Blood and Ember, page 4
“Battlefield,” said Olvir. “Heart of the Battlefield.”
There were many battlefields in the war, with many hearts. There’d already been many others in the world when Thyran came back. Vivian knew which one the spider meant despite all that. From the others’ faces, she knew that they did too.
* * *
The Battlefield.
Olvir had heard the story growing up. Everyone did. There were variations, depending on what had been passed down and how much patience the mother or priest or nurse telling the tale had, but the basics remained the same.
Once upon a time, the gods had walked the earth with mortals. There hadn’t been humans yet, but the waterfolk and stonekin had been present. Letar had been the goddess of healing and love, death, and fire, but vengeance hadn’t yet entered her domain. There hadn’t been any need for it.
She’d fallen in love with Veryon, one of the stonekin. Her youngest brother hadn’t liked the idea of a goddess consorting with a mortal, so he’d lured Veryon to what had then been a pleasant grove, ambushed him there, and killed him.
Gizath hadn’t reckoned with his sister’s wit. She hadn’t fully realized the extent of her brother’s evil. Letar had followed him and Veryon, expecting to intervene in a fight. She’d arrived to see her lover fall with Gizath’s dagger in his back. Then she’d launched herself at her brother’s throat.
Gods had never tried to kill each other before. It didn’t work particularly well. When the other three arrived, Letar and Gizath had only managed to wound each other slightly, but they’d devastated the land for miles nearby. That, as much as Veryon’s death, had convinced the other gods to leave the mortal world after they’d banished Gizath.
The place where they’d fought, the Battlefield, was still there beyond the northern mountains. Even before Thyran, when the north hadn’t been so cut off, travelers and tribesfolk alike had given it wide berth. Olvir had never heard of any living being coming out, certainly not of anybody going in.
“What would I do there?” he asked.
Nobody answered. Nobody could, except the spider, which dropped down from the web and onto the floor of the yurt. It landed on its back, legs curled against its belly. The sight pulled Olvir out of his own distress.
“Poor creature,” he said. Kneeling down, he reached gently for her. “Can we help her?”
“She’s come to the end of her strength,” Gwarill said, sounding only a trace regretful. “There are many paths to the future. Seeing so far as to reliably select the best action is hard on flesh, even such altered flesh as the Weaver’s creatures possess. The prophet will return to Sitha and be reborn.”
The spider was already fading, literally. Her golden shape shimmered, became transparent, then began to vanish from the ends of her legs inward. “Is she in pain?”
“No.”
The web still hung in its place. Olvir got to his feet and looked at it, wanting the message to change but not foolish enough to hope it would. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the room.
All the other people there were watching him. Some were probably expecting tears or anger, perhaps flat refusal. Olvir had all those impulses. He was a normal man. He’d done his duty every day, and while he’d made mistakes, he’d always tried his hardest. This was his reward, it seemed.
All he could do was try to be better than what he carried.
He turned to Gwarill first. “It’s more than I’d have known otherwise. Thank you. Praise be to Sitha, the Builder.”
The rest of the impromptu council echoed him, high and low voices blending together in a quiet chorus.
“We can equip you, once the storm’s properly over,” said Nahon, shaking his graying head as he spoke. “The twistedmen may not notice one man by himself, or there may be a path to the mountains that’ll keep you hidden. Your Sentinel, Emeth…” he added, looking to Vivian as sudden insight struck him. “She talks to the beasts. Perhaps she could find him a clear route?”
“If there is one, she’s the best person to find it,” Vivian said, and then, without changing her tone or drawing a breath, as though she were reporting the watch schedule for the day, she went on. “She’ll be doing so for both of us, by the way.”
* * *
One of the good things about Vivian’s present company was that it was disciplined.
None of the other four in the yurt shouted, leapt immediately to denial, or demanded a full explanation in the wake of her announcement. Gwarill simply nodded; Vivian wondered if he’d known in advance what she’d say. Nahon lifted his eyebrows but looked relieved.
Olvir and Magarteach spoke, essentially at once.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s my duty.”
Magarteach asked, “Why, and why you?”
“Physical dangers aside, we have no clue what the Battlefield does to people who get near it or how the…fragment…will react. You could go into a trance,” she said to Olvir, “or simply fall over, as you did at Oakford. That strikes me as a bad situation in general, doubly so out in the middle of the north.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right,” Olvir frowned. “You’re needed here, though.”
“Katrine is fully as capable of command as I am, only slightly junior.”
Very slightly, said Ulamir, to whom five years had meant as little as a single dawn even when he was alive.
Vivian suppressed a laugh and continued. “At my reforging, Poram gave me the ability to find any place I concentrate on. I’m fairly confident that it’ll be useful in Sir Yoralth’s mission.”
“Damn well would be,” Magarteach said, “even if the mountains are pretty obvious. I’d bet the Battlefield is, too, once you see it from above.”
“That is only so much help from the ground,” Gwarill replied.
“Finally, Ulamir, my soulsword, was stonekin. He lived on this side of the mountains, but he was one of the older peoples, with their affinity for the land.”
