Frentis paused to catch his breath, the sounds of battle fading around them along with the smoke, revealing the ruin of the Varitai’s battalion, their neatly ordered lines shattered into ever-diminishing knots of resistance. Even they couldn’t maintain a formation when blind.
He moved to Illian’s side as she stood watching the Volarian die. “Killing without need is against the Faith,” she explained in answer to Frentis’s raised eyebrow.
“Quite so, sister,” he said, briefly clasping her shoulder before moving on to seek out Lekran and ensure some survivors were allowed to flee. “Quite so.”
• • •
She feels his return with a rush of joy, untarnished by the fierce enmity with which he colours his mind. The long days of his absence have been hard. Loneliness, once a long-forgotten sensation, has been difficult to master, provoking a despairing ache as she indulges in memories of their glorious time together. Instead of his voice this time he offers a vision, from the clarity she judges he has spent a long time viewing this scene, trying to capture every detail. She deduces that his return is not accidental, whatever contrivance he has used to mask his dreams now removed; he wants her to see.
A thousand or more Varitai and Free Swords lie dead in a canyon, somewhere in the hill country east of New Kethia to judge by the landscape. People in mismatched armour wander among the dead finishing the wounded and gathering weapons. She finds herself smiling in amusement. You win a victory, beloved, she tells him. How delightful. I’ve been searching for some excuse to execute the governor of Eskethia.
The enmity deepens, the thoughts coalescing into words, her heart leaping at the sound of his voice. Come and face me. We will finish this.
She sighs, pushing a hand through her hair and letting her gaze wander over the grey ocean stretching away from the cliff. It is starting to rain, the north-western coastline is ever damp in winter, though the seas are calmer than expected. Her slaves scurry forward bearing an awning, keen to shield the Empress from the elements. She dismisses them with an irritated wave. They are expert slaves, attentive in the extreme, but for a woman accustomed to privation and danger, their devotion to her comfort is an annoyance, leaving scant regret at their imminent fate.
I’m sorry, beloved, she tells him, eyes now fixed on the horizon and her heart beating faster with the joy of anticipation. But I have business here. You’ll have to amuse yourself with my slaves for a while longer.
The enmity subsides, transforming into a reluctant curiosity. She laughs, exulting as the first masts appear on the horizon, raising her gaze to the sky and finding it rich in clouds. She beckons the captain of her escort to her side, an Arisai like the others, promoted due to his slightly more controlled viciousness. “Kill the slaves,” she tells him. “Also, we passed a village a mile back. There can be no witnesses to my presence here. See to it.”
“Empress.” He bows, his expression one of near adoration, though, like the others, cruelty is rarely absent from his eyes. He turns away, moving towards the slaves and drawing his sword.
Her limbs tremble as she turns back to the sea, deaf to the screams as she summons the gift. She is slightly regretful at the necessity, having grown fond of this shell. But another awaits her in Volar, this one a little taller though not quite so athletic.
Formalities must be observed, my love, she tells him, raising her arms and focusing on the clouds, watching them dance in response to the gift. It is time for an empress to greet a queen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vaelin
The next storm lasted longer than the first, two full days of labouring along behind Cara’s gift-crafted shield. The constant exertion had forced her to reduce its reach, obliging them to move in a dense clutch, Orven’s guardsmen walking shoulder to shoulder with Alturk’s Sentar. For all the jostling and unwelcome proximity there was no trouble; the ferocity of the storm raging on all sides left little room for other preoccupations. Cara began to falter on the second day, stumbling to her knees several times and only managing to maintain the shield by sharing with both Kiral and Marken at once. By the time night fell the other Gifted had all shared to the point of collapse and Cara was barely conscious, mumbling in delirium as blood flowed from her nose and eyes.
“We have to end this!” Lorkan railed at Vaelin, barely able to stand himself. “Any more and she’ll die.”
Vaelin turned to Wise Bear with a questioning glance. The old shaman frowned and pushed his way to the edge of the company, poking his staff beyond the shield wall into the howling white fury beyond. “Wind dies, but slowly,” he reported. He hesitated, glancing back at Cara then straightened with decision. “Make circle, horses on outside. Cover all flesh, keep tight together.”
