The Rift War Page 11

  "I was born in the Stronghold, Lord Martus. It was my playground. And the Queen of Snows is my aunt. She will welcome me, even if she repels all others." Emrillian inclined her head to him. "I think you for your concern, even so." Grandfather, do they have reason to fear? Could Aunt Meggi have changed, after so many years of sleeping and silence?

  Trust in her, child. All will be well, Mrillis responded.

  The discussion broke up soon after that, so Emrillian and Baedrix could prepare for their journey, and the others could prepare for Grego's first day of lessons. Emrillian wished she could ride with Mrillis and Graddon. They would be heading down the coast with her and Baedrix for a short while, until they turned west to go to the hidden tunnel entrance. The two enchanters would continue south to the Wayhauk Mountains, to spy on the enemy. Emrillian tweaked the Threads to make herself sleep, because she knew she was more likely to lie awake all night, wondering and worrying and wishing. She needed all her energy.

  * * * *

  The sun shone bright and warm as it escaped the clutches of the horizon, beating straight into his eyes. Baedrix debated whether to call a halt to eat a late breakfast. He glanced over his shoulder. The flat landscape, dotted with shrubs, had not changed much despite hours of riding. He imagined he could see Quenlaque, a faint smudge on the horizon, though he knew a forest and a few small hills sat between him and the castle perched above the harbor. Ahead, a shallow slope led down to the river. A small copse of trees stood close to the water's edge, offering a promise of shade while they rested and ate. He estimated another half hour at their present pace to get there. They could wait. Every step on their journey was a step closer to reaching the Stronghold. The sooner Braenlicach rested at Emrillian's hip, responding to her touch, the more secure he would feel.

  And the sooner he could lay down his duties as Regent.

  Strange, how that glorious hope didn't fill him with eagerness as it used to do. It wasn't that he didn't trust Emrillian to understand her duties. She was more than competent. Mrillis had trained her, after all, and he had stood beside the Warhawk throne for multiple generations, through crises that threatened to destroy their world.

  Baedrix suspected that it was Emrillian herself who made him reluctant to step down from his post, and the fascinating world of the future that she represented and would bring to Lygroes. This was an adventure more thrilling and uncertain than anything he could have envisioned when he promised his little brother they would go questing together someday.

  Carious emerged from the trees and shadows up ahead, and another member of their party rode ahead to take point. He and four other Valors had been waiting when Baedrix arose before dawn, and announced that they would be remiss in their duties to allow him and Emrillian to ride to the tunnel alone after Mrillis and Graddon left them to head for the mountains.

  It had been a quiet ride for the first two hours, while Mrillis talked of some of the changes in Moerta, teaching the Valors and Graddon. Emrillian had taken over the lessons when the two enchanters parted company with them. For the last hour, she had turned the situation around, asking questions of all of them, as thirsty for details of life in Quenlaque as they were for information on the future world.

  Right now, Emrillian rode with two Valors on either side of her, discussing the differences between the tournaments the Archaics held, and the training of the Valors now, and how it differed from the practices before the dome had been raised. Baedrix enjoyed listening to Emrillian's thoughtful, sometimes wry, sometimes amusing observations. She impressed him with the thoroughness of her training and her clear insight, and he discovered somewhere in this morning's journey that he pitied her, caught between two worlds and times and ways of life.

  "What do you think of her?" Baedrix asked his friend now, pitching his voice low so their conversation was as private as possible, considering their circumstances.

  "I think it will be a long while before people can put aside her bloodlines, her magic, and her beauty, and realize what a wise, sensible queen she is," Carious said after a moment of thought. "And I think I look forward to the battle royal, when we reach Quenlaque, and the power-hungry schemers scramble to find ways to control her. Once they get over the shock of realizing that the heir is a maiden and not a lad." He snorted, grinning wide. "I don't doubt a dozen fathers are preparing their daughters to win the seat on the throne beside Athrar's heir."

