Chapter 13
"You've barely touched the meal," Kitai said quietly.
Tavi glanced up at her, a stab of guilt hitting him quickly in the belly. "I..." The sight of Kitai in the green gown hit him even more heavily, and he lost track of what he'd been about to say.
The silken gown managed to satisfy propriety while simultaneously placing every one of the young woman's beautiful features on display. With her pale hair worn up in an elegant coil atop her head, the rather deep neckline of the gown made her neck look long and delicate, giving the lie to the slender strength he knew was there. It left her shoulders and arms bare as well, her pale skin smooth and perfect in the glow of the muted furylamps inside the pavilion he'd had set up on a bluff overlooking the restless sea.
The silver-set emeralds she wore at her throat, upon a gossamer-thin wire tiara, and on her ears flickered in the light, gleaming with tiny inner fires of their own. A subtle firecrafting had been worked into them by a master artisan at some point in their past. The second firecrafting that went with them, an aura of excitement and happiness, hung around her like a fine and subtle perfume.
She arched one pale brow in challenge, her lips curving up into a smile, waiting for an answer.
"Perhaps," he said, "I've developed a hunger for something other than dinner."
"It is improper to have one's dessert before the meal, Your Highness," she murmured. She lifted a berry to her lips and met his eyes as she ate it. Slowly.
Tavi considered sweeping the tabletop clear with one arm, dragging her across it and into his arms, and finding out what that berry tasted like. The notion struck him with such appeal that he had lifted his hands to the arms of his chair without even realizing it.
He took another slow breath, savoring the image in his mind, and the desire running through him, and with a moment's struggle, sorted out which were his own ideas and which were hers. "You," he accused, his voice coming out much lower and rougher than he'd intended, "are earthcrafting me, Ambassador."
She ate another berry. More slowly. Her eyes sparkled as she did. "Would I do such a thing, my lord Octavian?"
It became a real effort of will to remain seated. He turned to his plate with a growl and took up a knife and a fork to neatly slice off and devour a piece of the beef - real, honest Aleran meat, none of that leviathan-chum they'd been forced to choke down on the voyage - and washed it down with a swallow of the light, almost transparent wine. "You might," he said, "if it suited you."
She took utensils to her own roast. Tavi watched her, impressed. Kitai generally took to a good roast with all the delicacy of a hungry lioness and often gave the impression that she would respond in a similar vein should anyone attempt to usurp her share. Tonight, if she did not move with the perfect smoothness of a young woman of high society, her behavior was nonetheless not too terribly far off the mark. Someone, presumably Cymnea, had been teaching her the etiquette of the Citizenry.
When had she found the time?
She ate the bite of meat as slowly as she had the berries, still watching his eyes. She closed her own in pleasure as she swallowed, and only a moment after did she open them again. "Are you suggesting that I would prefer it if you tore this dress from me and ravished me? Here? On the table, perhaps?"
Tavi's fork slipped, and his next piece of roast went flying off the table and onto the ground. He opened his mouth to reply and found himself saying nothing, his face turning warm.
Kitai watched the roast fall and made a clucking sound. "Shame," she purred. "It's delicious. Don't you think it's delicious?"
She ate another bite with the same, torturously slow, relaxed, elegantly restrained sensuality.
Tavi found his voice again. "Not half so delicious as you, Ambassador."
She smiled again, pleased. "Finally. I have your attention."
"You've had it the whole time we've been eating," Tavi said.
"Your ears, perhaps." She cleared her throat, resting her fingertips upon her breastbone for a moment, drawing his gaze there involuntarily. "Your eyes, certainly," she added drily, and he let out a rueful chuckle. "But your thoughts, chala, your imagination - they have been focused elsewhere."
"My mistake," Tavi said. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Kitai replied with a rather smug smile. Her expression grew more serious. "Though not solely for the immediate reasons."
He frowned and rolled a hand, inviting her to continue.
She folded her hands in her lap and frowned, as if gathering her words together before releasing them. "This enemy is a threat to you as your others are not, chala."
"The vord?"
She nodded.
"In what way?"
"They threaten to unmake who you are," she said quietly. "Despair and fear are powerful foes. They can change you into something you are not."
"You said something like that last winter," he said. "When we were trapped atop that Shuaran tower."
"It is no less true now," she said in a quiet voice. "Remember that I can feel you, chala. You cannot hide these things from me. You have tried to, and I have respected your desire. Until now."
