She was on foot, carrying her shillad and dagger, as if ready for a match in the Harvest Tournament. But rather than being in the ring, surrounded by a cheering audience, she was in the city.
No, that wasn't right either. She was in a city, but it wasn't Qalsyn.
The two thoughts reached her together, like some twin-headed creature from the Underrealm. I'm dreaming, and This is Deraqor. She heard a thin cry above her, looked up, and saw a falcon circling overhead, black against a bright blue sky.
"I am dreaming, aren't I?" she asked the bird.
It cried out again, a hawk's plaintive note. And yet she heard words within the sound. "Yes, a dream." And then it said, "Deraqor," anticipating her next question.
She nodded, and began to walk. There should have been an army with her. Where were Oliban and Dyn, Crow and Qagan? This was folly, trying to take back her family's city by herself. The white-hairs would defend it to the death. They would attack her with blades and arrows and, most dreaded of all, their evil magic.
But no attack came. The streets were empty.
Again, that wasn't right. Or rather, it was, until she formed the thought. Now, though…
There were bodies. Hundreds of bodies. They lined the street, arrayed neatly in rows, as if they had gathered to watch a parade. Every corpse was Qirsi, every one of them dressed in a white robe, so that they looked like sleeping wraiths. Tirnya felt that she should have been terrified, but there was nothing gruesome about the bodies, nothing to give any indication of what had killed them. Yes, sleeping wraiths. That's what they were.
And the city! Looking away from the bodies, Tirnya lost herself in reverie at the beauty of that city. Buildings constructed of red and pink stone-river stone, they called it; her father had told her that much. Lofty spires from the sanctuary soaring upward, seeming to pierce that blue like blades; the low jumble of houses, some stone, some wood, sprawled at the feet of the God's shrine, like supplicants bowing before a prelate; the gentle curve of the city walls, punctuated at regular intervals by arched gates. She had never seen a city so lovely.
"It is yours," the falcon said. "If you want it." The bird wheeled above her, angling its wings, twisting its tail slightly, its flight as effortless as thought. "But there is a cost."
She didn't care. This was Deraqor! Her city! Her family's ancestral home! The Onjaefs belonged here. How pleased her father would be when he learned that she had taken it back. But she knew she had to ask, that the falcon expected it of her. And this was a dream, with a logic of its own.
"What cost? Tell me, and I'll pay it."
The bird wheeled a second time, tucked in its wings to dive, pulling up just above her and hovering there. "Look!" it said, the cry both sharp and mournful.
Tirnya lowered her gaze once more.
Bodies; even more than there had been. But not dressed in white anymore, not neatly arrayed, not only Qirsi. Bodies everywhere. Hacked, broken, brutalized. Severed limbs, spilled innards, and so much blood. More blood than Tirnya had known existed, coursing through the streets like the Silverwater in flood, running over her feet, soaking through the leather of her boots. She took a great breath, opened her mouth to scream.
And woke, her eyes fluttering open.
"Gods be praised!" a voice said. Her father. That was her father who spoke.
"Captain?"
She peered up into the thin, tanned face of an older man. She was in her own bedroom. Her chest hurt, as did her head.
It came back to her in a rush. The arrow. Falling back off Thirus. Thirus!
"My horse," she said, her voice sounding thick.
She heard her father chuckle. "That's my daughter."
She tried to make herself sit up, but her body didn't respond.
"Hold on there, Captain," the older man said. "You've taken a nasty fall and you had an arrow in you. You're not going anywhere for a while."
"My men?
"You lost two," her father said, stepping to the side of her bed and looking down at her. "Four more were wounded, but they'll be fine. Thirus is unhurt and in the stable, and the brigands you encountered are all either dead or captured. Twenty-one in all. Your men have a good deal of gold coming to them."
Two men dead! She turned her face away, feeling tears on her cheeks. That simple motion made her stomach heave, and she almost was ill. Two men. She wondered which ones.
"She's past the worst of it now, Marshal," the older man said. "Keep that poultice on her wound for the rest of the night; the betony will keep the bleeding to a minimum and ease the swelling, and the lavender will keep it from becoming fevered. And keep giving her that brew. Sanicle and sweet-wort. It'll keep the pain in check and help her sleep. That's what she needs most now. Rest."
"Thank you, healer."
Tirnya knew that voice, too.
"Mother?" she said, looking past Jenoe.
Her mother stood near the door, her face pale in the lamplight.
"I'm glad you're better," she said, smiling, though she appeared to be blinking back tears. After a moment Zira looked away. "Come, healer. I'll show you out."
The older man nodded. He glanced down at Tirnya again. "I'll come back to see you tomorrow, Captain."
"Thank you."
He left the chamber, followed by Tirnya's mother.
Her window was slightly ajar, and she could see that night had fallen. "How long was I…?" Her thoughts were so scattered. What had she just been dreaming?
"It's nearly time for the gate close," her father said. "They brought you back here several hours ago."
"Mother was here."
He frowned, but there was a smile on his lips. "Yes, of course. What did you expect?"
"Do you know… what were the names of the men who died?" She didn't want to answer his question.
"I don't know. I'm sorry."
"I've never… I've had men wounded before, but I've never lost any."
Her father brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, looking sad and relieved and much older than she'd ever seen him. "Think about that tomorrow. Tonight you need rest." He straightened.
"Do you think I was wrong to search the paths?" she asked quickly, afraid he would leave her.
Again he frowned, and shook his head. "No. It was a fine idea."
"Oliban thought of it."
"Then he's to be commended."
"But if we hadn't searched there…"
Her father shook his head. "A commander can't think that way. You lost two good men, but you did what was expected of you, and more. Every soldier knows that his next battle could be his last. I don't know the names of the men who died, and even if I did, I probably couldn't tell you much about them. But they knew the risks of what they were doing."
She nodded, knowing he was right, knowing as well that it would still take some time before her guilt and grief went away.
"As long as we're on the subject, though," her father went on, "I can't say that I like the idea of you leading a charge like that. You're fortunate to be alive."
"You'd have me ride at the back of the column instead of the front?"
"A company needs its captain. When a commander, any commander, falls in battle, it places all the men in a company at risk."
"I see," Tirnya said. "And I take it you always ride at the back when your men charge into battle."
"He never has that I know of." Zira walked to her bedside. "I can't tell you how to lead soldiers into a battle," she said. "But I can say that your father has never ridden at the back of a column in his entire life."
Tirnya had to smile. "I didn't think so."
"No more talk of soldiers or battles," Zira said. "She needs sleep."
Her father kissed Tirnya's forehead, and then her mother did the same. Tirnya couldn't remember the last time she had done such a thing. Zira sat beside her and held the cup of the healer's brew to Tirnya's lips. Tirnya drank as much of it as she could before turning her face away. It was too heavy and too sweet.