There was a moment of utter silence, even the children too stunned to cry out. Rathe’s ears were ringing, and he could see the same shock on Eslingen’s face, pale beneath the dark hair. The mage‑light was fading fast now, overtaken by the paler light of dawn, and Rathe shook himself hard.
“Give me your pistol,” he said to Eslingen, but it was b’Estorr who handed him a weapon. Rathe cocked it quickly and stepped out into the yard, leveling the pistol at the nearest guard. Eslingen moved up to join him, his own pistol drawn, and the magists followed.
“Stand away from the children,” Rathe ordered, and was glad to hear that his own voice was relatively calm. De Mailhac’s people were still in shock, he saw, some already looking behind them toward the road; the guard leader glanced at them, and then at the spot where Timenard had stood. Rathe could see the indecision on his face, and pointed the pistol directly at him.
“Stand away,” he said again. “Put down your arms, all of you, or I will fire.”
Before the man could respond, hoofbeats sounded again on the track from Mailhac. Rathe heard Eslingen laugh softly, and one of de Mailhac’s servants tugged injudiciously at her horse’s reins, making the animal snort and sidle. Almost in the same instant, the first of Coindarel’s regiment swept into view, the prince‑marshal himself narrowly in the lead. Timenard’s guard leader looked over his shoulder, his expression unchanging, but slowly lowered his musket. His men copied him, stepping away from the children they had been holding. Coindarel gestured to his men, who fanned out, surrounding both the mine guards and de Mailhac’s party, and a white‑haired sergeant swung down off his horse, holding out his hands to the children. There was another small figure at Coindarel’s saddlebow, Rathe saw, and an instant later realized it was Asheri. He allowed himself a long breath of relief, and Coindarel edged his horse up to the mine, half bowing in the saddle.
“My Philip, I never expected to see you under these circumstances,” he said.
He had to be curious about the explosion, Rathe thought, but wasn’t about to ask any commoner directly. He stilled a laugh, recognizing the hysteria in it.
“Nor are these circumstances I ever expected to see,” Eslingen answered, and carefully uncocked his pistol before jamming it into his belt. “You made good time, sir.”
“How could I resist your appeal?” Coindarel asked. He was as handsome as a prince‑marshal should be, Rathe thought, if somewhat older. He realized that the other was looking at him then, and shook himself back to reality.
“You’re the pointsman, I assume?” Coindarel went on. “Which makes you–unofficially, to be sure–responsible for these brats.”
Rathe nodded, too relieved to be offended. They were going to be all right, he thought, the children were found, and they were going to come safe home at last.
“These can’t be all of them, surely?” Coindarel stood in his stirrups, turning to survey the half dozen or so in the mine yard. A few more children were creeping out from among the trees. Rathe saw, and braced himself to the task of finding the rest. At least Asheri was safe, he thought, and was instantly ashamed.
“No. We–I sent the rest into the forest, down towards Mailhac. They’ve probably scattered, I told them to follow the stream, but we’re going to have to find them, get them back to Astreiant…”
“You don’t have to do anything, pointsman,” Coindarel said. “That’s what we’re here for.” He looked around the yard again, and touched heels to his horse, sending it dancing sideways toward the pile of ash where the magist had stood. “But we seem to be missing someone, by all accounts. Where’s Maseigne de Mailhac–or her pet magist, for that matter?”
Before Rathe could answer. Coindarel’s horse shied, bounced sideways on bunched feet, away from the ashes. Coindarel swore, one arm instantly steadying Asheri, and brought the animal back under control with an effort. Rathe pointed to the pile of ash, the wires that had been the orrery just visible beneath it. “That’s what’s left of them,” he said, and Coindarel lifted his head, eyes wide, looking suddenly like one of his own horses.
“I’m not at all sure I really want to know,” he said at last. “At least, not yet. Not until we’ve found the children, maybe not until we’re back in Astreiant.”
Rathe shook his head. “No, Prince‑marshal,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”
Coindarel lifted an eyebrow, but visibly thought better of it. He wheeled his horse again and trotted back toward the rest of his troop, just coming into sight at the head of the path. There were more children with them, a good dozen, and Rathe allowed himself a long sigh. Coindarel’s men would find them, the children would come to them, and everything would be all right. The sun was rising at last, a breeze rising with it, and the ashes stirred, releasing an odd, acrid smell, hot metal and something more. Rathe winced then, thinking of untimely deaths, and turned to b’Estorr.
“I know this was just. But I also know what Timenard was.” He looked back at the pile of ash, the dull wires half buried in it. “And I don’t want anyone troubled by his ghost.”
“I can do that,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe nodded.
“Then, please. Do it.” It was his right, as a pointsman and a servant of the judiciary, to ask that, or it would be if they had been in Astreiant and Timenard had died on the gallows. Rathe shook the doubt away. He had told the truth: Timenard’s death had been deserved, and de Mailhac’s with it; if nothing else, treason was a capital crime, and madness like Timenard’s was worse than treason. He nodded again, and b’Estorr nodded back.
“You’re right,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his coat, bringing out his own orrery. The metal was tarnished, as though it, too, had been through the fire, and he blinked, startled.
“Mine, too,” Denizard said, and held up a smaller, double‑ringed disk. “Gods, if that–device–of his was powerful enough to do that just in its destruction…”
“Then Nico’s right, and the ghost ought to be laid, for good and for all,” Eslingen said.
“I agree,” b’Estorr said, absently, adjusting the rings of his orrery. They moved smoothly now, Rathe saw, and shivered, remembering their earlier stubbornness. The necromancer checked the settings a final time, then unfastened his swordbelt, and used the scabbarded blade to draw a circle around the remains of the fire.
“Let me help,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr nodded.
“If you’d set the wards?”
Denizard nodded back, and crouched to begin sketching symbols along the outside of the circle. b’Estorr reached past her, drew more symbols inside the circle, murmuring to himself in a language Rathe didn’t recognize. He drew two more sets of symbols, consulting his orrery each time, and then looked down at Denizard.
“Ready?”
“Done,” Denizard answered, and drew a final symbol in the dirt outside the circle. Rathe felt something give, as though the air itself had collapsed, leaving a space that was somehow outside proper time and space, and b’Estorr reached calmly into the center of the circle, inscribed a final symbol in the air above the pile of ash. There was a flash of light, gone almost before Rathe was sure he’d seen it, and the feeling of dislocation was gone with it.