He frowned at her, troubled.
She slid her hand across the table, palm up. His own hand covered it without the need for a conscious decision on his own part.
"Talk to me," she urged quietly.
"There was always someone nearby on the ships. Or else we were in lessons and..." He shrugged. "I... I didn't want to burden you. Or frighten you."
She nodded and spoke without rancor. "Was it because you think I am insufficiently strong? Or because you find me insufficiently brave?"
"Because I find you insufficiently..." he faltered.
"Capable?" she suggested. "Helpful?"
"... replaceable," he finished.
Her eyebrows lifted at that. She returned his earlier gesture, rolling her hand for him to continue.
"I can't lose you," he said quietly. "I can't. And I'm not sure that I'm able to protect you. I'm not sure anyone can."
Kitai stared at him for a moment without expression. Then she pressed her lips together, shook her head, and rose. She walked around the table with that same severe expression on her face, but it wasn't until she was standing beside Tavi's chair that he realized that she was shaking with unreleased laughter.
She insinuated herself onto his lap, lovely in the green grown, wrapped her pale arms around his neck, and kissed him. Thoroughly. Her gentle laughter bubbled against his tongue as she did. When she finally drew away, moments later, she put her fever-warm hands on either side of his face, looking down at him fondly.
"My Aleran," she said, her voice loving. "You idiot."
He blinked at her.
"Are you only now realizing that forces greater than ourselves might tear us apart?" she asked, still smiling.
"Well..." he began. "Well... well no, not exactly..." He trailed off weakly.
"But that was always true, Aleran," she said, "long before the vord threatened our peoples. If they had never done so, it would still be true."
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged a shoulder. Then she took up his knife and fork and cut another slice of roast as she spoke. "Many things can end lives. Even the lives of Aleran Citizens. Disease. Fires. Accidents. And, in the end, age itself." She fed him the piece of roast and watched him begin to chew before nodding approval and beginning to cut another. "Death is certain, Aleran - for all of us. That being true, we know that all of those we love will either be torn away from us, or we will be torn away from them. It follows as naturally as the night after sundown."
"Kitai," Tavi began.
She slipped another piece of roast into his mouth, and said, quietly, "I am not finished."
He shook his head and began to chew, listening.
She nodded approval again. "In the end, the vord are nothing special, Aleran, unless you allow them to be. In fact, they are less threatening than most."
He swallowed, and said, "How can you say that?"
"How can I not?" she replied smoothly. "Think on it. You have a reasonably good mind when you choose to use it. I am certain it will come to you eventually." She arched and stretched, lifting her arms straight overhead. Tavi found his left hand resting on the small of her back, left bare by the gown. He couldn't seem to stop himself from stroking that soft skin in a slow circle, barely touching. "Mmmm. That pleases me. And this gown pleases me. And the jewels, too - though I couldn't wear them on a nighttime hunt. Still, they are beautiful."
"And expensive," Tavi said. "You wouldn't believe."
Kitai rolled her eyes. "Money."
"Not everyone uses obsidian arrowheads as the basic standard of trade," he told her, smiling.
"No," she replied tartly. "Though if it cost an Aleran money every time he wanted to kill something, it might have helped make your people's history much less interesting reading." She looked down at him for a moment, smiling, then asked, "Do you think the jewels are beautiful, Aleran?"
Tavi touched her cheek. "I'd like to see you in nothing else."
Her smile widened. "That," she said, "would be wholly inappropriate, my lord Octavian." But her hands very slowly rose to the nape of her neck, and the clasp of the gown. Tavi let out another low, growling sound, and felt his hand curling possessively on the line of her waist.
Hoofbeats came rapidly thudding toward the isolated pavilion. The guards, who were stationed in a loose line forty yards down the hill at Magnus's insistence, against the possibility of further vord infiltrators, began exchanging passwords with the messenger, whose voice was pitched high with excitement.
Tavi groaned and rested his forehead against Kitai's... gown for a moment. "Of course. Something happens now."
Kitai let out a low, wicked laugh, and said, "We could just keep going, if you like."
"Bloody crows, no," Tavi said, flushing again. He rose, lifting her as he did, and set her gently down on her feet. "Do I look all right?"
She leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, eyes dancing, then wiped it with a napkin. She straightened the lines of his dress tunic slightly, and said, "You look most proper, my lord Octavian."
