Breath of Heaven, page 46
Wodraen moved up next to her. “Thunder?”
“Given the strange lights from before…perhaps.”
“But it’s been hours since we saw those lights.”
Uneasy, Moiran glanced toward Thaedoren, deep in conversation with GreatLord Went. “How much farther until we reach the dwarren?”
“We should be coming up on them any moment now.”
“Let’s hope they have an explanation.”
Thaedoren broke away from Went, both of them falling back into position and continuing south, although Moiran noted that the defenses to the west had been doubled. Since they’d left the column of refugees that afternoon, they’d traveled hard and fast toward the dwarren’s position, scouts keeping an eye on the Wraith army far to the east. For once, she was glad of the looming cloud cover and the sporadic squalls of snow. It kept them hidden. And the scouts had reported that the Wraith army was heading steadily southward, not even sending out their own scouts.
As if they had a destination already in mind, one that they had to reach swiftly.
Ahead, the leading edge of their own army crested a knoll and shouted. The rest of them surged forward, Moiran and Wodraen with them, until she could see what lay in the snow-covered land beyond: the dwarren army, at least twice the size of the Alvritshai Phalanx, spread across a wide section of snow with their gaezel. She could see dwarren digging into the snow to expose the grassland beneath for their mounts, large sections already laid bare. And in the center of the activity—
“They’ve erected a meeting tent,” Wodraen murmured.
“Then it’s to be an official meeting. We need to be near Thaedoren. I want to be part of this.”
Wodraen urged his horse closer toward the Tamaell, clearing a path for Moiran. She saw Saetor, Caeden, Fedaureon, and Renaerd doing the same, as a delegation of dwarren headed toward them from below.
“Set up a makeshift camp,” GreatLord Went was ordering as they drew near. “Pass out food and water, but no fires. Dig down to the grass and feed the horses as best you can.”
The armies broke, men working quickly to keep warm, leaving only the lords and their escorts at the top of the knoll. They all turned as the dwarren approached.
One of the dwarren—a shaman, Moiran saw—stepped forward and chanted something in his own language, low enough she couldn’t make it out, his scepter tracing sigils in the air as he repeated the actions in all four directions. Then another shaman stepped forward.
“My name is Azuka. The Archon wishes to speak with you. He asks that you see him in the meeting tent immediately.”
Both GreatLord Went and Thaedoren stepped forward, but it was Thaedoren who spoke. “We accept. I wish to bring a few of the lords of the Evant with me.”
Azuka scanned those behind Thaedoren and Went with a penetrating glare. “All will be welcome beneath Ilacqua’s eyes.”
He spun and stalked toward the tent.
Thaedoren turned in his saddle immediately. “Saetor, Caeden, Daedelan, with me.” Moiran nudged her horse forward, the motion caught by her son’s eyes. “You wish to come as well?”
“Yes, my Tamaell.”
“Very well. The rest of you, stay here and see to the camp.”
Fedaureon made a raw noise of protest and Renaerd swore beneath his breath, but both quieted at Thaedoren’s stare.
A moment later, Thaedoren and Went led the small group down the slope toward the dwarren tent, Moiran and Wodraen trailing behind.
As they neared the dwarren, Wodraen asked, “What do you expect the dwarren to say?”
“Nothing good. Look at them.” She pointed with her chin at the dwarren as they passed. “They’re exhausted. And you can see the despair in their eyes. Hidden deep, but it’s there.”
“They’ve been in battle. They’re wounded, in body and spirit.”
“Like all of us.”
Wodraen said nothing. They’d reached the tent, the dwarren shaman chanting a blessing as they dismounted before stepping aside to allow all of the lords, Daedelan, and Moiran through the outer flaps and into the small canvas corridor that spiraled toward the tent’s center. All of their guards remained outside. Grass rustled beneath Moiran’s feet and as she moved deeper a sharp, sweet, cloying scent struck her nostrils, along with increasing heat. By the time she stepped into the central chamber behind Caeden, she was sweating, the heat intense after the bitter cold of the air outside. The smoke from the braziers staged around the inner room hung thick and heavy in the air, forcing her to breathe through her mouth.