  "The dangerous ones are those who have searched the archives and know her name. They, or their sons, are preparing right now to win her heart." He glanced over his shoulder at Emrillian, and wondered if she had a sweetheart back home in Moerta, among her Archaics friends. It would be wise, politically, for the queen to have a consort from the modern world.

  "And those who don't have anyone to marry the heir, to gain control that way..." Carious sighed and shook his head, his expression going grim. "The truly dangerous ones will be masked as friends. The trustworthy ones will be the bullies and arrogant boors. They at least show their true faces and speak their minds openly and honestly."

  "I think, though, that the Estall blessed us, giving Athrar a daughter rather than a son. Her enemies in Court won't know how to deal with her, because she can think in both worlds and times, and they will assume that she will want a husband to rule for her."

  "I think whichever husband wins her heart...will be won first, and gladly let her rule him." Carious grinned, just for a moment. Then he looked ahead to the copse of trees. "How soon until we reach the tunnel?"

  "Not long. But I want to give any watchers the impression that we have a long journey." Baedrix glanced over his shoulder again at Emrillian. She looked ahead now, visibly studying the landscape, while the Valors on either side of her carried on some sort of friendly argument, judging by their rising voices, shaking heads and grins.

  He was pleased that the four looked relaxed enough in her company. They were good men, loyal, and didn't believe that all women were born naturally limited in their wits. Then again, they came from families who had female soldiers and Valors in their bloodlines. They kept the memories alive, of a day when women were just as fierce in battle and just as skilled in magic as men.

  "I remember reading in the histories, how the Noveni lords lived in terror that the Rey'kil wanted to take over Moerta, and they fought to keep the Warhawk from marrying into magic bloodlines. I think the Estall blessed us when Athrar wed the granddaughter of Mrillis. What other queen could lead us in this time of danger?"

  Baedrix again glanced over his shoulder at Emrillian. It wasn't necessary to keep checking on her, he knew. She was independent and alert, able to take care of herself, and not so proud that she would take foolish risks in unfamiliar territory. It amused him to speculate how soon it would be, until all of Lygroes was familiar to the Warhawk's heir.

  He admitted that he liked looking at her. What was so wrong with that? Emrillian was beautiful without the flashing brilliance most women considered necessary. She had strength and poise without needing to constantly command attention. Her mind was sharp and quick. Their conversations, over the most mundane details of their journey or strategy, had been interesting. She could make jokes to liven dull topics and find a glimmer of positive in old troubles. He admired her.

  He compared her with Naylia, Baedrix suddenly realized. Emrillian, he decided, would never let herself die from a simple fever, fear, and premature childbirth. The queen was alive and alert, strong in mind and body, despite the idealism that made her look young and vulnerable. Baedrix longed to protect her, and knew she needed no protection. She could endure every disappointment and find hope in failure.

  He smiled, wondering if he idealized her so soon. He hardly knew her--but then, that was the only way someone could be idealized. When he grew to know her better, her flaws and virtues, his tendency to worship would fade. He doubted his admiration would ever die out.

  However, he already knew one flaw. Emrillian had strength, but despite her training, she had the innocence of ine
xperience. An innocence that could lead to pain, if she was not careful. Baedrix worried for her.

  More than an hour later, the trail led down a narrow valley lined with pebbles, between occasionally steep sides. Baedrix suspected this place had once been a riverbed. He looked at the black-green, drooping trees on the hilltops and urged his horse into a faster pace. He would prefer to avoid this path, but the tunnel entrance was on the other side of this valley.

  "Spooky kind of a place," Emrillian muttered from her place on his right.

  Baedrix didn't understand the word, but he guessed the meaning. The silence made the click-clack and rustling tumble of pebbles under their horses' hooves sound loud as avalanches.

  A raucous howl shattered the uneasy quiet. The drooping, dark trees seemed to split open as yelling men, waving spears and swords and shields, hurtled on foot down the steep sides at the riders. Baedrix had one clear look at them. Untrimmed beards shining with grease, eyes wide with battle frenzy, the Encindi barbarians were as imposing and undisciplined a force as legend said. There were nearly thirty, to their seven riders. He dug his spurs in, knowing flight was the only way to survive. His horse kicked up pebbles and let out a harsh scream. Thunder bellowed across the sky.

