The Light of All That Falls, page 23
Wirr sighed, but nodded. He spent a grim few minutes sporadically relating the things he had learned on his sojourn south, occasionally pausing to issue orders or assess how a clash was going.
“Fates,” murmured Erran after Wirr had finished. He raked a hand through his hair, the fighting below completely forgotten. “Fates. The entire city—and Shen think it happens close to the festival? So… any time from now?” A cracking note of panic entered his voice at that, though he quickly brought it under control. “That scum Rohin claimed that he’d Seen us getting annihilated, too… he was so unhinged, we thought he must have been talking about the Banes that got through a year ago. But now… fates. I can’t comprehend it. I can’t comprehend it, and I at least know what’s still out there somewhere. How are we supposed to convince everyone else?”
Wirr watched as flashes of white darted through the trees toward another clash. The men he had diverted would arrive at the skirmish just in time. “Our options are limited,” he conceded, recognizing the dread in Erran’s tone all too well. He’d had the whole day before to think about this on the road back from Daren Tel, to argue over the options with Taeris, and there were no easy solutions. Both agreed that preparing the city for an evacuation would be the right course, but they couldn’t simply go around announcing what they’d learned. Everyone would rightly demand proof, and if they admitted where the information had come from, then the source would inevitably be discounted as unreliable. Not to mention overshadowed by the equally inevitable uproar over Wirr’s actions.
“What about if Ishelle and I both See something?” suggested Erran.
“You mean ‘See’ something?” said Wirr wryly. “Already considered it. You haven’t had a confirmed vision since the two of you were officially recognized, and that was… what? Almost a year ago?” He shot Erran an apologetic look. “Even if you could fool Celise into announcing it—and you know her loyalty is to Administration more than to her position as Scribe, so there will be no convincing her to just go along with it—the Assembly doesn’t have enough confidence in you to simply believe something that big. You would need to have established a record of being consistently right before throwing that at them.”
Erran raised an eyebrow in vague surprise, and Wirr shrugged back, shifting his position so that he could observe the progress of a battle farther to the north. “If I’ve learned one thing over the past year, it’s that the law is important, but hardly the same thing as what’s right,” he said grimly. “This is about saving lives. If I thought that you two cheating the system was the best option, I’d take the risk. I still might have been tempted, if Ishelle was more reliable,” he added absently.
“She’s reliable.” Erran’s voice was sharp; he immediately waved a hand apologetically. “I know what she was like the last time you saw her, but… she’s fine, as long as she stays within the walls of the Tol.”
Neither man talked for a few seconds, and then Wirr scrambled to his feet. “I need a better view,” he said, quickly checking that the general’s scouts hadn’t returned.
He jogged along the edge of the cliff, keeping just inside the tree line to avoid the off chance of being spotted from below, until he found a suitable position. Erran trailed after him, not bothering to step outside of time, keeping pace easily enough. The Augur was there ostensibly as an observer, making certain that Wirr did nothing to abuse the ‘official’ Oathstone he currently held. Normally he would be accompanied by both a Gifted and an Administrator while in possession of it, but today’s exercise called for a level of independence that Wirr had, with great reluctance, been granted.
They were soon settled down again, Wirr making more adjustments. He gave the commands confidently now, not pausing too long or second-guessing himself as he once had. Assessing the state of the fight was important, but swift, decisive orders were equally so.
Eventually, though, he fell silent, just watching.
“So how are we going to deal with it?” asked Erran softly, continuing their conversation from earlier.
Wirr didn’t take his eyes from the field. “We’ve been through all the options, believe me. Fates, we even discussed using a combination of my Oathstone and Control to force enough people in power to do something. But the moment we do that, rather than just telling the truth, we’re no better than Tol Shen—no matter our motivations.” He shook his head. “Which leads us to the obvious option.”
