fire conjurings vanished. Andry barely noticed. He threaded the sunlight and looked at the captive faradh’im again. This time, as they sagged into their guards’ rough grasp, he saw their right hands trembling in spasms, and the needles through their palms, dark now with the renewed flow of blood.
• • •
When Andry strode to the front of the army, newborn sunlight dazzling off white clothes and silver breastplate, Pol exchanged a wry glance with Maarken.
“Nice entrance,” he remarked.
“Family talent,” Chay growled. “Your family—not mine.”
When Fire swept across the Desert and warriors were conjured of two parts flame and two parts Andry’s imagination, Pol nodded sincere admiration of his cousin’s control.
“That’s it, keep ’em coming. . . .”
“They’ll have to build a separate tower at Goddess Keep to house his conceit,” Chay muttered.
Maarken winked at Pol, each hearing the pride through the gruffness.
When dozens became a hundred, then close to two hundred, Pol’s jaw dropped. “How in all Hells is he doing that?”
“Does it matter?” Maarken asked, awe in his voice for his brother’s power.
But when Daniv galloped up, leaped from his horse, and whispered urgently to Pol, “My lord, stop him! He’s killing them!”—Pol had time only to glance at the young prince before the fiery warriors vanished.
“What the—? What happened?” Chay didn’t wait for an answer he knew they couldn’t give. Swinging up into the saddle as if he had forty winters instead of seventy, he cantered out to his son. Andry mounted behind him and a few moments later they had returned to Pol, Maarken, and Daniv.
“Damn them!” Andry slid down from behind his father’s saddle, shaking with rage. “The whoresons used steel needles—right through their hands! I needed their colors, but the iron—”
“Are they all right?” Maarken asked. “What about Hollis and Chayla?”
“The pain ended with the working.” He raked both hands through his sun-gilt brown hair, rings and wristbands bright. “Damn them!”
Pol sent Daniv back to the other Sunrunners. Then he walked a few paces away, his movements stiff with fury and helplessness.
Once Andry had conjured the warriors and maintained them for a little while, Pol had planned to set a dome around Meiglan the way Sioned had around Rohan and Roelstra. Once the High Warlord discovered he couldn’t kill Meiglan, he’d turn his attention to battle. If he convinced his men to fight—doubtful after the priests’ deaths, dragons’ teeth, and Meiglan’s immunity—Pol would use the ros’salath to push the Vellant’im into the Desert. Surrounding them with his own cavalry, he would order them to surrender their swords and give them safe passage to their ships at Radzyn. No one would have to die.
He would not—would not—use the ros’salath to kill.
Andry wouldn’t see it that way, of course. Andry, who had entreated the Goddess to help them kill.
Earlier, once what Sionell told him about the priests had sunk in, Pol had blessed his mother even though he was horrified by her actions. He understood why she’d told him nothing: in case it didn’t work, he wouldn’t be counting on it. There would be no frantic revision of tactics, no scramble to work out an alternative.
But with the priests dead, he’d thought Meiglan safe. Now his thoughts skittered like a thousand frantic, frightened mice. Sight of the High Warlord brandishing a gold knife had stopped Pol’s heart. Priests or no priests, Meiglan was going to die.
Pol turned on his boot heel. “Maarken.”
“My prince,” said his Battle Commander, coming to his side.
“Whatever happens, I forbid you the sunlight. Do you understand? I don’t want you even to think about Sunrunning.”
“Pol—”
“I don’t need you,” Pol said bluntly. “Not as a faradhi. I need you to win this battle for me if I fail.” He paced back to where the others stood, singling out Andry with his eyes. “My Lord, I thank you for trying. No one could have done more—or even half as much. I ask you now to yield control of the ros’salath to me.”
Andry’s eyes were startlingly blue, pupils contracted to pinpoints in reaction to brightening sunlight—and dranath. “You don’t have the experience. Bring Thassalante and his people in, and I’ll do whatever you like. But it must be mine, Pol.”
“A generous offer that I must refuse. You can’t do it without the diarmadh’im, and they won’t participate unless I’m—”
“You’ve never done it successfully. I have. Look it in the face, Pol. I can do it. You can’t.”
“Andry,” Pol said quietly. “I beg of you, don’t fight me.”
Chay grabbed Andry’s silver-armored shoulder and Pol’s brass-greaved arm. “You think Meiglan has time for this? Look at the sky!”
The first moon was rising, white and full in the pale blue sky.
Maarken had mounted his horse, and was now at the head of the army. His voice rang out in the clear morning air.
“Sorry my father and I couldn’t whistle up a victory for you!” he shouted. “But now they’ll keep half an eye on their stolen Radzyn and Whitecliff horses—just in case! I’m even sorrier my brother couldn’t conjure up two armies instead of only one—these bearded bastards just don’t know when they’re defeated before they begin! They seem determined to pretend they’re brave!”
“Aye,” a woman called out derisively. “Brave enough against a whistle and a Fire, m’lord!”
“Exactly,” Maarken agreed. “They haven’t met up with you yet, Hestiba!”
Laughter rippled through the ranks. Pol’s gaze still locked with Andry’s in a battle of wills that would determine whether these people would fight a battle in blood.
“As for the other eye—after the show my brother put on, you know where that’s going to be! On every grain of sand in the Desert—just in case! Which by my reckoning leaves them half an eye each. And unless each of them has a third eye hidden under his beard, they’ll be fighting damned near blind!”
Giving no quarter, receiving none, Pol and Andry called a silent truce and turned to watch Maarken. The Battle Commander resumed speaking, his voice quieter yet still carrying to the four massed groups of cavalry. Walvis led his former students and his own guard from Remagev, with Laroshin as captain. The much-diminished knot of Isulk’im was led by Visian. Daniv was temporarily absent from sharing command with Draza of Rohan’s Stronghold troops and the few who had survived Tuath; the last group, the largest, was Maarken’s own.
“But we are going into this with a third eye—and a fourth, and a hundredth. Remember Stronghold? Remember how they were penned like sheep and you picked them off neat as a dragon’s breakfast? We called it Sunrunners’ Rings. Well, we’ve got more Sunrunners here with more rings than sense—as is usual of the breed,” he added, and they chuckled again at the self-deprecating humor. “But we also have something else—someone else.”
His right hand, rings aglitter, pointed to where Thassalante and his ninety-eight sorcerers stood apart from the army.
“Yes, they’re diarmadh’im. And today it’ll be Sunrunners and sorcerers working together, with all the power and Fire they can weave among them.”
“Those whoreson Vellant’im don’t have a hope!” bellowed an Isulki.
“Hope?” Maarken seized on the word. “Let me tell you something. Going into a fight hoping for victory is as futile as if I hoped this would be restored to me!” He held up his maimed left arm. “I don’t hope we’ll win—I know it!”
“Well, cousin?” Pol murmured under the confirming roar, sensing along every prickle of his skin the Vellanti reorganization up the mountain. “He’s made the commitment for us both. He’s got us. And we’re stuck with each other.”