He growled beneath his breath, something about remembering not to kill the messenger, and walked to draw aside one of the cloths that veiled the pavilion's interior. A Legion valet was hurrying up the slope beside a messenger in the armor of an Antillan militiaman. The Antillan strode up the hill in the precisely spaced stride of an experienced legionare, stopped before Tavi, and saluted crisply. "Your Highness."
Tavi returned the salute. The messenger was a senior centurion of the force defending the city, come out of retirement for the task, and was closer to fifty than forty. "Centurion... Ramus, isn't it?"
The man smiled and nodded. "Aye, sir."
"Report."
"Compliments of the Lord Seneschal Vanorius, sir, and there's been word from Riva."
Tavi lifted his eyebrows. "A watersending?"
"Yes, si - " The centurion's eyes had flicked past Tavi to Kitai, and the words choked in his throat. He coughed sharply, then inclined his head and saluted again. "Ah. Please excuse the intrusion, lady Ambassador."
Tavi checked, just to be sure the gown was still on. It was. But with Kitai, you never really knew. He couldn't blame Ramus for faltering, though. She looked stunning. "Word from Riva, centurion?" Tavi prompted.
"Yes, sir," the man said. "Lord Aquitaine reports that the city is under attack."
Tavi blinked and arched an eyebrow, permitting himself no further sign of surprise. "Really?"
"How?" Kitai demanded sharply.
"The message wasn't a long one, sir," the centurion replied. "My lord Vanorius said to tell you that some kind of interference ended it almost before it had begun. Just that Aquitaine appeared, in his visage and voice, having somehow driven through the interdiction the vord have kept on watersendings until, um, recently, Your Highness."
"Well, then," Tavi said. He inhaled once, nodded to himself, then glanced sharply over his shoulder at Kitai.
She nodded, already drawing on a dark traveling cloak. "I will speak to her immediately."
"Thank you," Tavi said. As Kitai left he said, to Ramus, "Centurion, please give the Lord Seneschal my compliments and inform him that our plans to depart have just been moved up by thirty-six hours. I'll be moving the troops tonight. The city must be prepared to receive the auxiliaries and refugees a little sooner than we expected."
"Yes, sir," Ramus said, but his eyes were hard with suspicion.
Tavi eyed him. Ramus was only one man - but he was the kind of man other legionares listened to. The Antillans and the Canim were about to be left alone with one another in hideously dangerous proximity. This was an opportunity to plant a useful seed, one he'd sown as often as possible over the past days. "Centurion," Tavi said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd speak your mind."
"They're Canim, sir," the legionare spat. "They're animals. I fought their raiders in my time in the Legions. I've seen what they do to us."
Tavi considered his answer for a moment before giving it. "I could say that the Legions make use of animals in war on a daily basis, Ramus," he said, finally. "But the truth of the matter is that they are their own people. They are our enemies, and they make no pretense otherwise." He smiled, baring his teeth. "But we both have a bigger problem today. I've fought with the Canim personally, both against them and beside them, centurion, and I've got the scars to prove it. I've spent more time in the field against them than any Aleran commander in history. They're vicious, savage, and merciless. And they keep their word."
Tavi put a hand on the centurion's shoulder. "Follow orders, soldier. They'll follow theirs. And if we're smart and lucky, maybe we'll all get to cut one another's throats next year."
Ramus frowned. He began to turn, and hesitated. "You... you really think that, son? Er, sir?"
"No two ways about it. They're in the same corner we are. And there's some of them I'd sooner trust at my back than a lot of Alerans I've known."
Ramus snorted. "Ain't that the crowbegotten truth." He squared his shoulders and slammed a fist to his chest. "I'll take word to my lord Vanorius, sir."
"Good man," Tavi said. He drew the dagger from the centurion's belt, turned, and speared what remained of his roast onto the end of it. Then he passed the knife back to the man. "For the ride back. No sense in letting it go to waste. Good luck to you, centurion."
Ramus took the dagger back with a small, quick grin. "Thank you, Your High - "
A wind suddenly screamed down out of the north, a wall of cold air thirty degrees colder than the still-chilly northern night. One moment, the night was quiet, and the next the wind threatened to rip the pavilion from the ground.
"Bloody crows," Ramus cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. Whipped by the wind, the sea below almost seemed to moan protest as its surface was lashed into a fine spray. "What's this?"
Tavi lifted his own hand and faced north, peering at the sky. Clouds were being swallowed by a grey darkness spreading from north to south. "Well," he said, baring his teeth in a snarling smile, "it's about bloody time."