A low table sat in the center of the room, four dwarren seated at its far side, watching them intently. Two dwarren Riders stood guard at a second entrance opposite the one they’d used.
Thaedoren hesitated, Went and Daedelan stepping back and allowing him to take the lead. The Alvritshai had dealt more with the dwarren than the Provinces, Thaedoren in particular.
The Tamaell nodded toward the dwarren. “You wished to speak to us.”
The eldest dwarren, a shaman by the markings of his armor, removed a pipe from his mouth. “The Turning is upon us. We have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do, Archon.”
Thaedoren stepped forward and sat before the table, Daedelan and Went taking places to either side, Saetor taking the last position on the left. There wasn’t enough room for Caeden or Moiran at the table, so Moiran remained standing near the door, Caeden following her lead.
As soon as the four men were settled, the three dwarren Riders drew their weapons and placed them lengthwise on the table before them. The Archon set his scepter beside them, the beads and rattles clicking together with a soft sound.
Thaedoren and the Alvritshai followed suit, their much longer cattans singing from their sheaths. Went copied them, with a brief look of confusion.
As soon as all of their weapons were bared, the Archon said, “We have news from the Land. The elloktu have struck at its heart, at the Sacred Waters. We defended it to the last, but were forced to collapse the cavern to stop their dark army from seizing it or destroying it. The Sacred Waters still flow, but they are inaccessible to us now. It will require generations to free it again. But the Summer Tree is dead.”
Silence settled as the Archon finished, but it wasn’t a shocked silence; it was a weary silence, thick and heavy and smothering.
Thaedoren leaned back. “The news from the north is no better. The Wraiths have attacked and seized Caercaern. The Winter Tree has fallen. The Evant has been torn apart, the Houses split. The Alvritshai have mostly been scattered. And this storm…it is cold and bitter and it lingers, like the storms that drove us from the north. I do not think it intends to pass. We have sought and been granted refuge in Rendell with GreatLord Went. Those who have survived the attack are headed there now, all except the Phalanx you see with us. We expected more to join us, but there is a Wraith army marching southward to the east. They may have kept additional forces from reaching us.”
The dwarren stirred at this news. The Rider seated to the Archon’s left shot glances toward the other Riders in the room, then leaned to one side to whisper something to the Archon, who nodded in agreement. One of the Riders guarding the entrance stepped forward, listened to the Archon a moment, then departed, the Archon turning back to Thaedoren.
“We were unaware of the elloktu’s forces. I have sent a group of Riders to watch them.”
“We have scouts following them as well. They do not appear to be searching for us. Rather, they are marching hard and fast directly south, through dwarren lands.”
“There is nothing of importance left in dwarren lands for them to attack. Like you, we are scattered. Our people have retreated to the lands of the eastern clans, into our tunnels. They are protected by the Riders of Broken Waters.”
“Then where are they headed?” GreatLord Went asked.
No one answered, but the Archon drew on his pipe deeply, held the smoke inside a long moment, then exhaled in a heavy sigh. “We will ask Ilacqua. Ikterru, summon Azuka. Have him bring me my pouch, a map, and a small stone bowl with coals from a fire.”
Ikterru, the Rider who’d whispered to the Archon earlier, glanced toward the remaining Rider on guard, who ducked out through the entrance.
“What do you intend to do?” Went asked.
“Quotl—the Archon—will seek Ilacqua’s guidance,” Ikterru stated flatly.
Thaedoren broke the resulting awkward silence. “This morning, strange lights lit up the sky to the west, and then a short while ago there was a rumbling from the same direction. Do you know what caused these…events?”
