He reached out to take her hand. “Maybe your people will say no,” he said.
She shook her head, saying nothing. At least, after midnight, he might provide her a little comfort, something to remember as she journeyed toward the enemy walls of grey, implacable stone.
CHAPTER 26
Tegestu gazed at the sculpted profile of his wife’s face, silhouetted as it was in the pale radiance of the predawn light that glowed through the leaded windows of their bedchamber. He knew he would have to rise shortly: there was much to accomplish today, before the hostages took their walk to captivity across the Neda Long Bridge. The captives, with Tegestu’s wife Grendis among them.
The decision had been made coldly. Tastis had offered Aptan, his son, one of his welldrani, and another important member of his coalition of clans. Tegestu, with the limited personnel available, had to make a comparable offer. Besides himself, Tegestu had two members of his family with the army: Grendis and his son Acamantu. Acamantu commanded a mixed brigade and was expendable enough in a purely military sense, but Tegestu wanted to keep him safe: he was part of the new generation, having spent most of his life in exile. He was able to deal with the Abessla on a more familiar basis than were his elders — Acamantu would, Tegestu concluded, be indispensable in the coming years, when existence would depend on understanding the Abessla and living alongside them in... in whatever new relationship came out of this war. Tegestu did not wish to sacrifice the future to the ravenous demands of the present.
Cascan was present, another welldran, but he was head of the spies, assassins, and secret agents: he knew too much to be risked in enemy hands.
Grendis, Tegestu had concluded, would have to be one of the hostages. She was both family and a welldran; she commanded the light cavalry brigade and the mounted scouts, but the army would shortly be without its horses and her job could in any case be handled by someone else.
One of the hostages had to be Grendis: she was the only logical choice.
It had been a heartbreaking decision. For Tegestu’s plan to succeed, it would require, almost certainly, the sacrifice of all the hostages.
And furthermore the hostages could not be told of their upcoming sacrifice: they would have to walk to their deaths, and the most convincing way of walking to certain death is not to know that death is at the end of the trail.
Tegestu watched as Grendis shifted under the coverlet, a pleased sigh escaping her lips. At the simple, homely sight, the sight that as boy, man, and elder he had seen on the neighboring pillow for fifty years, Tegestu felt his heart begin to shatter. A few lives, he admonished himself, and the war could be over, if he had calculated aright. Any Brodaini was committed, from birth, to sacrifice his life in the name of his kamliss: there were no exceptions, least of all from sentiment.
Madness, he thought.
No, not madness. Only logic. We will terminate the war, and the Brodaini will survive in this land. What sacrifice would not be worthy of that goal?
Silently he watched her sleep, cherishing the sight, the curve of her cheekbone, the arch of her throat.... It was, perhaps, the last time he would be blessed with the sight. Impulsively he reached out to embrace Grendis and kiss her. She smiled sleepily, her hands reaching out for him, and her eyes opened drowsily, then widened as she saw his intent look.
“Yes?” she said.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. She touched his long unbraided hair and smiled.
“I’ll be well, my love,” she said. “Tastis won’t dare harm me. We have both been hostages, at one time or another; this will be no different.”
“If something goes wrong, today or tomorrow,” Tegestu said, “stay with Fiona if you can. She might be able to protect you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he hadn’t been able to keep the urgency from his voice. She nodded. “I’ll remember,” she said.
Tegestu had given her all the warning he dared. He closed his eyes and committed the project to the gods. Let her be safe, he thought fiercely. Let me not be the means of her death.
You have known all along, an inner voice told him, that this might become a possibility. That you might have to order her to her death. Why have you denied the truth so long?
He clutched Grendis’ body desperately and held her to him. She returned his embrace, her cheek against his. Remember this, he commanded himself. You can never forget this.
Long moments passed; Tegestu, at last, forced himself to relinquish her. She kissed him again and smiled. “Shall I ring for our dressers?” she asked.
“Not yet. A little while yet.”
She smiled indulgently. “Of course.” He took her hand, and they watched one another in silence. The smile remained on Grendis’ face and in her eyes.
The light entering the windows was brightening; Tegestu willed it to halt. What remains to be said? he thought. That you have guarded my back these long years, and that now I must refuse to protect yours? That for reasons of cold policy I must sacrifice you?
Cold policy, he thought: it has ruled our lives, both our meeting and our ending. It is the code we live by, that we all are ready to be sacrificed when policy demands. I have lived my life by that code: the gods help me, I cannot change.
The dawn, resisted hopelessly, came; and the moment of touching was over.
CHAPTER 27
Did Kira take this path? Fiona wondered. Did Kira’s heart so thunder with fear as she rode to the gate?
Nonsense. Kira had not ridden; she had come as Fiona had come to Arrandal, by barge. She swallowed, trying to still the fear that trembled in her limbs, and rode through the herds of Brodaini horses that were grazing outside the moated walls. She carried the Brodaini spear of parley, a short weapon with the haft painted white and the point reversed. Those of Tegestu’s men who guarded the horses against a raid, heavy cavalry with their lances at the ready, had apparently been warned about her approach: they gave her stern glances but made no move to interfere.
She was dressed simply in her privy-coat with the hood pulled tight around her face, a pair of trousers and a belted tunic pulled on over it. Clipped to her belt were her recorder, her spindle, and a pistol she had asked Tyson to deliver the previous night. It was more powerful than the needle she had in her wrist; and furthermore a pistol was a weapon she could aim. It was also safe: the holster was attuned to her body and mind, as her privy-coat was tuned, and no one else could use the weapon. She had ridden out of camp just after nightfall, heading several miles south of the perimeter to a clear area in the middle of a farmer’s stubbled, harvested field; there, fully aware of the cloaked scouts that had followed her out of camp in order to make certain she wasn’t meeting the Elva’s enemies, she’d planted a homing device in the dry, dusty soil, retired a cautious few hundred feet, and waited for the message tube to spit out of the heavens. The tube took only a few moments to cool, then she extracted her pistol and heaved the tube up onto the saddle in front of her. Afterwards, riding back, she’d flung the tube into the flowing Neda. The scouts had made no comment. When she returned, Campas was waiting, crouched by a watchfire outside her tent.
The White Tower Gate loomed before her. She wondered why it was called that: it seemed as grey as the rest of the walls. Perhaps it had once been white, before generations of chimney soot had blackened it. The drawbridge over the moat-canal was down, the fanged portcullis raised. Through it she saw the towering form of Dellila, seated atop a huge dappled horse and surrounded by an escort of bannermen. Fiona raised the spear of parley and urged her horse to a trot.