He put a hand to his mouth and used a couple of fingers to let loose a whistle piercing enough to carry even over the sudden roar of cold wind, a trick his uncle Bernard had taught him while shepherding. He made a quick signal to the line of guards, who gathered in on him with alacrity.
"That's enough vacation, boys," he said. "Break out your extra cloaks. It's time for us to save the Realm."
Chapter 14
Valiar Marcus became aware that he was being stalked before he'd passed the fourth row of Legion tents in the first quadrant of the First Aleran's camp. At night, the silent rows of bleached, travel-stained canvas were silent except for the occasional snore. Walking among them could be an eerie experience, like walking in a graveyard, the tents falsely aglow with the light reflected from the standard-issue bleached canvas. It was not easy to slip through a Legion's grid of white tents without presenting a conspicuous dark profile against the fabric - which was by and large the reason every Legion used white canvas in the first place. But it could be done by one patient and skilled enough.
Marcus wasn't sure what had tipped him off to the presence of his tail. He had long since ceased to question his knowledge of such things. He'd been in the business his entire life, and his mind seemed to assemble dozens of tiny, nearly unconscious cues into a tangible realization of his surroundings without any particular intent to do so on his part.
Upon reaching his tent, instead of entering he abruptly stopped in his tracks and went completely still. He reached into the earth and sent a portion of his awareness into the ground around him. The beating hearts and deep breathing of a couple of hundred legionares flowed up into him through his boots, tangible sensation that somehow felt like the background noise of waves breaking upon a shore sounded. The hasty stutter step of someone caught moving, somewhere nearby, stood out from that background like the cry of a nearby gull.
Marcus couldn't pinpoint the exact location of his pursuer, but he did get a good general sense of the direction. He turned to face whoever it was, and said, quietly, "If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself."
After a moment of silence, Magnus stepped out from between two tents and faced the First Spear.
"We can speak inside your tent," Magnus murmured.
"The crows we can," Marcus growled back, as quietly, letting his annoyance show in his voice. "I'm going to my bloody cot. And I don't like being followed like that. A mistake in judgment on anyone's part could make things turn ugly."
Magnus walked closer. The old Cursor looked weary and stiff, and he studied Marcus with watery eyes. "Only if you get spotted by the mark. I'm getting old for this kind of work, First Spear. But I've got no one else to do it."
Marcus tried to sound annoyed. "To spy on me?"
"You don't add up," the old Cursor said. "There are some mysteries hanging around you. I don't like that."
"There's no mystery." Marcus sighed.
"No? There's some reason you are apparently so skilled in Cursor fieldcraft?" Marcus ground his teeth. One wouldn't absolutely have had to be a Cursor to notice old Magnus following him - but he hadn't made any mistakes, and there were few others who would have sensed Magnus's presence. In the absence of other factors, it wouldn't be suspicious for a veteran centurion to have done so. But with Magnus's suspicions aroused, the First Spear had provided him with one more point of confirmation that Valiar Marcus was not who he appeared to be.
"After all we've been through," he said quietly, "do you really think I'm out to harm the captain?"
"I think the captain has too high an opinion of his own cleverness," Magnus replied. "He's young. He doesn't know how the world works. Or how cold-blooded it can be."
"All right." Marcus sighed again. "Assume you're right. I've had plenty of chance to do something bad before now. And I haven't."
Magnus gave him a brittle smile. "If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself."
Marcus stared at him, tempted again to confess. But that wouldn't serve the best interests of the First Aleran or the Princeps. If he revealed himself to Magnus, he would certainly be arrested, assuming he was not executed immediately once his true identity was known. Of course, if Magnus worked things out, that would happen anyway.
But he hadn't done it yet.
Marcus growled a well-used obscenity beneath his breath. "Good night, Magnus."
He stalked into his tent and tossed the flap back with unnecessary force. It was as close as he could come to slamming a door. Then he kept his attention on the ground and waited until the old Cursor's footsteps had retreated.
He reached for the lacings of his armor with a sigh and was startled half out of his wits when a Cane's basso voice rumbled quietly, from the blackness at the back of his tent, "It is good that you did not let him in. It would have been awkward."
Marcus turned and muttered his lone little furylamp to life at its weakest intensity. By its dim golden glow, he made out the massive form of a Canim Hunter, crouching on his cot, making the suspended canvas mattress sag with his weight. Marcus's heart was racing at the surprise, and he stood with one hand on the hilt of his gladius. He faced the Cane for a few seconds, then asked, quietly, "Sha, isn't it?"
