"Indeed it was," Alwir beamed, with a determined amiability that reminded Gil of the old tale of the Spartan youth and the fox.
Stiarth tested his boundaries. "The way there is not too rocky for you to send the daily rations to the troops? But naturally, it wouldn't be."
"It's a matter that will have to be discussed," the Chancellor informed him affably.
"Ah!" White teeth flashed in his dark face. "But then, so much will."
Vair na Chandros barked a summons, and an officer came hurrying from the ranks, scarlet plumes nodding in the thin, snaking wind. He rasped a string of orders in the singsong tongue of the South; the man bowed deeply and effaced himself. In a moment the drums began again, a deep, hollow booming that vibrated in Gil's bones. The ranks began to move, following the men whom Alwir had appointed as guides. Cold sunlight flashed upon their spears.
"My lord Vair's-incapacity-has ever prevented him from the field generalship that was his chosen career," Stiarth purred, as he and those around him on the steps watched the hook-handed Commander summon the bodyguards forth from the main host. "But his years as Prefect of Khirsrit, and in particular his expeditious handling of the autumn food riots in the city, have given him more than ample experience to head these forces. I'm sure you will find him an able military co-Commander, my lord Alwir." His dark, slender fingers toyed with the ruffles of his extravagant gloves. "But I am nominal head of the Expeditionary Force. It is with me that you will negotiate the final terms of the treaty of alliance with my uncle."
Alwir's sapphire gaze cut sharply sideways at him. "I had thought, my lord Stiarth, that the final terms had already been negotiated."
The Ambassador sighed. "So had I, regretfully. But upon returning to the South, I received new instructions from my Imperial Uncle. It has been a bad winter in the South as in the North. Though we have not, of course, experienced the depredations of the Dark Ones, the harsh weather has caused crop failures, and many troops that my uncle would otherwise gladly have committed to your aid were needed to suppress unrest." He looked up, the diamonds in his earlobes glinting no less brightly than his teeth. "But with good faith on both sides, all things are possible, are they not?"
"Indeed they are."
The last time Gil had seen a smile like that, it had been on the face of the loser of a tennis championship as he'd shaken hands with the winner.
Commander Vair returned to the group at the foot of the steps, the wan sun winking off the polished chain of his gilded mail and the rainbow hues of his brocaded surcoat and cloak, making him appear like some deadly, scintillant tropical fish against the dull, muddy background of dirt and snow. With his hooks he gestured for Inquisitor Pinard, as a prelate of the Church, to precede him up the Keep steps. But the motion froze in mid-gesture. His expression hardened and his pale eyes gleamed suddenly with the red glint of a hatred long cherished.
He had caught sight of Ingold, standing among the Guards near the bottom of the steps.
"You..." he whispered.
He came forward slowly, and the murmur of talk that had risen among the Guards at the mention of the Alketch bodyguard's being admitted to the Keep faded to utter silence. The silver hooks flashed as he lashed out with them. Without any seeming haste, Ingold intercepted them on the iron-hard wood of his staff. The wizard's brows were drawn down, his face puzzled.
The Commander whispered, "So you don't remember, do you?"
With considerably more haste than tact, Alwir intervened. "My lord Vair," he introduced. "Ingold Inglorion, the head of the Wizards' Corps and the Archmage -" His voice flourished almost mockingly over the tattered title, "-of the Wizards of the Western World."
Vair spat the words. "We've met."
And suddenly, Ingold's eyes widened with startled recognition.
The Commander went on bitterly. "So you were a mage all the time." His hooks clattered against the wood of Ingold's staff. "I should have known I lost my hand and all my chance for a life of glory through a wizard's tricks."
Ingold sighed. There was regret in his voice, but he never relaxed his guard against the dragon-bright warrior standing before him. "It was no magic that let me overcome you, my lord Commander," he said quietly. "I was no mage then, and if anything, you had the advantage of me."
"You were never my superior with a sword!" Vair lashed out. "You were a man grown. Fledgling Archmages don't come to their power so late in life." He turned to the discomfitted Alwir, his lip pulling back from his white teeth in scorn. "So this is your-ally," he rasped. "Your weapon against the Dark. See that it doesn't turn and cost you the hand that wields it, my lord."
So saying, the Commander thrust his way past those who stood on the steps and climbed to the gates, where Stiarth waited with a look of calculation in his eyes and Pinard with one of I-told-you-so. After one glance of bitter hatred at Ingold, Alwir hurried to catch up, and his fluent, melodious voice could be heard drifting placatingly back as they disappeared into the darkness of the Keep.
The sun would set soon. From her position on the high ground, where the track to the caves passed between the rock spur and the knoll in the forest, Gil could see the activity around the Keep. Men and women were coming in from the woods with cut kindling on their backs. Those fortunate enough to be possessors of cows or goats moved about the heavily fenced pens and byres to do their evening milking. The wind stung her cheeks like acid. It was time she returned.
To what ? she wondered.
She had spent the day combing the secret levels of the Keep, gathering record crystals. She knew that she would likely spend the night reading them patiently, one by one. Body and bones hurt for sleep, but she was aware that the Winter Feast was less than two weeks away, and after that the army would march, with the riddle of the Dark's former defeat still unsolved. So she had opted for a walk in the freezing air instead, and the promise-which had gotten her through her master's thesis at UCLA last year-that she could sleep when she'd done a little work.
Wolves were howling in the high Vale, and Gil spared a thought for horses of the Alketch and the cattle they had brought as part of their provisions. Well, they'd protected them thus far. But she drew her cloak more closely about her shoulders and hurried down the broad, trampled track that led back toward the Keep. The temperature was dropping- the soupy muck churned up by the feet of the army was already freezing. From somewhere above the gray, constant cloud-cover, winds sneered down from the glaciers.
"Gil- Shalos!"
The gray mists between the trees seemed to thicken, materializing into the Icefalcon's tall form. He fell into step with her, one pale eyebrow lifting. "Strolling?"
"Picking buttercups," she replied, and he grinned.
Clothed once more in the familiar black uniform of the Guards, he seemed to be as Gil had first known him, back in the noisy chaos of Karst. He'd gotten rid of the bones in his hair; his long white braids hung smoothly over his back. In fact, the only signs that he'd ridden with the Raiders at all were the slight darkening of his fair skin and the wariness in his eyes.
"I, too, seek buttercups," he said quietly. "Only I have sought them farther along the cliffs, near the pool under the caves."
Gil said, "Stiarth isn't there."
The fine- chiseled nostrils flared slightly. "He will be, one day." Like a cat, the Icefalcon picked his way around an ice-scummed puddle in the road, his boots making barely a sound in the decayed snow at the track's edge. "And when he is, believe me, my sister, he will pray for even half the poison that he dumped into my food that night in the river valley."