"Aye, your Majesty," the second rider said, but he didn't sound convinced. He thrust out the message tube as if it held poison.
Krispos took it, then asked, "You know what's in it?" The messenger nodded. Krispos said, "Speak it to me plain, then. By the lord with the great and good mind, I swear no harm nor blame shall fall on you because of it."
He'd never seen a man who so obviously wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. The dispatch rider licked his lips, looked this way and that, but found no escape. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it all out in five blurted words: "Your Majesty, Garsavra is fallen."
"What?" Krispos gaped at him, more in disbelief than horror. So did everyone close enough to hear. Lying where the Eriza and Arandos rivers came together, Garsavra was one of the two or three greatest towns in the westlands. The army was already west of it; they'd forded the northern reaches of the Eriza day before yesterday.
Krispos opened the message tube. It confirmed what the dispatch rider had said, and added details. Outriding news of their coming, the Thanasioi had swept down on the town at sunrise. They'd burned and killed and maimed; they'd thrown the local prelate headfirst off the roof of the temple by the central square, then set fire to the building. Few survivors would have their souls burdened by a surplus of material goods for years to come.
Krispos stared at the parchment in his left hand. He wanted to tear it into a thousand pieces. With a deliberate effort of will, he checked himself: some of the information it held might be valuable. As steadily as he could, he told the messenger, "You have my thanks for your courage in bringing this to me. What is your rank?"
"I'm on the books as a file closer, your Majesty," the man answered.
"You're a file leader now," Krispos told him.
One of the scouts from the vanguard came riding back to the main body. He waited to catch Krispos' eye, then said, "May it please your Majesty, we've rounded up a Thanasiot riding at us under shield of truce. He says he bears a message for you from Livanios."
Too much was falling on Krispos too fast. He had the feeling of a tavern juggler who has reached out for one plate he's tossed away, only to have all the others that were up in the air smash down on his head before he can snatch back his hand. "Bring me this Thanasiot," he said heavily. "Tell him I'll honor his truce sign, which is likely more courtesy than he'd give to one of ours. Tell him just that way."
The scout saluted and rode ahead. He came back a few minutes later with one of Livanios' irregulars. The Thanasiot carried a white-painted round target on his left arm. He smiled at Krispos' somber face and said, "I'd wager you have the news already. Am I right, friend?"
"I'm no friend of yours," Krispos said. "Give me your master's message."
The Thanasiot handed him a tube no different from those he'd had from his own couriers save in the seaclass="underline" the image of a leaping flame stamped into scarlet wax. Krispos broke it and angrily threw the little pieces of wax down onto the ground. The parchment inside was sealed with the identical mark. Krispos cracked it. unrolled the parchment, and scanned the message it contained:
Livanios who treads the gleaming path to the false Avtokrator and servant of Skotos Krispos: Greetings. Know that I write this from the ruins of Garsavra, which city has been purified and cleansed of its sinful materialism by warriors true to the lord with the great and good mind. Know further that all cities of the westlands are liable to the same penalty, which Phos' soldiers may deliver at any time which suits them.
And know further, miscalled ruler destined for the ice, your corrupt and gold-bloated regime is henceforward and ever after banished from these westlands. If you would preserve even a fragment of your illicit and tyrannical rule, withdraw at once over the Cattle-Crossing, yielding this land to those who shall hold it in triumph, peace, and piety. Repent of your wealth and other sins before Phos' final judgment descends upon you. Cast aside your greed and surrender yourself to the gleaming path. I am yours in Phos. Farewell.
Krispos slowly and deliberately crumpled the parchment, then turned to the Thanasiot messenger and said, "My reply is one word: no. Take it and be thankful your life goes with it."
"I don't fear death—death liberates me from Skotos," the messenger retorted. "You call down doom on your own head." He twitched the reins, dug his heels into his horse's sides, and rode away singing a hymn.
"What did the whoreson want of you?" Sarkis asked. When Krispos told him, his fleshy face darkened with anger. "By the good god, a bragging fool ought to know better than to taunt a force that's bigger than his, especially when we stand closer to Etchmiadzin than he does."
"Maybe we stand closer to it," Krispos said bleakly. "You've said all along Livanios is no fool. Surely he'll have withdrawn after the rape of Garsavra. I don't want to chase him back to his stronghold; I want to force him to battle outside of it."
"How do you propose to do that?" Sarkis said. "The cursed Thanasioi move faster than we; they aren't even burdened by loot, because they burn it instead of carrying it along with them."
"I know." Krispos' scowl was black as winter midnight. "I suppose you were right before, though: We have to try. Livanios can't be smart all the time—I hope. If we march smartly, we may come to grips with him up on the plateau. Worth a try, anyhow."
"Aye." Sarkis nodded vigorously. "Our cavalry at Tavas can hold its own against anything the Thanasioi have around there—and now we know where their main force has been lurking."
"So we do," Krispos said. "It's a bloody big cloud for such a thin silver lining." He leaned over, spat down onto the ground as if in ritual rejection of Skotos, then began issuing the orders that would shift the army's line of march from the coast and up into the central highlands. Changing the troops' destination was the easy part. Making sure they would have food and their animals fodder along the new track was much more involved.
What with everything that came after, he forgot to send Evripos a reply.
Phostis guided the fishing boat up to the little quay from which his father would row out to see what he could catch. He threw out a line, scrambled up onto the dock, and made the boat fast.
He was just helping Olyvria up onto the planks when an indignant palace servitor opened the seawall gate and exclaimed, "Here, who do you think you are? This dock's not for just anyone. It's reserved for the Avtokrator, Phos bless him, so you can kindly take your smelly little boat somewhere else."
"It's all right, Soranos," Phostis answered. "I don't think Father will mind."
He wasn't in the least put out that Soranos hadn't recognized him. He was grimy, shaggy, wearing a cheap, ragged long tunic, and sunburned. In fact, he was sunburned in some tender spots under the tunic, too, thanks to frolicking with
Olyvria in broad, hot daylight. She was also sunburned; they'd shared misery and fish on the way back to the city.
The servitor put hands on hips. "Oh, your father won't mind, eh? And who, pray, is your father? Do you know yourself?"
Phostis had been wondering the same thing, but didn't let on. He said, "My father is Krispos son of Phostis, Avtokrator of the Videssians. I have, you will notice if you look closely, escaped from the Thanasioi."
Soranos started to give back another sharp answer, but paused and took a long look at Phostis. He was too swarthy to turn pale, but his jaw fell, his eyes widened, and his right hand, seemingly of its own accord, shaped the sun-circle above his heart. He prostrated himself, gabbling "Young Majesty, it is yourself—I mean, you are yourself! A thousand pardons, I pray, I beg! Phos be praised that he has granted you safe voyage home and blessed you with liberty once again."