The reddish-furred Cane inclined his head. "The same."
Marcus grunted. Then he started unlacing his armor again. If Sha had meant to do him harm, it would have happened already. "I take it you aren't here on a hunt."
"Indeed," the Cane said. "There are facts it would be advantageous for Tavar to have."
"Why not go tell him then? Or write a letter."
Sha flicked his ears casually to one side, a gesture reminiscent of an Aleran's shrug. "They are of an internal nature. No Cane of honor could, in good conscience, reveal them to an enemy." The Hunter's teeth showed in a sudden flash of white. "And I could not reach the Tavar. He was engaged in a mating ritual and heavily guarded."
"And you've passed sensitive information through me before," Marcus said.
Sha nodded his head again.
Marcus nodded. "Tell me. I'll be sure he knows."
"How much do you know of our bloodspeakers?"
"The ritualists?" Marcus shrugged. "I know I don't like them much."
Sha's ears twitched in amusement. "They are important to our society in that they serve the makers."
"Makers," Marcus said. "Your civilians."
"They make food. Homes. Tools. Weapons. Ships. They are the heart and soul of my people, and the reason that warriors like my lord exist. It is they whom the warriors like my lord truly serve, they whom he is pledged to nurture and protect."
"A cynical man," Marcus said, "would make mention of how much serving your people seems to resemble ruling them."
"And a Cane would call cynicism in this context nothing but a form of cowardice," Sha replied without rancor, "a decision to think and react without integrity based upon the assumption that others will do the same. When have you seen Varg do anything but strive to protect his people?"
Marcus nodded. "True."
"The warriors live by a code of conduct. It is how they judge the worth of their lives. When one warrior veers from the code, it is the duty of others to call him to task on it - and, if necessary, to kill him rather than allow him to overstep his authority. Varg honors the code."
"What relationship do the ritualists have with the makers?" Marcus asked.
Sha showed his fangs again. "For the most part, a cowardly one. They, too, are meant to be the servants of the makers. Their skills are meant to safeguard the makers against disease and injury. To guard our children as they are born. To offer counsel and comfort in times of loss. To mediate disputes fairly and to discover the truth when it is unclear."
"I've only seen them using their skills at war."
Sha let out a low growl. "The bloodspeakers' abilities depend upon blood. They are fueled by it. This you know already."
"Yes," Marcus said.
"There was a time when it was considered something monstrous for a bloodspeaker to use any blood but his own - just as it is repellent for any warrior to order other warriors into battle without being able and willing to fight himself."
Marcus frowned. "That would rather sharply limit what a given ritualist could do, I take it?"
"Except in times of great need," rumbled Sha. "Or when he was willing to die to do what he believed needed to be done. As such, the powers of the bloodspeakers were greatly respected. Their acts and sacrifices were deeply honored, even by their enemies. The depth of commitment and sincerity of a bloodspeaker was unquestionable." Sha was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a more detached, businesslike tone. "Some generations ago, the bloodspeakers discovered that they could greatly expand their powers by using the blood of others - the more individuals, the more potent the blood. At first they asked for volunteers - a way for makers to share in the honor and sacrifice of the bloodspeakers' service. But some of them began to do so in war, taking the blood of their enemies and turning the power gained from it to the service of their own war powers. It was argued that the Canim had thus outgrown the need for warriors. For many years, the bloodspeakers attempted to control the warriors - to use them to frighten and intimidate others where possible, and to serve as blood gatherers in times of war. In some ranges, the bloodspeakers were successful. In some, they were less so. In some, they were never able to gain power."
"Why didn't the warriors simply act against them?"
Sha looked shocked at the very suggestion. "Because they are the servants of the makers, as we are, demon."
"Apparently not," Marcus said.
Sha waved a hand. "The code forbids it, unless they are guilty of the grossest excesses. Many bloodspeakers did not embrace the New Way. They remained faithful to their calling, their limits. The followers of the Old Way continued to serve the makers and do great good. They worked to convince their brothers of the integrity of their point of view."
"I take it that didn't go well," Marcus said drily.
"A bloodspeaker remaining faithful to his calling has little time left to spend upon politics, especially in these days," Sha replied. He leaned forward slightly. "Those who scorn the Old Way have all the time they need to scheme and plot and speak half-truths to the makers to gain their support."
