Jayim nodded. His young face was creased with tension and unhappiness—and resolution. Leiard felt a mingled pride and sorrow. The boy would not falter, but he would not like himself for it.
Arleej turned and gave Leiard a direct, assessing look.
“And you?”
Leiard frowned at her. “Me?”
“Not tempted to rush in and rescue anyone?”
Her meaning came to him in a rush. Auraya. Could he stand back and watch Auraya be defeated? Could he watch her die?
Suddenly his heart was racing. He looked out at the battlefield—at the five White. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? She always seemed so strong, so confident, he thought. I might not have liked that she was one of the Gods’ Chosen, but it meant she was safe. Immortal. Protected by magic and the gods.
The gods . . . Surely they wouldn’t allow their chosen human representatives to lose?
If you believe that, you are a fool, Mirar whispered.
“What could I do to save them?” Leiard said honestly. “One single sorcerer? I doubt I’d make the slightest difference.” Aware that his voice was betraying his distress, he looked at Arleej. “Except, as always, as a healer.”
Arleej gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And a fine one at that.”
As she walked away, Leiard sighed heavily. He no longer wanted to watch the battle. Not if it meant watching Auraya die and not being able to do anything about it.
I could spare you the ordeal, Mirar offered.
No. I am here to heal, Leiard replied.
I can do that for you.
No. When this is over with we will go to Somrey and I will be rid of you.
You think Arleej can fix you? I’m not sure you’ll like having her poking around in your mind. I’m not sure I like the idea, either.
I thought you wanted to be gone?
That depends on whether the White win this battle or not. If they do, I’ll let you go to Somrey. We’ll see if Arleej can do something about our situation.
And if the White lose? Leiard asked.
Mirar did not answer.
46
Tryss glided in a wide circle in the hope of getting a chance to view the battle. Without an immediate target, a black bird to contend with, or something else to occupy his attention, he was suddenly aware of how tired he was. Every muscle ached. He realized he was bleeding from several cuts and scratches, though he could not remember how he’d got them. They stung.
Half of his flight followed him. He looked at them critically, noting wounds and signs of weariness. Tyssi was bleeding heavily from a deep cut that worried him. The rest looked fit but tired. He surveyed the battle in the sky. The number of black birds was noticeably smaller—he gained a grim satisfaction from that—but the number of Siyee had also diminished. By about half.
Some had flown away to rest or replenish their supply of darts, but not the majority. His stomach sank. Most of the missing were dead. People he knew. People he liked. People he didn’t. His heart ached with loss. It all seemed so stupid now.
Why did we agree to come here? Why did we sign the treaty? We could have stayed at home. Given up the southern lands to the settlers. Retreated to the highest peaks.
And starved.
He sighed. We fight because the Circlians were the better choice of ally at a time when we could no longer hope that world events weren’t going to affect us. Better to be part of them and suffer the consequences, than not be and suffer the consequences of them anyway.
A whoop of triumph drew his attention down. He saw a flight of Siyee swoop upward, having unleashed a rain of poisoned darts and arrows on the enemy. The leader, he saw, was Sreil. Remembering that Drilli was with Sreil’s flight, he searched for her. She was flying close behind Sreil, grinning fiercely.
Relief and gratitude washed over him. Just seeing her lifted his mood. She was still alive. And so am I, he thought. And while I am, I will fight.
Looking down at the rows of darts and arrows attached to his harness he estimated that less than a third remained. He would use them up, then take his flight out to the camp to collect more. Glancing at his companions, he gave the signal to follow. Then he dived toward the enemy below.
He’d learned to read from the landwalkers’ posture and movements what their attention was on. The Pentadrians’ pale faces were easy to see against the black of their robes, especially when they looked up. He aimed for a group looking intently toward one of the black sorceresses.
Suddenly all of the faces turned toward Tryss in unison. He glimpsed hands in the same position holding bows and whistled a warning while dodging to the left. The rush of arrows was frighteningly close. Something scraped past his jaw. He arced away, heart pounding.
So they’ve learned to watch for us, he thought. And to pretend they haven’t until we get close. Clever.
He looked down and felt a shock as he realized how low he was flying. Fortunately the men and women below him now had their backs turned to him. Their attention was on something ahead. He looked up and felt his heart stop.
The black sorceress. He was about to fly over her into the magical battle. Twisting away, he flapped frantically and managed to reverse his flight and gain some height.
Only then did he realize he was alone.
Casting about, he forgot about potential archers below. Where was his flight? Had they turned in the other direction to avoid the archers. Or had they . . . were they . . . ?
Looking down, he saw broken, winged bodies lying on the ground. All but one was still. Tyssi was feebly dragging herself away from advancing Pentadrians, an arrow protruding from one of her thighs.
Several men reached her and began kicking.
A fury flared inside Tryss. Ignoring any danger from below, he set himself on a straight path toward her attackers. He concentrated on their backs. When he was just within range he sent two darts flying. Two of the Pentadrians fell. Tryss saw the others turn toward him and dodged away. When he looked back, Tyssi lay still, blood spreading rapidly from a wound over her heart. He felt his eyes blur with tears. Blinking them away, he turned toward the front and realized he was flying toward the black sorceress once more.
He began to turn, then stopped himself.
Even as he straightened and took aim, he knew what he was doing was utterly pointless. He did not give himself time to think. Darts shot from his harness. He saw them fly through the air. He expected them to scatter away from a magical shield.
Instead they embedded themselves in the back of the black sorceress.
Disbelief was followed by delight. He gave a whoop of glee as the woman staggered forward. Circling away, he looked back. She had turned to stare at him. As her hand moved, his stomach began to sink with realization.
Something smashed into him.
It knocked the breath from his lungs. The world rushed past, faster than he had ever flown before, then something else hit his back. The ground. He heard a crack and almost blacked out at the pain that ripped through his body.
What did I just do? he thought as he lay there, gasping. Something really, really stupid, he answered. But I’ve killed her. I poisoned the black sorceress. We’ll win now. I’ve got to see that. He opened his eyes. Lifting his head sent bolts of pain down his back, and what he saw made him feel queasy. His legs were bending in places they shouldn’t.
That should hurt, he thought. But I can’t feel anything at all. Nothing below my waist. He knew he was badly hurt—probably dying—but he could not quite believe it. Black-clothed men and women loomed over him. They looked angry.