A woman in rich riding apparel rode at his side, her presence puzzling until Micum caught sight of her face and realized what she was. Flattening lower, he lay scarcely breathing, until the dyrmagnos had ridden past.
Behind them came more riders and marines. Micum spotted a few familiar faces among them, Captain Tildus and several of the soldiers who'd been with him in Wolde. The dispassionate calm that had kept him alive through so many battles settled over Micum as he silently marked men for death.
A line of wagons followed, including the bear cart
Alec had described. As it came abreast of Micum's hiding spot, he saw a thin, half-naked man sprawled face down in the bottom of it. He couldn't make out the face, but from the build he guessed it was Thero. Another wagon was loaded with small wooden cages, and a black bull was tethered to this one.
Next came a long procession of prisoners stumbling along in chains. Women, men, and children, some hardly older than Illia, marched in dispirited silence beneath the watchful eye of their mounted guards.
Behind them came wagons, servants, and livestock.
Micum's heart sank as he watched the last of the column pass. Alec had missed his guess; there were closer to a hundred soldiers.
By the Flame, he thought. We've got our work cut out for us this time.
While Micum was gone, Seregil spent some time spying on the Plenimaran camp, then went back to check on Alec.
He was still asleep, curled on his side beneath the cloak. A pained frown furrowed his brow, and his fingers twitched restlessly as he fought his way through whatever dreams still haunted him. Sitting down next to him, Seregil gently stroked Alec's tangled hair until the shadow left his face.
Nysander sat with several arrows across his lap. He'd produced a small dish of paint from somewhere and was painting symbols on one of the shafts with a fine brush.
Watching Alec sleep, Seregil shook his head with concern. "Do you really think he'll be up to fighting tomorrow?"
"He is young, and not badly hurt," the wizard assured him, not looking up from his work. "All he needs is rest."
Seregil rubbed absently at his chest. The last of the scab was peeling away and it itched. As his fingers brushed across the scar, he felt the tiny raised whorls of the disk's imprint.
It felt different.
Reaching for Micum's pack, he dug out the shaving mirror and held it out to see the scar. The round shape of the disk and the small square mark left by the hole at its center were still outlined in shiny new skin, but the imprint of the design had changed. What had originally been a cryptic pattern of lines and whorls had somehow transformed into a circular device of stylized knives, eyes, and necromantic runes.
"Nysander, look at this!" He pulled the neck of his tunic wider.
Nysander's bushy white brows shot up in surprise. "Do you recall me telling you that the design on the wooden disk concealed another? This is one of the siglas of the Empty God."
Seregil inspected it again. "I can read them. The runes, I mean. They're right way around in the mirror. I hadn't thought of it before, but since this is a brand, the whole design is backward."
Nysander tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "If this sigla is intrinsically magical rather than merely symbolic, such a reversal would have a significant effect on its power. It may even have helped protect you from the effects of the crown."
He smiled ruefully. "I should have guessed it sooner, I suppose, but I had been putting your survival down to your magical dysfunction. This may well have been an ameliorating factor."
Seregil, hoping to get a little sleep stretched out beside Alec. "I'd call that left-handed luck, but I guess I'll take it—I just hope it works for us tomorrow."
Nysander took up his brush again. "As do I, dear boy." I take any kind I can.
49
Alec slept on through the night while Nysander and the others listened to the Plenimarans at work preparing the temple site. They also heard the chanting, and later the screams and moans that drifted to them on the wind from the encampment. Micum wanted to investigate, but the wizard forbade it.
"We know well enough what they are doing. The dyrmagnos is more dangerous than ever during such ceremonies. If not for the protective magic I have placed around us, she would have sensed us already. We are safe enough for now, but we must wait for morning before we move. You should rest while you can. I fear there will be little opportunity to do so tomorrow."
Scratching a circle around the base of the pine, he seated himself against the opposite side of the trunk and closed his eyes.
Alec woke just before sunrise the next morning and was surprised at how rested he felt. He had a few scrapes and aches from the previous day's journey, but he scarcely noticed them.
Seregil was asleep close beside him, one arm under his head, the other stretched out toward Alec.
His face was wind-burned and there were pine needles tangled in his long dark hair, but that only seemed to enhance his strange beauty.
I kissed him! Alec thought in a sudden agony of embarrassment. In the midst of all the horror they had faced, and all they'd face today, he had kissed Seregil.
His teacher. His friend. His—what? Worse yet, if Nysander hadn't been sitting a few feet away, he might have been tempted to do it again.
I can't think about that now, he groaned inwardly, cheeks flaming. It wasn't that he regretted it. He just didn't know yet what it meant, or what he wanted it to mean.
Sitting up, he saw that Micum had gone out already.
Nysander was sitting on the other side of the tree and didn't stir or look around when Alec went over to the pile of packs. He found a spare set of breeches and some low boots in Seregil's, then turned his attention to his bow.
Stringing it, he ran careful fingers up and down the braided string, looking for any frays or weak spots. After so many weeks of disuse, it needed waxing.
There was a tack pouch in his quiver, but he didn't see it with the rest of the gear. Looking around, he spied it lying on the ground next to Nysander. In with his red-fletched arrows were four newly fletched with white swan feathers. Taking up the quiver, he touched one of the crisp white vanes and felt a sharp tingle of magic against his finger. He jerked his hand away, then gingerly pulled the arrow from the quiver for a closer look. The shaft was covered from point to nock with tiny, intricate symbols painted in blue ink.
"No spell can improve on the skill of your hand and eye," Nysander murmured, eyes still closed, "but those four arrows carry magic that will pierce the skin of the dyrmagnos. She must be your first target once the Helm is complete. See no one else, aim for nothing else until one of these has struck her. Even my magic cannot kill her, but it will weaken her while we attack. Strike her in the heart if you can manage it."
"You can depend on it," Alec replied stonily.
The boy who'd wavered taking first aim at a man was long gone. He touched the nock, imagining the feel of it on the string just before he let it fly.
I still hope I see her face when it hits her.
Seregil sat up and brushed pine needles from his hair. "Any sound from our neighbors?"
"Not for some time now," Nysander told him, opening his eyes and stretching. "Micum went out a short while ago to check their camp."
Seregil peered out through the pine boughs. "I think I'd like a look at the temple again before too many people are stirring. What do you say, Alec. Fancy a walk before breakfast?"
They kept a sharp eye out for sentries as they made their way down to the north side of the cove.
"So that's what those holes were for," Seregil muttered, looking across to the temple site through the underbrush.
Sturdy wooden posts had been set upright in the mysterious holes surrounding the dry basin at the head of the ledges. A few men were still at work clearing debris from the area.