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "I take it that one of these followers of the New Way is behind the attack on Octavian."
"Likely," Sha said. "Two makers were convinced to make the attempt." His lips peeled away from his fangs in what looked to Marcus like revulsion and anger. "It is an inexcusable offense."
Marcus shucked out of his armor, stacking the four shell-like pieces of it upon one another and tucking it under his cot. "But Varg cannot act on it?"
"Not while honoring the code," Sha replied. "There are still followers of the Old Way among the bloodspeakers, worthy of respect. But they are few, and do not have the power necessary to call their own to task - assuming the person in question would stand for what he has done instead of denying it."
"If this person died, what would result?" asked Marcus.
"If his killer were known, it would cause outrage among the makers, who do not clearly see how he has betrayed them. One of his lickspittles would likely take his place."
Marcus grunted. "Interchangeable corruption is the worst kind of problem of any office. We know that here, as well." He thought on it for a moment. "What does Varg wish of Octavian?"
"My lord does not wish anything of his enemy," Sha said, stiffly.
Marcus smiled. "Please excuse my unfortunate phrasing. What would be an ideal reaction, for someone like Varg, from someone like Octavian in this situation?"
Sha inclined his head in acknowledgment. "For now, to ignore it. To carry on as if the threat was of no particular concern. More demon-slain Canim, no matter how guilty or well deserved, would only give the bloodspeakers more wood for their fires."
"Hmmmm," Marcus mused. "By doing nothing, he helps to undermine this bloodspeaker's influence while Varg looks for an internal solution."
Sha inclined his head again and stepped off the cot. The enormous Cane moved in perfect silence. "It is good to speak with those who are perceptive and competent."
Marcus found himself smiling at the compliment without any apparent source or object and decided to return it in kind. "It is good to have enemies with integrity."
Sha's ears flicked in amusement again. Then the Hunter raised the hood of his dark grey cloak to cover his head and glided out of the tent. Marcus felt no need to make sure that he had a safe route out of the First Aleran's camp. Sha had gotten in easily enough - which was, in its own way, proof that Varg had not been behind the attempt on Octavian's life. Had Hunters managed to get that close to Octavian, their past performance suggested that he would not have survived the experience, despite all the furycraft he'd managed to master in the past year. Odds were excellent that Marcus wouldn't have survived it, either.
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. He'd been looking forward to a relatively lengthy night's sleep, as compared to what he'd been getting lately. Sha's visit had neatly assassinated that possibility, if nothing else.
He muttered to himself and donned his armor again, something a great deal more easily done with help than alone. But he managed. As he dressed, the weather shifted with abrupt intensity, a cold wind that came howling down out of the north. It set the canvas of his tent to popping, and when Marcus emerged from it, the wind felt as if it had come straight down the slope of a glacier.
He frowned. Unseasonal, for this late in the year, even in the chilly north. The wind even smelled of winter. It promised snow. But it was far too late in the year for such a thing to happen. Unless...
Unless Octavian had, somehow, inherited Gaius Sextus's talents in full measure. It was impossible. The captain had not had time to train, nor a teacher to instruct him in whatever deep secrets of furycraft had allowed Gaius Sextus to readily, frequently, and casually exceed the gifts of any other High Lord by an order of magnitude.
Furycraft was all well and good - but no one man could turn spring into bloody winter. It simply was not possible.
Pellets of stinging sleet began to strike Marcus's face. They whispered against his armor like thousands of tiny, impotent arrowheads. And the temperature of the air continued to drop. Within a few moments, frost had begun to form upon the grass and upon the steel of Marcus's armor. It simply could not be happening - but it was.
Octavian had never been an able student where impossibilities were concerned.
But in the name of the great furies, why would he do such a thing?
As he turned onto the avenue that would lead to the Legion's command tent, he met up with Octavian and his guards, walking briskly toward the command tent.
"First Spear," the captain said. "Ah, good. Time to roust the men. We're leaving for the staging area in an hour."
"Very good, sir," Marcus replied, saluting. "I need to bend your ear for a moment, sir, privately."
Octavian arched an eyebrow. "Very well. I can spare a moment, but after that I want you focused on getting the First Aleran to our departure point."
"Yes, sir," Marcus responded. "Which is where, sir?"
"I've marked a map for you. North."
Marcus frowned. "Sir? North of here there's nothing but the Shieldwall and Iceman territory."