It took some awkward manoeuvring to arrange the horses and ponies in a circle, by which time Cara had weakened yet further. “Stop now, Little Bird,” Wise Bear said, maintaining his habit of ignoring their own names for those he chose.
“Can’t,” she breathed, eyes closed and leaking blood. “The storm . . . the price.”
“Storm fades,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Stop now.”
She groaned, her eyes fluttering for a moment . . . and the shield fell.
The cold was like a hammerblow, raising a pained groan from every throat as the travelers shrank beneath its weight, pressing together in instinctive need. Vaelin held tight to Scar’s reins as Dahrena wrapped her arms around his waist and Kiral huddled against his back, chanting softly in Lonak, the words unknown but the lilting tone familiar: death song. The horses and ponies screamed as the wind lashed them, some bucking and rearing in terror, tearing free of their tethers to flee into the storm. Scar snorted and stamped, the reins pulling taut in Vaelin’s grip as the warhorse gave a great whinny of protest, threatening to pull him free of the company. Vaelin gritted his teeth and pulled hard on the reins, dragging the horse closer and pressing himself and Dahrena against his side in the hope the faint warmth might reassure him. Scar whinnied again but calmed, probably more from the weakening effects of the cold than any instinctive loyalty.
Time seemed to elongate as they endured the storm’s assault, every second a test of endurance. The horses started to die after the first hour, slumping down in silent exhaustion, their riders huddling behind the soon-frozen corpses. Vaelin could hear other Lonak voices raised in the same lilting cadence, more death songs gifted to the wind, fading as the endless minutes dragged by.
He had begun to sag when he felt the storm weaken, a sudden removal of the blade-like chill. He released Scar’s reins, stifling a shout of pain at the sensation of life returning to part-frozen fingers. Dahrena stirred next to him, a weary smile visible through the swaddle of furs. To his amazement Scar was still alive, though slumped to his knees with snow piled on his flanks, blinking dolorous eyes at Vaelin as he scratched his ears.
Taking stock, they found half the Lonak ponies dead along with a third of the guardsmen’s horses. Four of the Sentar had also perished, all veteran warriors a decade or so older than their comrades. In what appeared to be a Lonak custom, Alturk gathered the belongings and shared them out among the other Sentar as they gathered around the bodies. No words were spoken; their only outward regard for the dead was a brief glance at the corpses before moving away.
Vaelin went to Wise Bear’s side, watching as the shaman’s gaze roamed the ice on all sides, a worried frown on his brow. “Which direction?” Vaelin asked.
Wise Bear continued his survey for another moment then lowered his gaze. “None.”
“But the price . . .”
“Ice breaks all around.” The shaman made a circular motion with his bone-staff. “Nowhere to walk. This time we all pay price.”
• • •
They made camp and waited, the Realm folk huddling around their fires, the Lonak occupying themselves by butchering the fallen ponies and horses. Meat should not be wasted on the ice after all. The now-familiar booming crack came soon after sunrise. The sound lasted much longer than before, the ice giving full vent to its torment as walls of white mist rose on all sides. Abruptly the ice shifted beneath their feet, the sky seeming to sway above as the entire field shattered for miles around with a thunderclap crescendo. The subsequent silence seemed vast, all members of the company fallen to their knees and staring about in expectation of some climactic calamity. But nothing came. The ice swayed gently beneath them, the surrounding ice-scape moving in a slow but constant drift to the east.
Vaelin joined Wise Bear at the edge of the fragment where they were now marooned, looking down at the cavernous gap between them and the nearest berg, so deep the ocean water below was lost to sight. “The ice is kind,” the shaman said in a surprisingly calm voice.
“Kind?” Vaelin asked.
“Islands to the east.” A faint smile played over Wise Bear’s aged face. “Home.”
• • •
The weather remained calm for the following week as they accustomed themselves to life on their new home. The berg was a good three hundred paces from end to end allowing for a sprawling camp, and, thanks to the storm, they were well supplied with horse-meat. Occasionally the berg would collide with one of its neighbours, the ice shuddering from the impact but so far failing to crack. For Vaelin the ever-shortening days were more worrying than their immobility, the Long Night was coming and he had no illusions as to their chances when it came.