“If you had asked me a year ago, I would have told you they were a sign from the gods that they were unhappy. But now…I can tell you that the Land has been disturbed. Something has happened in the far off land of Andover, something that has sent a shudder through the Land that can be felt even here. I can feel its pain. It is of the elloktu’s doing. They seek to unsettle the Land as they once unsettled the Wells.”
Before anyone could respond, Moiran heard movement in the corridor behind her. A human spilled from the entrance, brought up short by Caeden and Moiran. The young man gasped, his breath already short, face red, then choked on the dense smoke and heat. “A messenger…for… GreatLord Went.”
Went stood. “I’ll deal with this.”
He pulled the young man through the entrance and out into the corridor, where the smoke wasn’t as thick. Moiran could hear them speaking, Went’s tone demanding, the messenger’s rushed. She strained to hear more, but caught nothing.
And then she was distracted by the return of the Rider and Azuka, the shaman who had brought them here. The dwarren passed a handful of items to Quotl, who mumbled to himself as he handed the rolled leather map to Ikterru and began digging into the pouch, pulling out various stones, packets, a stray feather, and a small vial. As Ikterru unfurled the map, Azuka placed a stone bowl with glowing coals at its center, then stepped back.
Quotl snatched up two packets and brushed everything else aside impatiently. Tearing open the first, he scattered a fine powder over the coals, a hiss rising, along with thick streamers of white smoke. An acrid taint filled the tent, not unpleasant, but harsh enough to make Moiran’s nose itch. Quotl tore into the second packet and added it to the bowl, the coals sizzling, then he sat back, a low rumbling chant filling his chest as he drew deeply on his pipe once, twice, and a third time, exhaling slowly. Eyes closed, he continued his rhythmic chant, Azuka mumbling a counterpoint from behind. Quotl’s head sagged forward, and as it did, Moiran felt pressure against her chest. A strange lethargy suffused her, her arms and legs tingling.
And then, for a single moment, her consciousness lifted free of her body. She found herself hovering above the assemblage, staring down at Thaedoren, his body tense, at Saetor leaning back with slight and uncomfortable disdain, and Caeden frowning in mixed curiosity and contempt.
Quotl’s head rose suddenly, his eyes snapping open, staring at the coals, at the map. A rush of wind suffused Moiran’s senses, and she fell back into her body.
At the same moment, the coals within the stone bowl popped, blackened embers scattering across the table, smothering Moiran’s light gasp. The rest of the Alvritshai gave a start, Saetor reaching instinctively for his weapon; the dwarren merely leaned forward, even the Rider at the door taking a step forward to see the map.
“What is this?” Thaedoren asked.
Before Quotl could answer, Went stepped back into the tent. “What happened? What was that noise?”
“Ilacqua has answered our call.”
“How?”
Quotl motioned to the map. “He has told us the whereabouts of the elloktu’s armies.”
Everyone leaned forward, both Caeden and Moiran stepping up behind Thaedoren. The map was littered with the scattered embers, the largest near the human city of Temeritt. Two others lay on dwarren lands, one halfway between a mark Moiran took to be the Confluence and Temeritt, the other obviously the location of the army they’d seen marching southward to the east. A third still resided over Caercaern. A few more coals were scattered here and there—in the Thalloran Wastelands, the southern Provinces, even one in Corsair—but they were all much smaller in scale, nearly specks of ash on the map.
“The map has shifted since I last did a scrying.”
“How do we know what the map tells us is truth?” Saetor asked.
Moiran was surprised when Went answered, before any of the dwarren could react with affront.
“Because it verifies the reports I’ve just received by messenger from Corsair. King Justinian has sent numerous messages since my departure from Rendell. It appears that they’ve attacked the southern Provinces, specifically Temeritt—”
“The Autumn Tree,” Moiran interrupted.
“Yes, because of the Autumn Tree. But the attack was more widespread. They’ve apparently already crushed Borangst, have more or less decimated our lands west of Goran. King Justinian is headed toward Temeritt now with nearly all of our combined Legion, except for Rendell. He’s gathered those willing to fight along the way. He intends to free Temeritt from the Wraith siege.”
