“He says it’s a matter of time, not distance.”
“That’s right. It took the King and them hours and hours to cover three or four miles.”
“We’d better get started. There’s less daylight this time of year.”
…
Scalza shouted, “Mother! I found them!”
Mist closed in quickly, wondering who. They were looking for more than one… Ah. The sorcerer, his girlfriend, and some of the Karkha Tower garrison, with Tang Shan, all crowding a bonfire beside a dirt road in a snowy forest. So a few had gotten away, probably because they had been moving the couple along when Old Meddler arrived. They looked totally miserable now.
“Who is that woman?” She could not be from the Karkha Tower- unless the boys had had a prostitute in. No! That level of indiscipline was unimaginable after the stronghold had been compromised before.
Ethrian said, “Sahmaman!”
Silence descended as though some grand spell had been cast. Those farther away caught it from those close enough to see into Scalza’s bowl.
Ethrian glowed.
Ekaterina looked like she had been slammed with an emotional hammer.
Not good, Mist thought.
Lord Kuo was right. Pray that Nepanthe had instilled her own values.
But once the first moment of pain was over Eka crowded in beside Ethrian. She stared, face stony. “Is it really her?”
“Yes,” stated in such a way that everyone understood that Ethrian was his old self again-complete with recollections of being the Deliverer.
He yielded visibly to an abiding sorrow.
Eka put her arms around him and squeezed. Had the moment not been poignant it could have been amusing, she being half his size.
Ethrian accepted the comfort. He took deep breaths, said, “Pulling it together now.” Mist met his gaze over Eka’s head, was startled.
This boy-who had crushed half an empire and had commanded hordes responsible for having slain thousands-this crazy boy not only adored the woman pictured in Scalza’s bowl, he had a fierce affection for Eka, too.
But were his feelings what Eka wanted them to be?
Were his feelings for Sahmaman what Eka did not want those to be?
Eka asked, “What’s wrong with her foot?”
Ethrian shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t like that before.”
A darkness began to take Ethrian after the first joyous flush. He was troubled, wondering how this was possible. Sahmaman had been a ghost before. That ghost had grown quite solid, but was a ghost even so. And that ghost had been stilled again at the end of the Deliverer wars, evidently forever. She had given herself up so Ethrian could survive.
But there she was again, in the flesh, interacting with the sorcerer, his girl, Tang Shan, Lein She, and some apprentices from the Karkha Tower.
“Check this,” Scalza said. He had drawn the bowl’s point of view back.
Michael Trebilcock said, “They went through the same temple that the King and I did. That’s where we hit the Sedlmayr road.”
He saw nothing remarkable, otherwise. Neither did Bragi, who observed only, “Looks like they’re freezing their butts off.”
Mist asked, “Scalza, is that drover the man who killed Megelin?”
“Yes, Mother. Exactly. Intriguing conjunction, isn’t it?”
“Old Meddler might be a more clever manipulator than even I was willing to credit.”
Varthlokkur announced, “That devil has run out of patience. He’s on his way.”
“Shit,” Ragnarson murmured. A dozen others agreed with that sentiment.
Haroun and Yasmid forced their way in for a look at the donkey drover. Neither spoke. No one contested their demand for viewing space. The black emotion steaming off them impressed even the Empress.
There was a great chance that Boneman would not live happily ever after should his path intersect that of King Megelin’s mother and father.
…
Varthlokkur was wrong. Old Meddler had not been about to launch his attack. Instead, he had slipped out to visit a fellow conspirator from the Pracchia days who had survived the subsequent purges. The man was a merchant-sorcerer-gangster of modest means, talent, and attainment, but of expansive ambition, who believed that he should be the successor to Magden Norath. The Star Rider agreed. That was what the man wanted to hear. Old Meddler needed the borrow of his equipment, and his assistance, to gather more demonic help.
It might be days yet before the winged horse came with the Windmjirnerhorn. He for sure had to be ready to go when it did.
First order of business, though: more demons. He could not improve his position with iron statues, but there were countless demons out there. His old associate owned the means to call them and was eager to help. His once-upon-a-time attempt to capture the Karkha Tower, undertaken without approval and with secret, malicious ambition, had gone awry. Further, it had let the Tervola know that some of their secrets were not secret at all. There would be no chance for a surprise again.
The attack also told the Star Rider which underling believed that he dared hijack his master’s tools and powers to further his own ambitions.
He did not pursue the matter. He did not have the luxury now. He needed every advantage he could pull together.
He could indulge his vindictive streak later, once his survival was assured and the world had been cowed again.
…
Ragnarson grumbled, “Going crazy over here! When in the h…” Nepanthe’s child stopped maybe eight feet to his left and stared at him with eyes gone big, trying to decide if he was entertainment or if she should run away shrieking and get herself some big-people comforting elsewhere.
“Ah, damn,” Ragnarson muttered. “Don’t scare the kids and horses, man.” Wouldn’t do any good, anyway. Neither time nor the gods cared how much you whined.
It was late. The usual crowd, including Varthlokkur, had gone to bed. Mist and her main associates had gone off to some Imperial military headquarters to catch up on business having nothing to do with the Star Rider. There was plenty of that. Insofar as anyone could see, Old Meddler meant to spend the remainder of his days in Throyes conjuring demonic reinforcements.
He was marking time, waiting for his horse and magical Horn. The farseers could not locate the beast, whose dallying had the ancient more frustrated than did his enemies.
Nepanthe was playing with a scrying bowl. Now that Ethrian was mostly recovered she seemed to be in an even more troubled place. Bragi was unsure whether that was because the boy no longer needed mothering or because she was afraid that he might become the Deliverer again.
Ragnarson would not worsen her concern by mentioning it but was confident that Varthlokkur and Mist, independently, would have arranged that the boy should never don the cloak of darkness again.
Mist’s daughter was there, too, piloting her brother’s scrying bowl, as were several low-level easterners, monitoring transfer portals and farseeing devices of their own. The girl was having trouble staying awake. She noticed him looking, straightened some and glared. He got the feeling she wished he would go away.
Smyrena came closer now. She was fearless lately. He had seen her crawl into the Old Man’s lap. She had put the baby hoodoo on Kuo Wen-chin. Now she was trying to conquer a king.
Not that difficult. Ragnarson loved the little ones. He had only Fulk left. Fulk had passed the cute and cuddly stage.
Another glance at Ekaterina. Yes. She definitely wanted him gone. Why?
He caught her fleeting look at Nepanthe.
Ah. She wanted to talk to her future mother-in-law, in private.
Almost funny. It was all drama at that age, particularly for girls.
Maybe she was worried about becoming an old maid.
She could have been married by now had she been born in his northern homeland, or in Hammad al Nakir, where they married them off even younger but recommended that they not be used as women before they turned nine.