Your praise would make me blush if I yet had cheeks to do so.
Vivian gave the others a moment. They were unlikely to sway her, they didn’t have the authority to stop her, but listening did no harm.
“You would be valuable company,” said Nahon.
Magarteach sighed. “You’re right about Katrine too. I don’t love losing two of you, but from what you’re saying”—they jerked their chin toward Gwarill—“if you don’t succeed at this, my front won’t matter a whole lot regardless.”
“That’s a simplified view,” the priest replied, “and incorrect in a few notable aspects. If they fail and the protections we create hold, those here will need to face Thyran’s troops. If they succeed, there’s no guarantee that Sir Yoralth will be able to stop the army, only the storms. All the same, I think the Sentinel should go.”
“And you?” Vivian asked Olvir. “Even if you only have a gut feeling, you should say so.”
He focused on Vivian for the first time since she’d revealed his nature and managed a small smile. “No, no feelings,” he said. “Except that I’d be glad to have a companion, and even happier if it was you.”
Affection made her smile back, despite the guilt twisting her chest. She’d provided three reasons. The fourth was best left unsaid.
Chapter 7
Melted wax poured red onto the oiled paper, spreading out like lifeblood. Vivian pressed the ring on her right hand into it. It left a capital V with stylized guard towers on each side.
“You may as well take the ring too,” she said to Emeth. “Where I’m going, the best it’ll do is make me lose a finger.” Once she was certain the seal had taken shape, she stripped off the gold band and laid it on top of the small parcel.
“Are you taking any gear, other than the clothes you’re standing up in?” Emeth asked.
She and Katrine stood in Vivian’s tent, which now showed little sign that anybody had lived there. Vivian’s pack and bedroll stood waiting in a corner. Katrine would inherit the tent itself, along with the brazier in the center. Emeth would come with her—probably getting rid of the need for a brazier altogether, at least until the next storm hit.
The rest—a bundle of letters, a small portrait in a silver frame, and a few bits of cheap jewelry from the towns Vivian had passed through—was tied up in the parcel she gave to Emeth.
“Two changes of linen, for both of our sakes and so that my scent doesn’t draw every tracking beast in Thyran’s army. Rations. Rope. Spikes. Flint and steel. Crossbow. Bedroll. The usual.”
She’d debated the bedroll, but while cold wouldn’t kill her, it’d slow her reflexes and wits if it was bad. On the mountains, in a storm, it might well be.
“And a knight,” said Emeth.
“He’s taking her, if we’re being accurate.”
“We’re traveling together. He has the maps,” said Vivian. The others had been informed only that he had a mission in the Battlefield. Nobody save the Sentinels, the highest-ranked priests, and Magarteach had been told that much. “Katrine, do you have any questions before I leave?”
The blond Sentinel shook her head and recited her previous briefing, obviously reassuring herself as well as Vivian. “Armies from the west should be here in a day or two. We can expect an attack roughly then, depending on how soon Thyran gets word that they’re coming and that General Amris is with them. We’re currently reinforcing the walls.”
“That’ll take some of the attention off the two of you at any rate,” Emeth added. “If it’d help, I’ll try to look like a bigger target.”
“And how would you do that, exactly?” Vivian asked, feeling a corner of her mouth lift.
“Get a mage to make me glow as Kat does when the bastards show up. Or just make faces and yell rude remarks. Haven’t really decided yet.”
“I’m sure you’ll weigh all sides of the issue.”
“You know me, Vivian. Always a woman for careful consideration.”
“I could tell a different story,” said Katrine.
Emeth chuckled. “You could tell many stories, Kat. Commander…” She lifted a shoulder, leather armor creaking. “It keeps sounding odd to say that. Look, I don’t have a damn notion what you’re doing, but I hope it works and I hope you live through it.”
Neither outcome was ever a guarantee when a Sentinel went to work. Neither had ever been certain, war or no war. The gods had reforged the Sentinels, but a different god had touched most of their prey, with less concern than the Four had to have for mortal minds and bodies. Vivian knew very few members of the Order who’d made it to their fifties.
“Much obliged,” she said. “I hope so, too, and that you both do well out here while I’m gone. If you do and I don’t—”
Emeth tapped the parcel gently. “Toriat, the farm of Ioan Wheelwright. West of the mill.”
She recited with the same air that her lover had, which made Vivian smile and ache at once.
“Precisely,” she said and held out her hand. “I can’t thank you enough, either of you, and for more than these present duties. You know that.”
Emeth grasped Vivian’s forearm firmly. “Things have to be done, so we do them. Be careful out there.”
“I’ll pray for you,” said Katrine when it was her turn for the arm-clasping. “Not that I doubt the gods will be paying you plenty of attention as things stand, but I prefer to believe I’ll help.”
“If they use you as a focusing lens, I’m sure they’ll do as much as remotely possible,” said Vivian.
She let go, turned, and picked up her pack. The mission didn’t let her stall. She was glad of it. There would always have been something else to say, one final question, a last check, but it was time to go.
