“Get ready to try, then,” Grus told Pterocles. “We’ll see what happens.” He didn’t say anything suggesting he would blame the wizard if the magic failed. He wanted to build up the other man’s confidence, not tear it down.
Vsevolod cared nothing for such concerns. Glowering at Pterocles, he demanded, “Why you have to wait for sun?”
“As I said, it gives the best fire to power my spells,” Pterocles replied.
“You want fire?” Vsevolod pointed toward the rows of cookfires throughout the Avornan encampment. “We have plenty fires for you.”
“You may think so, but the magic is stronger with the sun,” Pterocles said. “For a ship that’s very easy to burn, the other fire, I’ve found, will do. For the gates, which will be much harder, I have to have the strongest fire I can get. Do I tell you how to run your business, Your Majesty?”
Vsevolod muttered something in the Chernagor language. Grus didn’t understand a word of it. All things considered, that was probably just as well. Before the Prince of Nishevatz could return to Avornan, Grus spoke up, saying, “We have to trust Pterocles’ judgment here. When he’s ready, he can cast the spell. Until then, he would do better to wait.”
More mutters from Vsevolod. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said.
“You’re welcome,” Grus answered, but he couldn’t help adding, “I hope you don’t have to wait too long.”
Later, he wished he hadn’t said that. He couldn’t help wondering whether he’d jinxed the wizard and his magic. Day after day of gloom and fog followed, with never more than a halfhearted glimpse of the sun. Such stretches of bad weather could happen here, sure enough. Was this one natural, though?
At last, Grus grew impatient and frustrated enough to ask the question aloud. Pterocles only shrugged. “Hard to know for certain, Your Majesty. I will say this once more, though—weatherworking’s not easy, not for mortals.”
“Not for mortals.” The king chewed on that. “Is the Banished One turning his eye this way again, then?”
“I haven’t noticed any sign of it.” Pterocles’ sigh sent more fog into the cool, moist air. “I think I would. A man who’s known the lion’s claw recognizes it when he feels it again.”
Four days later, the weather finally changed, but not for the better. Rain began dripping from the heavens. It went on and on, never too hard but never letting up, either. Avornan soldiers squelched glumly through their camp, pulling each boot out of the mud in turn.
The rain frustrated Pterocles in more ways than one. “I hope the Chernagors don’t try to sneak ships into Nishevatz while the weather stays bad,” he said. “Bad for us, I mean—good for them. They might manage it without our even noticing. For that matter, using ordinary fire in the spells against their ships wouldn’t be easy now.”
“How likely are they to do that?” Grus asked. “I wouldn’t want to try sailing through rain and fog.” He shuddered, imagining rocks or other ships unseen until too late. Pterocles only gave him another shrug. That did nothing to reassure him. With a shrug of his own, Grus said, “Be ready to do what needs doing when the weather finally clears. Sooner or later, it has to.”
“I’ll be ready, Your Majesty,” the wizard declared. Grus could only accept that. If he nagged Pterocles after such a promise, he would likely do the Avornan cause more harm than good.
After another week of fog and drizzle and rain, the king felt about ready to burst. So did Vsevolod, who muttered darkly into his white beard. Pterocles paced back and forth like a caged bear. Even General Hirundo, among the most cheerful men ever born, began snapping at people.
Grus felt like cheering when he finally saw a sunny dawn. Thanks to the rain that had gone before, it was a beautiful day. All the weeds and shrubs around Nishevatz glowed like emeralds. Sunbeams sparkled off drops of water in the greenery, spawning countless tiny rainbows. The bushes might have been full of diamonds. The air still tasted sweet and damp; the rain had washed it clean of the stinks that clung to an encamped army.
“Let’s go, Pterocles,” Grus called. He didn’t ask if the wizard was ready to work his magic against the gate. He assumed Pterocles was. If that assumption proved wrong, the king would have something to say. Until it proved so, he would go forward.
Pterocles said, “Your Majesty, I can try the spell now if you order me to. It may work, but it may not. If you let me wait until the sun stands higher in the sky and its light is stronger, the spell is almost sure to work then. I will do as you require either way. What would you like?”
However much Grus wished it weren’t, that was a legitimate question. “Wait,” he said after thinking a little while. “Your magic is the most important part of the attack. It needs to work to give us a chance of taking Nishevatz. Do it when you think the odds are best.”
“Thank you.” Pterocles sketched a salute.
Grus watched the skies, looking for clouds to roll across the sun and steal the wizard’s chance. He thought he would tell Pterocles to try with ordinary fire then—if it started the gate burning, well and good; if not, they could wait for sun again. But the day only got brighter, and about as warm as it ever seemed to around Nishevatz. Steam rose from the walls of the city-state, and from the ground around it. The king was about to ask Pterocles if he was ready to begin when a rider pounded up from the south. Mud flew from his horse’s hooves as it trotted forward. “Your Majesty!” the messenger called. “I have important news, your Majesty!”
“Give it to me,” Grus said, as calmly as he could. News like that, news important enough to rush up from the south, was unlikely to be good.
And, sure enough, the messenger said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but Prince Ulash’s Menteshe have come north over the Stura. They’re hitting the provinces on our side of the river hard.”
“Ulash’s Menteshe?” Grus said, and the rider nodded. Grus cursed. That was the worst news he could have gotten. Ulash had stayed quiet when Prince Evren raided the southern provinces a few years before. If he was running wild now… He was at least as strong as all the other Menteshe princes put together. No wonder the Banished One stopped worrying about the land of the Chernagors, Grus thought.
“Shall I go ahead and cast the spell, Your Majesty?” Pterocles asked.
“No,” Grus said, hating the word. “We have to break off the siege again. We have to go back.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lanius wished he weren’t once more briefly seeing Grus in the city of Avornis as the other king hurried from one trouble spot to another. Grus looked harried. Lanius couldn’t blame him. Grus said, “Is it really as bad as it’s sounded from all the reports I’ve had?”
“All I have are the same reports,” Lanius answered. “It doesn’t sound good, does it?”
“This isn’t just a raid, sure enough,” Grus said. “They’re throwing everything they’ve got into it.”
“In a way, it’s a compliment,” Lanius said. Grus eyed him as though he’d lost his mind. “It is,” Lanius insisted. “You were doing too well up in the Chernagor country. The Banished One couldn’t find any way to stop you up there, so he got Ulash moving down in the south.”
The other king frowned as he thought things over. “Something to that,” he said at last. His frown got deeper, pulling the lines of his face into harsh relief. He’s not a young man anymore, Lanius thought. But even if Grus wasn’t as young as he had been, he remained vigorous. He also hadn’t lost his wry wit. “It’s a compliment I could do without, you know.”