  "Look out!" Emrillian shouted.

  Staring, Baedrix wrenched on the reins, bringing his stallion to a stumbling halt. A massive tree slid down from the left to partially block the path. Another rumble of thunder. Now, he saw the flash of green light that accompanied it. A second tree fell from the right.

  "Magic," Carious gasped, coming up behind Baedrix. The two men traded glances for half a heartbeat, nodded in complete agreement, and spun their mounts to meet the onslaught coming up behind them.

  "Surprise," Emrillian growled between bared teeth. She snapped her arm out in front of her, as if throwing a spear, but her hand was empty.

  Blue light flashed to fill the valley. Green like rot tinged the edges and there was a smell of gangrenous flesh and then incineration as the color was visibly burned out of the air.

  "That ought to make things a little more even," she said, sounding breathless.

  "For the Queen!" Baedrix shouted as he raised his sword against the first barbarian to reach him. Bringing his weapon down on the spear that tried to reach his heart, he breathed a prayer to the Estall.

  His stallion reared, lashing out with its forelegs, striking the man down. Baedrix finished the job with a cut to the neck, then turned to the next attacker. His shield caught a blow before he saw the man coming at him. At the fringe of his awareness, his companions fought hard. A horse screamed somewhere. Baedrix prayed it was a packhorse and no companion had been unseated. At the fringe of his vision, he saw Emrillian stand in her saddle, slashing with her sword, sparks of blue and purple fountaining up from each strike of her blade against an enemy sword or battleaxe or shield.

  More thunder roared, close in the air. Baedrix winced against the ache and momentary deafness from the volume and pressed the attack. Lightning flashed, green and yellow. He smelled the stench of burned flesh. A hoarse screaming began, and it took a moment to realize it came from the barbarians.

  "They're running away!" someone shouted as Baedrix finished his man.

  Like a dream, the barbarian slowly slid to the ground. Baedrix took a deep breath, watching him, then turned. His face felt grimy and his eyes burned. The air still crackled with the power that had screamed through it moments before. Blinking, he adjusted his vision. The barbarians scrambled up the sides of the narrow valley into the cover of the trees, dragging their wounded with them.

  "This isn't right." Carious turned to Baedrix, eyes wide, face pale. "They had us outnumbered four to one, they were on the point of overpowering us. Even with the Queen's magic. Barbarians don't retreat like that, and they don't carry away their wounded."

  "Unless somebody leads them," Emrillian pointed out. She slid off her horse, keeping a tight hold on the reins. Baedrix saw she had taken a wound on her wrist, where mail shirt parted from gauntlet.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded, and winced at the fear-tinged fury in his voice.

  "Grandfather taught me this, but I've never had a chance to use it until now." She bit at two glove fingers, still holding tight to her horse's reins with her other hand, and yanked her gauntlet off, then pressed her bare hand flat against the ground. Blue and gold light sparkled at her fingertips and raced across the moss and dirt before soaking into the ground. It followed the path their fleeing enemy had taken.

  Baedrix shook his head. Despite having magic in his blood, and being raised in all the teachings of his ancestors, he had seen more magic performed today than he had seen in several years combined. He wondered if that uneasy niggling in his gut was jealousy, that Emrillian had such strong imbrose she could call up magic at will, using it prodigally instead of being careful to save her strength for dire circumstances.

  Wasn't this attack on their traveling party dire, though?

  "Are we all whole?" he asked, turning around to survey their group. Better to keep busy while Emrillian tried whatever that defensive trick might be. He told himself to be grateful she was there, but gratitude was difficult in the face of a sense of failure. He was Regent--he had been born to protect the throne--and that meant the one who sat on the throne.

  Two packhorses had lost their burdens, the straps cut. Pellen had lost his helmet. The younger Valor looked winded but excited. Harron nursed a hand that looked only bruised. Carious squatted in front of his mount, examining its leg.