Erran frowned, then his eyes widened and he shook his head. “No. No. Out of the question. You tell the truth about how you found out, and you’re handing the country to Tol Shen regardless of whether the attack happens this year.” Erran’s tone was firm, almost commanding. “You would be arrested—don’t have any doubt about that; if you weren’t, the entire committee would come off as a complete sham—and your family would lose all the political capital you’ve worked so hard for over the past year. There would be calls for your uncle to abdicate and let another of the Great Houses take the throne. This awfully loose alliance of Administration and Gifted would fall apart. The army’s only advantage against the Blind, and Desriel, and fates knows whatever else is coming would be gone. The south would be—”
“You don’t have to convince me. I get it.” Wirr couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. He’d reluctantly come to the same conclusion, albeit only after a long argument on the journey back. “Taeris said the same thing. It’s not just me who pays in that scenario, it’s the country.”
“Precisely.” Erran sounded bleakly confident in his affirmation. “Tol Shen might see as far as the old Augurs’ visions allowed them to, but they still—still—don’t understand or even really believe in the threat from the north. They think they see an opportunity to rule; they won’t be able to resist tearing down anything in their path to that. They will consolidate themselves in the south, maybe even figure out a way to hold off Nesk and Desriel. But they won’t be able to stop what’s coming.”
“Will we?” asked Wirr quietly.
“We’re going to try. That’s better than the alternative.”
Wirr sighed, agreeing. These were discussions he had already had, though part of him constantly wanted to revisit them, to try and find some angle he had missed.
“One thing I would ask you to do—not that it’s anywhere near as effective as I’d like, given how little time we have—is to start some rumors,” he said. “You spent years monitoring the city for information; you know how news flows around here better than anyone. Maybe even use some light Control on the more influential people, to make sure they’re convinced…”
Erran looked thoughtful. “It’s probably a better plan than you think,” he admitted. “The right people start talking about this, and most of the city will know within days. Rumors might be enough to get at least some to leave straight away, and I guarantee the rest will be packed and ready for an evacuation. Nobody’s going to take chances after the Blind.”
Wirr exhaled. That was good to hear. “I am going to run this by Uncle,” he added, holding up a hand as Erran made to protest again. “Fates, Erran, I know. It will make him complicit if he doesn’t turn me in. But there are no good options, and he is the king. If nothing else, he needs to know the danger to his people. For the following years, if not this one.”
Erran grimaced, but eventually indicated his agreement. “He can better move things in the background so that the city’s prepared for an evacuation—similar to what we did when we learned of the Blind. And he always was willing to listen to you.” His tone held a nostalgic twang, gone again immediately but noticeable nonetheless. Erran looked at Wirr sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Wirr glanced at the Augur but said nothing, a strange mix of discomfort and affection washing over him as he saw the oddly familiar expression on Erran’s face, this one no doubt unbeknownst to the other man.
They hadn’t spoken of Erran’s relationship to Wirr’s father at first—there had been the constant dangers of the road back to Ilin Illan, and then the chaos of their arrival to deal with. But Erran had all but admitted it back at the Boundary, when Geladra had accused him. And the time Wirr had spent with him on the road had only confirmed it.
Erran had been the one Controlling his father.
He’d wrestled with that knowledge for many long nights. Part of him had been angry with Erran—part of him was still angry, deep down.
Part of him knew that the Augur had saved his life a hundred times over, too.
Wirr turned his attention back to the forest below. It had been Erran who had come to him, in the end, one cold night a few months after their return, when things had finally started to settle down. He’d been quiet at first, moving through the words as though he’d rehearsed them over and over, explaining in careful terms why he had taken the actions he had.
Then he’d broken down in tears, as if the weight of everything he’d done, everything he’d been through, was finally hitting him.
They’d talked for hours that night, and many nights thereafter, ultimately reaching an uneasy agreement that had gradually become a genuine, if still sometimes equally uneasy, friendship. The more Wirr looked, the more he saw of the father he’d known in Erran—and not just in the young man’s outward mannerisms but in his process, in the way he thought about things and saw the world.