* * *
“No,” said Olvir. “The impulse is generous, but I can’t travel with too much weight, and I wouldn’t want to take too many provisions away from the front. Honestly, we have a better chance of hunting food, or finding it, than you all do.”
Nahon couldn’t really argue that point. Foraging parties ventured a little way into the forest at times, when Emeth’s bird scouts said that the twistedmen were nowhere near, but only for brief periods.
“This side of the mountains, perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know that much grows on their peaks. As for the Battlefield, I wouldn’t eat any plant or animal within three days’ ride of that spot.”
The storm had stopped. Spring had reasserted itself quickly, with blue skies above the yard where Olvir packed, and warm breezes carrying birdsong to his ears when Nahon stopped speaking. Over near the base of the palisades, a few purple buds showed that crocuses had made it through. Olvir wanted to take all those things as good omens, but he understood too much to let himself.
He understood, also, both layers of what his commander was really saying. One he knew from his own command: Let me do something. I can’t protect you from your fate, I can’t share it, but there must be a way I can help.
Nahon tried to hide the other, but the knights had never been good at subterfuge. It had been a day since the meeting in the yurt. Olvir’s commander had spoken with him a few times, always putting more distance between them than he ever had before, then moving a few inches closer when he realized it.
They’d known each other since Olvir had started his training, a lad with weedy arms and a constantly cracking voice, and the marshal had been a rawboned young knight with the first shine remaining on his armor.
Now it was an effort to look each other in the face.
Nahon wanted him gone, hated himself for it, hated the practicality of it more—and so kept making the offer.
Olvir would have said yes, whatever the motive, under normal circumstances. Extra supplies were never really a bad thing. There were the other soldiers to consider, though. As Gwarill had said, they’d still be facing the twistedmen if Olvir succeeded. If he failed, food would be worth more than gold.
“Two days’ extra, then,” he said, compromising. “And thank you for it.”
“It’s an important mission,” said Nahon. “I wouldn’t spoil a good horse with old shoes.”
“I suppose there’s a reason they put you in charge here,” said Olvir, his own throat thicker than he’d have liked. He glanced down at the bag he was packing, once again going through his mental list to be sure he hadn’t left some important item behind.
He was taking few belongings. Cleanliness—illness could be as deadly as the twistedmen, and some of them tracked by smell—dictated a few changes of linen, a flask of liquor for cleaning wounds, and another skin of fairly sour wine for purifying any water they found. Nahon’s extra rations would make five days’ worth of food. Then there were light blankets that rolled up into a small bundle, a few bandages, flint, steel, and a short coil of rope. The marshal had given him two maps as well, both painstakingly constructed copies of those that had been drawn a hundred years earlier.
Olvir would wear his light armor, the chain muffled with strips of cloth, and carry his sword, shield, and knives as well as a short bow and a quiver of arrows. He’d already painstakingly dulled the shield he’d equally painstakingly polished a few nights before the storm.
He had checked all the details, keeping his mind clear while he did so. He’d been a warrior and a knight. Now it was time to be human. He met Nahon’s eyes squarely, seeing the tears standing there and letting his own fill in response.
“You know how much I owe you, I hope,” he said. “For leading here, for helping me along my path. For being my friend. Tinival’s blessed me, but I couldn’t have come so far in his service, or lived so long, without you.”
He couldn’t say I don’t blame you, or I wouldn’t trust me entirely either. Tinival valued truth, but some truth would only cause more trouble than it was worth. On Nahon’s face, he saw all the words the marshal couldn’t speak. Nahon embraced Olvir quickly instead, his mustache rasping against Olvir’s cheek with the kiss of friendship.
The knights’ missions weren’t as regularly deadly as the Sentinels’ or the Blades’, but they went into danger often enough. Olvir had said goodbye to friends when none of them had been certain they’d meet again. He’d only known the odds against it to be nearly so long once before, at Oakford, and that had just been his body at risk.
He didn’t know what it would mean to return from this mission.
All the same, that departure was very nearly the same as others had been when one or all of the people involved was going into danger. Words could never fully contain love, fear, or grief, and all three mingled at such moments. Tinival had given speech to mortals, but even his knights couldn’t say all that was in their hearts.
So Olvir reached for the old phrases that everybody made do, and which, by virtue of everybody knowing that they would never be sufficient, went as far as speech ever could. “Silver Wind be at your back, my friend and comrade.”
“May he give strength to your arm, your mind, and your heart,” said Nahon. He stepped back from the embrace. Rather than giving Olvir the salute of a higher-ranked knight to a lower, he bowed as if to his lord. “Know that you go to serve his truth and that the love of your fellows goes with you.”
* * *
In a small tent off the main infirmary, Vivian and Olvir met with Gwarill one last time. They didn’t bother with light, but the priest’s gold robes still shone.
“You have not tried to contact the fragment of Gizath?” he asked Olvir without preamble. It was barely a question. “Not knowing what it is.”
“No. I meditated after Oakford, of course, but nothing happened. Last night—”
Vivian didn’t look at Olvir. It would have been too awkward to witness either what he felt or his efforts to conceal it.
“It seemed too dangerous,” he finished.
