“The Empress has spared our lives by sending her winged messengers to save us,” said Omair hoarsely, out of a dry, cracked throat. “But they have handled us cruelly.”
Iobhar knew from experience that while the sunburn would fade, his own hurts would never truly mend; the marks would be there always, nor would he ever be entirely free of the pain. “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, baring yellow teeth in one of his unpleasant smiles. “You now bear the stigmata of the Goddess.”
They had no way of knowing whether they were still in Mirizandi or safe in Nephuar, but there were no signs of human habitation along the shore, and inland it was dense rain forest concealing any villages there might be nearby. When they finally discovered a spring of sweet water not far distant, Iobhar decided to remain in that spot, set up a camp of sorts in the shade of the exotic vegetation, and remain there for as many days as it took to regain their strength. In any case, the moon was waxing and would be full in another two nights.
The interval was an uneasy one. By day, birds and monkeys made an ear-splitting din in that dense tangle. During the deep indigo nights the sounds were fewer and more ominous: yelps and screams, occasionally accompanied by the rank stench of some large predator. So little they knew of these southern lands outside the cities that it was impossible to reckon the dangers.
On the night of the full moon, Iobhar limped alone through the forest, heading for the shore. Fireflies hung in the dark under the trees like sparks from a furnace, but when he came out into the open, the beach was drenched in cool white moonlight. It was a clear sky, but the stars seemed faint and tremulous compared to that tremendous moon.
Removing a silver disk from a pocket in his robe, he placed it reverently on the sand, so that the glory of the greater disk might be reflected in its smaller counterpart. He had lost a flask of oil blessed in the temple on Phaôrax, but because the moon and the tides were so intimately linked, seawater would serve in its place.
Scooping up a palmful of water from a tidepool like a sheet of black glass, Iobhar allowed it to drip from his hand onto the metal disk. Gradually, the silver clouded over, then began to shimmer with unwholesome purple light.
He sensed the presence of the Goddess, like heavy perfume, even before her face appeared on the disk.
Though her image was tiny, the priest could see that her face was drained of color, her eyes intent and electric with tension. Her fiery auburn hair seemed to crackle. There was a battle at sea, said the voice inside her head. I saw it in one of the Dragonstones, though only dimly. All of our ships were lost?
I fear so, said Iobhar. We were greatly outnumbered. There was no other possible outcome. He hesitated, cringing at the thought of what he must tell her next, but knowing that Ouriána’s wrath would be a hundred times worse if the news came belatedly and from other lips. And, I grieve to inform you, Prince Cuillioc is dead. He fought bravely, his enemies fell in great numbers, yet even so valiant a man could not hope to prevail against so many.
There was a long, nerve-racking silence before she responded. My son is dead? A shudder passed over her, then there was another lengthy silence, during which the furiádh squirmed uneasily.
Prince Cuillioc is dead, she said at last, and yet you, Iobhar, were spared?
He had prepared himself to answer the question in advance, but now that the moment had arrived, all the words he had planned nearly deserted him. Before I left for Mirizandi, you told me that the one thing you could not tolerate was another failure from Prince Cuillioc, another humiliating defeat.
Her eyes narrowed, and he could almost hear the hiss of her indrawn breath. And so you arranged for him to die a hero’s death?
Oh no, Radiance, he protested, panic beating in his breast. I arranged nothing. Let us say, merely, that I did nothing to prevent a heroic death from overtaking him. Did I mistake your meaning? Have I done wrong?
A third time Ouriána was terrifyingly silent, while Iobhar waited in agonizing suspense for her reply, and her image wavered like the moon seen through water.
No, she said finally. No, you have not done wrong. In truth, the reason I sent you with him to Mirizandi was because I knew you would not be deterred, as another might, by sentimental attachment to the Prince, from doing what needed to be done.
She heaved a great sigh. Squinting at the disk, the better to see her face, Iobhar was startled by an expression he had never seen there before—not grief precisely, but a kind of angry perplexity, as if she, who was always so sure, so unshakable, did not quite know what she ought to be feeling. And yet my son is dead.
Iobhar bowed his head in mock sorrow. Many have lost sons in the war, Radiance. Fathers, brothers, lovers—many have died, and women and children have mourned them. Your great sacrifice sanctifies their smaller sacrifices.
Yes, she replied bleakly. All are sanctified by the death of my son. You say—you say that he died well?
In truth, he died most heroically, Iobhar said unctuously. Died as he lived, valiantly, honorably.
Then, said the Empress just before her image began to fade, I must arrange for him a hero’s funeral.
15
Sindérian was growing hardened to a swift mode of travel, to taking her sleep in snatches and eating most of her meals cold. Besides, it suited her desire for speed.
Three days and the better part of two nights of hard riding brought the company under Prince Kivik’s leadership out of the mountains and into the foothills, where the grass grew sparse and coarse on rocky slopes. At a place where the road divided, they found unmistakable signs that retreating Eisenlonders had marched off in one direction, roughly east, while the Furiádhin chose the other road, tending toward the south.
“I know a third way we might take,” offered one of the Skyrran riders, after a careful study of the marks in the dust. He had been a hunter before the war and one of Prince Kivik’s scouts since, and was chosen as part of this company because he knew the hill country well. “Not an easy trail but much more direct, and it should bring us through the hills and back to the road again in half the time.”
“Then by all means, Orri, show us that way,” said Prince Kivik. “If we can gain a day on the villains who have taken my cousin, let the path be as hard as it will!”
Back in the saddle, the scout led them through what looked like an impenetrable wall of brush to a trail no one would have suspected from the other side, it was so thoroughly screened by boulders and shrubbery. At first it took them on a meandering course over the shoulders of the hills, then the path narrowed and made a sudden plunge, down a slope so steep it was necessary to dismount and lead their horses.
To call it a trail at that point would have been too generous, it was so poorly marked and the footing so treacherous. Sindérian lost her balance before she reached the bottom and slid the rest of the way, but Aell was beside her almost immediately, offering a hand up. She was quickly on her feet again, with scant loss to her dignity and only a few shallow scratches where she had grasped at thorny shrubs on her way down.
Back in the saddle, they urged the horses into a brisk trot. They were in a deep cleft between the hills, which turned out to be a very good trail, keeping to a nearly straight course for miles and miles. Yet as the day went on it became uncomfortably warm in that airless pocket between two slopes, until Sindérian found herself longing for a breath of wind.
It was still early the following day when a sharp bend in the trail brought them out of the foothills, into an open country vivid with wildflowers and short, springy turf. The weary, plodding horses became frisky and eager. It seemed to raise the spirits of the men as well.