It was a bittersweet relationship, one in which Wirr constantly found himself catching glimpses of his father—and then second-guessing whether it had ever been his father in the first place. Erran had assured him that Elocien had loved him, even as he’d admitted that the man’s hatred of the Gifted sometimes overwhelmed everything else. And when Wirr had told him about Elocien’s journal from twenty years ago, Erran had confirmed much of the information it held—the missing memories, and the abrupt, irrational hatred of the Gifted that followed.
Neither Elocien nor Erran had ever considered that one of the Augurs might have altered Elocien’s mind to make him feel that way—there was no logical reason for him to think it would have happened, after all—but as soon as the possibility had been raised, Erran had started nodding. And once the young Augur had really thought about it, he’d conceded that he could recognize the signs, too.
“I think you’re done.”
Wirr started, shaken from his thoughts by Erran’s voice. The Augur was right; the sounds of battle below had faded, and from the confident stride of his white-clothed troops as they emerged onto the open, grassy plains that stretched out toward Fedris Idri, they had done well.
“I think you’re right.” He stood, stretching, then unhooked the Oathstone from around his neck and handed it to Erran. “All yours.”
They made their way down the slope carefully, not bothering to conceal their presence now. A few of the white-clad soldiers spotted Wirr and threw him friendly, cheerful salutes. His squads were made up of mainly younger soldiers, and though plenty of them had grumbled against him at the beginning, their mounting victories were starting to thaw the ice.
The red-clad soldiers, on the other hand, either ignored him or cast black looks in his direction. They had been defeated before, but this was the first time Wirr’s success had been so resounding.
Wirr shaded his eyes against the near-midday sun as they walked, finally spotting two men standing a little apart, arms crossed and engaged in a quiet but clearly intense debate.
“Don’t have to guess what they’re arguing about,” murmured Erran. He gave Wirr a deep nod, a respectful gesture that meant a lot in front of the soldiers. “Highness. I’ll speak with you later.”
Wirr smiled slightly at him in dismissal, then squared his shoulders, marching over to where the older men were talking animatedly.
“General Vis. General Calder,” said Wirr politely as he approached.
“Sire.” General Vis—a lean man in his sixties, with steel in his hair and a soldier’s hardness to his weathered face—gave him a deferential nod, casting a glance behind Wirr up to the area from which he had just come. “Congratulations are in order.”
“Let’s not go that far.” General Calder’s face, as far as Wirr had ever been able to tell, was permanently set in a scowl. He was younger than Vis by a decade, and clearly still kept up his training, muscles bulging beneath his neatly pressed uniform.
“His forces—significantly smaller though they were—defeated ours,” said General Vis calmly. “He made good, dare I say even clever tactical decisions. Something I would not have thought possible six months ago,” he added, with a small smile in Wirr’s direction to show he meant no insult.
Wirr smiled back, conceding the last point without protest. Though he had studied some light military strategy before leaving for Caladel, it wasn’t an area any of his teachers at the school had been able to cover. It was fair to say that his training with the army had gone… poorly, in the beginning.
Calder snorted. “Good decisions? He took an enormous risk, exposing himself like that,” he said irritably.
“It paid off,” observed Wirr, managing to keep his own irritation from his tone. Calder’s reaction was far from a surprise; the man hated Wirr almost as much as the Administrators and Gifted did. Accustomed to it though he was, the attitude still grated.
“And if it hadn’t, Sire?” The red-bearded general glared at Wirr. “If my men had captured you? They could have forced you to tell your whole army to surrender. Or at the least, walk themselves into a trap of our own making.”
“Come now, General,” said Vis, before Wirr could respond. “There are protocols upon protocols for such an event. Prince Torin could attempt to get rid of the Oathstone to avoid any of that, or simply issue an order containing the right passphrase to alert his men to his capture. He gambled—sometimes gambling is needed on the battlefield. Let us simply be pleased at his progress.”