Thaedoren motioned toward the map. “All of the Wraith armies, except for the one in Caercaern, are headed toward Temeritt as well.”
“They’ve already broken the dwarren and Alvritshai,” Went said bluntly, everyone else in the room bristling, “and now they intend to break the Provinces as well.”
“The dwarren are not broken,” Ikterru growled.
“Neither are the Alvritshai,” Thaedoren added.
Went glanced from one to the other, measuring, then grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. But we must all admit that the Wraiths have outmaneuvered us all. We have been caught off guard. We have been reacting. They have been ahead of us through all of this. The Provinces knew nothing of these attacks—”
“King Justinian was warned!” Ikterru snapped. “We sent an envoy to Corsair, and one to Caercaern as well.”
“We received no envoy.”
“I am aware of no envoy to Corsair either. What did they say upon their return?”
Ikterru glowered. “Neither envoy returned.”
“Then they must have been discovered by the Wraiths and eliminated. The Alvritshai would not have ignored your warning.”
Quotl leaned forward. “What has passed, has passed. The question is, what do we intend to do now?”
All of them considered this in silence, until Moiran could not stand it anymore.
“You must stop them, of course.”
“How? We are already behind most of their forces. They will reach Temeritt long before us. My own Legion from Rendell is on their way as we speak, but by the time we arrive in Temeritt the siege will be over!”
“He speaks the truth,” Daedelan said. He’d remained silent the entire time they’d been inside the tent, so when his deep voice filled the tent, everyone listened. “And we will be further slowed by the snow.”
“We can’t simply sit here and do nothing.”
“We don’t need to,” Quotl countered. “There’s another way to reach Temeritt, possibly before this secondary army at least.”
“How?”
“We bypass the snow completely. We travel underground.”
The group sat or stood in stunned silence. Then Daedelan leaned forward, studying the map again intently. “This army is halfway to Temeritt already, but they will have to go around the edge of the Escarpment to the east to reach it. Do your tunnels extend all the way to the Escarpment to the south? Or do we need to go around the ridge as well?”
At a nudge from Quotl’s pipe, Ikterru said, “There are tunnels to the south. We can follow the Estuar River. Those tunnels will empty out to the northwest of Temeritt.”
“Then there’s a chance.” Daedelan glanced up to Thaedoren. “If we move swiftly and if the snows continue aboveground, then we can reach Temeritt before either of these two armies. It will be close, but it’s possible.”
“What of my men?” Went asked. “The Legion from Rendell coming to join us?”
Thaedoren leaned back. “We’ll leave someone behind to show them the way. They can attempt to catch up to us. But we will not wait for them. If you are willing, Archon.”
“Ikterru will issue the orders now.”
The Rider glanced toward Quotl, then stood and departed with a low, half-hearted grumble.
“Then it is settled,” Thaedoren said. “We march for Temeritt.”
* * *
Tyrik sat at his desk, the thin knife he used to slit open missives in one hand. A stack of papers sat before him as he reached for the next unopened letter, from GreatLord Berand of Portstown. The knife slid cleanly through the parchment and he unfolded the missive and laid it out before him, scanning the first paragraph. A request for approval of a new tax levy against the import of glass from Andover.
“Even with the rumbling of war, commerce and politicking continues,” he mumbled with a shake of his head.
He had reached for the next letter, noting the merchant’s sigil as he did so, when someone knocked at the door.
He paused—he wasn’t expecting anyone—then called, “Enter.”
As soon as he saw Matthais step through the door, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other, Tyrik thought of the dovecote caretaker’s body at the bottom of the stairs.
He lowered his hands below the edge of the desk and leaned back, shifting so that Matthais couldn’t see he still held the letter opener.
“Councilor Matthais. To what do I owe this honor? We haven’t spoken in days.”
“That is precisely why I am here, fellow councilor. In these uneasy times, I thought it prudent that we catch up. We’ve both been busy.”
