Ironfoot dismounted and waved for Sela to remain where she was. She didn't respond. He looped his reins over a nearby branch and crept toward the road, using all the skills of silence that Jedron had taught him, which were enhanced by his changed body. He reached the edge of the road and crouched carefully, watching.
Company upon company of soldiers, grizzled veterans and fresh recruits alike, were moving toward the southwest. Toward Wamarnest, the city closest to the Seelie border, where cavalry had been drilling for months.
War was coming, and soon.
But there was a more immediate problem. The few border crossings would now be more closely guarded than ever. The Border Wall stretched across most of the length of the border; it had been created during a long-ago treaty, and maintained by both sides ever since. It was composed of interlocking bindings, one Seelie, one Unseelie, and was impossible to cross from either side. Presumably Virum had known of a secret crossing, one of the spots where the resonance from Shifting Places of the nearby Contested Lands created soft spots in the Border Wall. These were all guarded, but from time to time new ones cropped up. The problem was that Ironfoot had no idea where Virum's soft spot was located.
Once the column of soldiers had passed, he returned to Sela and they continued, hurrying across the road and back into the forest. That night they camped without a fire, eating berries and nuts and the last of the stale bread they'd taken from the villa.
The next morning they continued their ride. They must have made good time, because the sun was still well above the western horizon when they ran into the Border Wall. Ironfoot dismounted and examined it. It was merely a low stone wall, nothing particularly imposing, though runes were scattered across its surface. He put his hand out to reach across, and met with resistance. He pushed his hand farther and the resistance grew stronger. A little farther and the resistance became physically painful. He quickly withdrew. There would be no crossing here.
They followed the Border Wall to the southwest, where hopefully he could find a border crossing that wasn't too crowded. He had no idea what he'd do when he found one, but there wasn't much of a choice. Every step they took to the southwest, though, took them closer to the remains of Selafae, and Sylvan beyond.
Near sunset, they came upon a group of soldiers stationed along a length of the wall. Not particularly attentive soldiers, since they had yet to notice the two riders approaching them, and not a true crossing, simply a soft place. That was a lucky break. Ironfoot counted ten soldiers, however, and that was less lucky.
Nothing to do but try to talk their way through.
"Sela," he said in a low voice. "I need your Empathy here. We're going to have to talk our way through these men."
"I don't know," said Sela. "It hurts so badly." She clutched her arm, where red welts from the touch of the uncovered band had burned her skin.
"You're going to have to try, dammit!" said Ironfoot. "You're a Shadow, Sela. You have a job to do."
"I know."
"Then wake up and do what needs to be done."
She looked at him, angrily at first; then her expression hardened. "You're right," she said. "I will be what I was made to be."
Ironfoot wasn't sure what she meant by that, but if it brought her back to her senses, he was glad. They rode toward the soldiers.
"Who goes there!" one of them shouted.
"We have orders to cross the border," said Ironfoot. "A mission from the City of Mab itself."
"Dismount," said the foremost soldier, who was a lieutenant, and a young one.
"I don't have time, Lieutenant. Now get out of my way or I'll move you."
The officer stood his ground. "No one crosses the border," he said. "I have my own orders, and I don't care what yours are."
Ironfoot looked at Sela, who was concentrating on the lieutenant. "Who are you?" he said, looking at her.
"We're on a critical mission," she said, her voice clear and distinct. "Surely you understand that." Ironfoot could see the tension in her gaze. The struggle.
"I don't know," said the lieutenant, faltering.
Another of the soldiers approached. "You heard the lieutenant," he said. "Dismount now, or we'll dismount you."
Just Ironfoot's luck; the officer didn't have his men at all well in hand. In Ironfoot's army days he'd had a few such commanders. Smart infantrymen knew how to manipulate them to keep themselves from getting killed. Apparently the soldier now eyeing Ironfoot was one of these.
"We can't do that," said Sela. She was trying, but she'd been through too much in too brief a time, and these were strong-willed, suspicious men.
"All right," said Ironfoot. He dismounted and, with deep regret, drew the Bel Zheret's knife.
It was amazing, even to Ironfoot, how quickly he managed to kill them all. He whirled and struck, all of his anger and frustration flowing into his actions. All philosophy and higher thought evaporated. There was only motion and balance and cut. Blood and bone. Shriek and hiss.
There were ten of them, and the last barely had time to draw his sword before Ironfoot pierced his neck with the point of the Bel Zheret blade. If Ironfoot hadn't been a complete Shadow before, he was now.
He remounted, slowly, after wiping the Bel Zheret knife on the uniform of one of the fallen soldiers. They circled back and then took the wall at a run, the horses' hooves clearing it easily.
They must have spoken at some point during the long night ride to the Sylvan road, but Ironfoot couldn't remember saying anything. They stumbled on the road out of the forest at the break of dawn, and in less than two hours they were at Sylvan, having passed column after column of Seelie soldiers heading north.
When they returned to the City Emerald, in a fast carriage loaned by the Seelie Army, Paet was waiting for them at Blackstone House. He received the report of their mission-of the flight from Preyia, the Arami, the deaths of Timha and Silverdun-in silence, asking no questions. When Ironfoot was done speaking, Paet thanked him in a quiet voice.
"When will Silverdun's body be delivered to his family?" said Ironfoot.
"It won't. There will be no funeral."
"Excuse me?" said Sela. It was the first thing she'd said since they'd arrived.
"Shadows don't get funerals," said Paet. "We're never so lucky."
Ironfoot fumed, but Paet wasn't someone who could be argued with.
"I'll be gone for several days," said Paet, standing. "I expect you both to spend that time recovering. When I get back, there will be much to do."
"Paet," said Ironfoot. "They knew we were coming. At every step along the way."
"I know," said Paet. "And I have no idea who's responsible."
"I want to get back to work," said Sela. "Now. I don't want to rest."
"I agree," said Ironfoot.
"Some things cannot wait," said Paet. "And some can. If you insist on working, Ironfoot, go over Timha's notes with a fine-toothed comb. The Unseelie couldn't figure them out, but perhaps you can."
"In time for them to be useful?" said Ironfoot.
"You never know when something will be useful," said Paet.
"I'd like to go through intelligence reports," said Sela. "From everywhere. Look for anything that might tell us who our traitor is. There are some leads I discovered before we left for the Unseelie."
"Any ideas?" asked Paet.
"I'll let you know," she said.
Paet left soon after, leaving Sela and Ironfoot alone in the Shadows' Den. Ironfoot took Timha's notes and plans and books and spread them out in the mission room. The Unseelie had some very bright minds, but Ironfoot had one thing they didn't have. He had the map of Selafae.
He pored over these things for hours, carefully juxtaposing the plans for the Einswrath. Just as he had on his return to Queensbridge from Selafae, he became lost in his work, the rising sense of fear growing with every hour.