He drained the flask and opened his eyes. A faint smile tweaked his bloodless face. “You’re not so handsome as you might think, Dané. Looks as if Grossartius let fly his mighty hammer at your fine gryphon.”
“And why is your hand bandaged?” said Saverian, the moment’s crack in her brittle shell quite well sealed. “I’ll vow you’ve not cleaned that wound any more than the one on your cheek.”
“It’s a reminder from Ronila and Gildas,” I said, brushing dirt from Jullian’s bloodstained linen wrapping my pierced hand.
One of Voushanti’s men arrived with Osriel’s shirt, jupon, and hauberk, greaves, and gauntlets. Another dropped chausses, boots, and swordbelt at the prince’s side. Osriel dispatched the two men with his demand for a scouting report. “Now I would have your report, Valen,” he said, once they’d gone.
“Brother Victor is murdered,” I said, grieving again that the chancellor’s passing must be slighted amidst these dread events. “But Jullian is safely locked in the lighthouse, and Gildas is secured until his king can judge him. So we’ve only the priestess, her gammy, your brothers, and their soldiers to worry with. And Ronila is by far the most dangerous…”
While Osriel downed two flasks of ale and another of Saverian’s potions, I sketched out the day’s events. “You can’t imagine how fast Ronila can shift. Keep someone at your back at all times. And don’t take one step toward her, or you’ll find yourself somewhere else altogether.”
“You’ve already taught me that lesson.” Osriel reached for my hands for help to get up, and I hauled him to his feet. He grimaced and gripped his shoulders. “Would that I had a sianou where I could be taken apart and put back together again without this cursed sickness.”
“Perhaps, as the land heals…”
As I sensed the change that had come about in this haunted place, I recalled Luviar’s words: The lack of a righteous king speeds the ruin of the land. The king and the land were so intimately bound, that his blood could charge it with power. They lived and died together. Osriel’s great enchantment would be a terrible wrong, even if wrought with the Canon’s magic and not his own soul’s death. What could be less righteous than stripping the dead of eternity?
“Something happened with you as you suffered here today, didn’t it, my lord? Something’s changed here.”
His gaunt face hardened. “Nothing’s changed. Do you hear what’s coming down on us from the east? Have you brought me an alternative?”
“Only this hope that we can restore the land. Lord, you must not sacrifice these souls.” My conviction grew with every passing moment.
“Hope will not save us, Val—”
A thunderous blast shook the earth. As votive vessels rocked and toppled from their perches with a clatter, Saverian and I jammed Osriel between us and hunched to the ground.
A bloodstained young warrior, wearing the green of Evanore, raced down the cart path, Voushanti, Philo, and Melkire on his heels. “Boedec’s broken!” cried the youth, chest heaving, looking wildly from one to the other of us. When Osriel stood up, half naked and scarred with blood, the boy went white.
“What is your name, warrior?” said the prince as calmly as if he wore ermine robes and crown.
“P-Prac of Noviart, Your Grace.” The boy trembled so wildly his empty scabbard rattled.
“Report, Prac of Noviart. You’ve naught to fear from your duc, no matter how ill your news.”
The young soldier straightened his back. “Prince Perryn’s cadre split us in two, lord. Harrowers have engaged our reserves. Thanea Zurina has fallen. Her house—what’s left of them—yet holds the left, but not for long.” The left was the easiest approach to Dashon Ra. “The priestess d-demands parley.”
“Philo, find this brave messenger a sword to fill his scabbard and a drink to ease his thirst, then bring him back here for my reply. Melkire, I want a report from Renna. We must have no interference from our backs.”
As the three soldiers did his bidding, Osriel spun to me. “How long, Valen? I must be here when Kol grants us the power of the Canon.”
My sense felt the night yet rising, a bowstring stretching its last quat. “Not yet, lord. Soon, but not yet.”
“We’ll not be able to hold the mob off you for three heartbeats, Lord Prince,” said Voushanti, his jaw pulsing—his only sign of agitation. “We should move you into the fortress.”
Shaking his head, Osriel folded his arms and summoned Philo and the messenger. “Prac, tell the priestess I will meet her here or nowhere. I guarantee her personal safety, but offer no bond of truce with those who have tortured and murdered my warlords. Can you say that exactly?”
“Aye, Your Grace.” The youth, become a man again with a weapon at his side and the trust of his lord, bowed. Philo escorted him back the way he’d come.
“She’ll never come down here herself!” said Voushanti, near exploding. “She’ll expect sorcery.”
“She’s attacked because we’ve told her my power is weak on this night. My warriors are in disarray. Will she not believe in a demonic prince brought low?” He spread his arms to display his wretched state. “All we need is to slow down the assault until Valen signals I’ve power to act. Return to your post, prepared to escort the priestess here when she arrives. And, Mardane”—Osriel glanced from Voushanti to me and back again—“I issue this command as your sovereign king. Valen has no say in it, no matter the bond between you. Is that understood?”
Voushanti bowed stiffly and hurried away.
“We need to put these aside for the moment,” he said with a sigh, nudging his padded leathers and mail. “I’ll keep the cloak, at least, lest I be too frozen to speak. And, Saverian, if you have more of the samarth, I would be grateful.”
“Your purveyor of potions obeys, as always,” said Saverian harshly, shoving a vial into his hand. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for this day.”
Osriel drank and tossed her the empty vial. “I would regret that, whether or not you continue to keep me living. Now you’d best return to your hiding place. You, too, Valen. Sila mustn’t know you’ve escaped her trap.”
“Lord Prince, you must not—”
“Stay or go, Valen. I’ll do what I must to preserve this kingdom.”
I had no answer.
We upended a half-rotted cart to hide Osriel’s armor. The prince himself settled in the lee of the upturned cart. Bundled in blankets, he quickly lost himself in contemplation, the air about him fraught with spellwork.
Saverian gathered her flasks and jars and packed them away. I offered to carry her bags up to her hiding place.
“Stay with Riel,” she said. “Another time, though, I want to hear about the Canon. You said so little, but your face—it’s not only the gards that have left you…radiant.”
“I’d like to tell you,” I said, wishing I could erase the wistfulness that poked through her frayed emotions. My fingers twitched, as I fancied that I might touch the furrow between her brows and make it vanish. “As a part of your studies, of course.”
“Of course.” She started up the path, and I already missed her—so real, so human, our odd companionship grown as if by magic into a sweet tether, binding me to this human realm.
A hacking cough caused me to turn. Osriel’s head rested on his arms. So alone in his harsh resolution…
Of a sudden I charged after Saverian, instinct pushing me where I’d no thought to go. “We need Elene here tonight,” I said, breathless. “Something about his experience here today has made Osriel doubt his course. She, of anyone in the world, might be able to sway him when the time comes. I know it’s a great deal to ask. And risky. Holy Mother, I’ve sworn to keep her and the child safe…”
Saverian agreed without hesitation. “Elene is a warrior of Evanore. She belongs where she can fight the battle given to her. I’ll see to it.” And then my friend, the physician, smiled in a most enigmatic fashion. “I think all your instincts are reliable.”