"More or less," Octavian said. "But we've made a few changes."
By noon the next day, the entire First Aleran, together with the Free Aleran Legion and the Canim warriors, had reached the Shieldwall, which lay ten miles to the north of the city of Antillus. Snow lay on the ground, already three inches deep, and the steady fall of white flakes had begun to thicken. If it had been the midst of winter, they would have promised a long, steady, seasonal snowfall.
But that single impossibility had evidently not been enough for the captain.
Marcus had served in the Antillan Legions for years. He stared in mindless, instinctive horror at the sight before him.
The Shieldwall had been broken.
A gap a quarter of a mile wide had been opened in the ancient, furycrafted fortification. The enormous siege wall, fifty feet high and twice as thick, had stood as unchangeable as mountains for centuries. But now, the opening in the wall gaped like a wound. In years gone by, the sight would have raised a wild alarm, and the shaggy white Icemen would already have been pouring into it by the thousands.
But instead, everything seemed calm. Marcus took note of several groups of wagons and pack animals who traveled on a well-worn track through the snow, leading to the gaping opening. Unless he missed his guess, they were carrying provisions. Tribune Cymnea's logistics officers appeared to be loading up supplies for a march.
Without signaling a halt, the captain continued riding straight toward the hole in the wall, and the Legions of Canim and Aleran soldiers followed him.
Marcus shivered involuntarily as he passed through the opening in the Shieldwall. The men were complaining to one another when they thought they wouldn't be overheard. Orders had come back from the captain: No one was to utilize the simple firecrafting that would have done more to insulate the men against the cold than any cloak.
On the other side of the Shieldwall was... a harbor.
Marcus blinked. The open plain before the Shieldwall was perfectly flat for half a mile from the wall's base, as it was along the entire length of the wall. It made it easier to shoot at targets if they weren't constantly bobbling up and down on varying terrain and helped to blind the enemy with his own ranks when the Icemen attacked. It was, simply, an open patch of land.
It was packed with the tall ships of the armada that had returned from Canea, a forest of naked masts reaching up to the snowy sky. The sight was bizarre. Marcus felt thoroughly disoriented as the Legions turned right down the length of the Shieldwall. They eventually had the entire force in a column parallel to the wall. The captain ordered a left face, and Marcus found himself, along with thousands of other legionares and warriors, staring at the out-of-place ships.
Octavian wheeled his horse and rode to approximately the midpoint of the line. Then he turned to face the troops and raised a hand for silence. It was rapid in coming. When he spoke, his voice sounded calm and perfectly clear, amplified by an effort of windcrafting, Marcus was certain.
"Well, men," the captain began. "Your lazy vacation to sunny Canea is now officially over. No more recreation for you."
This drew a rumbling laugh from the Legions. The Canim did not react.
"As I speak," the captain continued, "the enemy is attacking all that remains of our Realm. Our Legions are battling them on a scale unmatched in our history. But without our participation, they can only postpone the inevitable. We need to be at Riva, gentlemen, and right now."
Marcus listened to the captain's speech, as he outlined the situation on the far side of the Realm - but his eyes were drawn to the ships. He didn't see as clearly as he used to, but Marcus noted that the ships had been... modified, somehow. They rested on their keels, but instead of plain, whitewashed wood, the keels had somehow been replaced or lined with shining steel. Other wooden structures, like arms or perhaps wings, swept out from either side of the ships, ending in another wooden structure as long as the ship's hull. That structure, too, sported a steel-lined keel. Between the ship's keel and those wings, it stood perfectly straight, its balance maintained. Something about the design looked vaguely familiar.
"With decent causeways," the captain was saying, "we could make it there in a couple of weeks. But we don't have weeks. So we're trying something new."
As he spoke the words, a ship flashed into sight. It was a small, nimble-looking vessel, and Marcus immediately recognized Captain Demos's ship, the Slive. Like the other ships, she had been fitted with a metal keel. Like the others, she sported two wing structures. But unlike the other ships, she had her sails raised, and they bellied out taut, catching the power of the northerly winds.
That was when Marcus realized what the modifications reminded him of: the runners of a sled. He took note of another detail. The ground before the wall wasn't covered in inches of snow. It was coated in an equal thickness of ice.