  "Can we keep moving until we're out of this cursed place?" Baedrix asked. As a group, they nodded. "Highness? Are you ready to leave?"

  "I'm not sure what I'm feeling, but...it's imbrose magic, but fouled. It stinks, but a smell I can't describe." She swung up into her saddle and turned to look at them as she tugged her gauntlet back on. "What's that look for?"

  "Highness?" Carious broke the look he and Baedrix had been sharing.

  "You know something."

  "Remember, Highness, that we have been living poor in magic. What comes easily to you is more legend and theory than reality for us," Baedrix said.

  "Grandfather says my father hated all the formality of Court, and now I know why. I suppose you won't unbend enough to call me by name, will you?"

  Carious laughed, muffling the sound behind his glove, while Baedrix choked, unsure if that was laughter or horror or some unnamable emotion filling his chest.

  "Lord Grego said you won many tournaments among your Archaics. Did you earn some rank that we can use, that you would be more comfortable with?" Baedrix offered when he could breathe again.

  "Actually..." Emrillian blushed, biting her lip to fight a grin, and that intrigued him. "I worked my way up to the rank of Valor, and I'm only one hundred points away from Warhawk's Champion. Only thirty-two people in the entire history of the Archaics have achieved that rank." She shrugged. "That doesn't help much, does it?"

  "Lady Warhawk," Pellen offered. "I've read the histories. Queen Ynfara was called the Lady Warhawk before she won Athrar's heart."

  "It would be safer to address her as Lady," Carious offered. "In case we're overheard. It's a given the Encindi will be spying on us now that they know we're here."

  Emrillian growled something unintelligible. "They shouldn't be this far into our territory, should they?" she demanded, when all six men gave her questioning frowns.

  "No, of course--" Baedrix groaned. He suspected the unrecognizable word was a modern world curse. "Did they break through the sentinel lines in a new place? Destroy a guard tower and kill the sentinels? There's no way of knowing."

  "Lord Mrillis and Lord Graddon are riding straight into danger," Harron offered.

  "No, the Encindi are riding into disaster," Emrillian said. She raised her hand for silence and closed her eyes. Baedrix caught glimmers of filaments of light tangling around her fingers. Everyone in their group held still and waited for her to open her eyes. She slumped a little when she did
so. "Talking through the Threads isn't easy inside the dome, but they've been warned." She offered them a tight smile with an edge to it. "They won't know what hit them. Grandfather says they'll backtrack our attackers and repair whatever damage they did."

  "If the Encindi dare come this far into our territory," Baedrix said, thinking aloud, "they're either preparing to attack now -"

  "Or Edrout knows Grandfather has come back, and our arrival has triggered a war," Emrillian said. "Let's move out. The sooner we have Braenlicach, the sooner we can end this once and for all."

  Baedrix wished he had her assurance. Could he blame it on inexperience, or simple confidence and strength?

  Their party stayed silent after they rode around the massive trees that had fallen to block their path. He thought long on what had happened to them. Until they were out of sight of the oppressive-looking trees, beyond the atmosphere of the valley, he would not let his companions talk or slow their pace. The conclusions he reached after considering the attack did not please him.

  "Someone leads the barbarians," he said, when they reached the clearing where the tunnel mouth lay, hidden by magic.

  Beyond the trees, the smell of salt from the sea was stronger, the faint grumbling song of the surf a strange counterpoint to the whisper of the wind in the branches. At one time in Lygroes' history, the tunnel mouth had been closer to the water, and the path to the shore had been a gradual slope. In that bay, ravaged by quakes centuries ago, the island of Wynystrys had once sat. Where the magical island inhabited by Rey'kil scholars was now, no one knew. It had slipped through time and shields of magic even before the dome had been raised over the remnants of Lygroes.

  "Someone with magic," he continued, fighting down the longing that had grown since the death of his father, that he could call on the scholars of Wynystrys for assistance and advice. Why had they chosen to make the island movable, of all things? "Either Edrout or one of his minions. Lady, that foulness you felt was most likely blood magic, mixed with imbrose."