Calder growled under his breath. “We will still need to review your decisions later, Sire,” he said to Wirr, waiting until Wirr indicated his acceptance before striding off to see to his troops.
“Thanks,” said Wirr once the general was out of earshot.
Vis waved away Wirr’s gratitude absently. “He’s right, you know,” he said quietly. “Contingencies are all well and good, but you didn’t have any protection whatsoever. If you had been taken…”
“I know.” Wirr was all too aware of the risks, of how dangerous he could be to Andarra’s security if he was captured with an Oathstone and somehow turned. It was why his itinerary was kept such a tightly guarded secret, why the Oathstones were locked away in Tol Athian, and why, when one was released for any purpose, he was required to have the somewhat excessive protection of an Augur present.
The sha’teth attack had only served to reinforce that he was a target. It had been only a week after his return when the remaining two of the creatures had appeared, mere moments after he had used Essence. That he had been in the middle of Tol Athian—with most of the Council members in attendance, not to mention Erran and Ishelle—was likely the only reason he was not now either dead or a prisoner of the Venerate.
Even so, many Gifted had died, and Erran and Ishelle had both suffered injuries in the attack, too. It had been a sudden, violent maelstrom of blood and death, all within the space of a single minute. Wirr still had nightmares about it. Even with the sha’teth now imprisoned, he had heavily restricted himself from touching Essence ever since.
Vis clapped him on the back. “Still. You did well, Sire.”
Wirr shook his head, the thrill of victory fading as he considered the practicality of his actions further. “Better than previously, anyway. I think I have a long way to go.”
The general chuckled. “You put yourself at risk today because you needed information—information you should be able to get from others, if you have enough resources at your disposal. This isn’t about turning you into some kind of military savant, Sire. This is about using these small-scale skirmishes to make sure that you understand the fundamentals. Supply lines, rules of engagement, how fast a group can move based on their size and armor and experience. It is about making sure that you can assess the likely outcome of a clash based on your troops, the enemy, the terrain—and assess it fast enough to maneuver accordingly, if we are not around to assist.” He gave Wirr an encouraging nod. “You have a head for it now. General Calder is a sore loser, but that’s what makes him right for the job—and it’s why, for all his grumbling, he’ll continue to support you in the Assembly. As will I.”
Wirr breathed out, grateful for the reassurance. It hadn’t taken the military long to recognize the potential of his ability; the advantages it provided was one of the main reasons he hadn’t simply been pushed from most political circles. For all the discomfort his presence now caused, he was considered a vital weapon against Andarra’s foes. A necessary evil.
It wasn’t the most pleasant way to be regarded, but he supposed it was better than being ignored.
They began walking back toward the gathered troops, Wirr lost in thought.
“Why are we really here, General?” he asked eventually. When Vis looked askance at him, he continued, “I agree that these exercises are important, but I only got back to the city late last night. Organizing one at such short notice suggests… some urgency.”
The general hesitated.
“We have had some more reports over the past week, Sire.” His gray eyes met Wirr’s. “I did think that speaking of them face-to-face might be more prudent than shuffling it in with all your other paperwork.”
Wirr glowered despite himself; what Vis really meant was that he didn’t want it to be so easy for Wirr to ignore again. Vis was the military authority with whom Wirr got along best; it had no doubt fallen to him to have this conversation. “Desriel?”
Vis nodded dourly. “Every sign points to the Gil’shar moving, massing their troops.” He took a breath. “And though the reports are less certain, there’s movement in Nesk, too, I’m afraid.”
Wirr sighed, feeling as if he were being pulled in several directions at once. Desriel and Nesk were undoubtedly a concern, but they would both be coming from the south: from what Dras had said, it seemed unlikely that they would be responsible for the razing of Ilin Illan. “And you want me to recall everyone still in the north.”