The Slive rushed along the icy ground, moving swiftly, far more swiftly than she ever could at sea. A cloud of mist sprayed out from its steel runners in a fine, constant haze, half-veiling the runners, creating the illusion that the ship was sailing several inches above the ice, unsupported by anything at all. In the time it took Marcus to realize that his jaw had dropped open and to close it again, the Slive appeared, rushing down upon him, its runners making the ice beneath them crackle and groan, then soared on by, its sails snapping. Less than a minute later, it was better than a mile away, and only then did it begin to heave to, swinging around into a graceful turn. It took a few moments for the ship to rerig its sails to catch the wind from the opposite quarter for the return trip, and they bellied out for almost a minute before the Slive lost her momentum and began to return toward them.
"I'm afraid it's back to the ships," the Princeps said into the shocked silence. "Where we will sail the length of the Shieldwall to Phrygia and take the remaining intact causeways south to the aid of Riva. Your ship assignments will be the same as they were when we left Canea. You all know your ships and your captains. Fall out by cohorts and report to them. We'll leave as soon as the road ahead is ready for us."
"Bloody crows," Marcus breathed. If all the ships could sail so swiftly over the ice - though he somehow doubted that the Slive's performance was typical - they could sail the entire breadth of the Realm in... bloody crows. In hours, a handful of days. Phrygia and Riva were the two most closely placed of the great cities of the Realm - a fast-moving Legion on a causeway could make the journey in less than three days.
If it worked, if the winds held, the ice held, and the newly designed ships held, it would be the swiftest march in Aleran history.
Stunned, Marcus heard himself giving orders to his cohort and coordinating with the First Aleran's officers to make sure the embarking went smoothly. He found himself standing in silence beside the captain as men, Canim, and supplies were loaded.
"How?" he asked quietly.
"My uncle used to take me sledding during the winter," Octavian said quietly. "This... seemed to make sense."
"The snow was your doing?"
"I had help," the captain said. "From more than one place." He lifted a hand and pointed to the north.
Marcus looked and saw movement among the trees to the north of the Shieldwall. Faint, blurred shapes with pale, shaggy fur flickered here and there among them.
"Sir," Marcus choked. "The Icemen. We can't possibly leave Antillus unprotected."
"They're here at my invitation," he replied. "Managing snow in springtime is one thing. Turning it into ice quickly enough to suit our need is another thing entirely."
"The reports at Antillus were true, then? That the Icemen have power over the cold?"
"Over ice and snow. A form of watercrafting, perhaps. That was my mother's theory." He shrugged. "We certainly don't have the ability to coat the ground in ice from here to Phrygia. The Icemen do. That's where Kitai's been the past few days. Their chiefs are on good terms with her father."
Marcus shook his head slowly. "After all those years of... they agreed to help you?"
"The vord threaten us all, First Spear." He paused. "And... I gave them an incentive."
"You paid them?"
"In property," Octavian replied. "I'm giving them the Shieldwall."
Marcus began to feel somewhat faint. "You... You..."
"Needed their help," the captain said simply. He shrugged. "It is Crown property, after all."
"You... you gave them..."
"When this is all over, I think I'll see if I can get them to lease it to us."
Marcus's heart was actually lurching irregularly. He wondered if it was the beginning of an attack. "Lease it, sir?"
"Why not? It isn't as if they've got much use for it, except for keeping us away from them. If we're leasing it, we'll be responsible for upkeep, which they couldn't do in any case. A tangible, fixed border will exist between us, which might help lower tensions on both sides if we can avoid incidents. And since it's their own property, generating revenue, I think they might be considerably less likely to attempt to demolish it on a weekly basis."
"That's... sir, that's..." Marcus wanted to say "insane." Or perhaps, "ridiculous." But...
But a blizzard was coating the land with ice in the middle of what should have been a pleasantly warm spring day.
The analytical part of Marcus's mind told him that the logic of the idea was not without merit. If it didn't work, in the long term the Realm would certainly be no worse off than it was now - barring a major invasion, which was already under way, if from a different direction.
But what if it did work?
He was thoughtfully staring at the ships and the distant Icemen when Magnus approached and saluted the captain. He studied Marcus's expression for a moment and frowned slightly.
"This wasn't your idea, I take it?" the old Cursor asked.
Marcus blinked at him. "Are you barking mad?"
"Someone is," the older man growled.
Octavian gave them both an oblique look, then pretended to ignore them.
Marcus shook his head and tried to regain his sense of orientation and purpose. "Times," he said, "are changing."
Magnus grunted sour, almost offended, agreement. "That's what they do."