The old king nodded to Verazeth, and said, “Drug her again, then take her to hills and leave, as we have make promise.”
Verazeth seemed angered by the demand, and Criomethes glanced toward two of the women in the group and barked some orders. He explained to Borenson, “I send women to make sure wife is set free.”
Borenson wished that he had something better than the word of Inkarrans on this, but he could think of no way to guarantee his wife’s safety. He suspected that the Inkarrans, with their twisted sense of honor, really would let her live. Yet he feared that they would try to cut Myrrima’s throat to ensure her silence. He only hoped to buy her some time, give her a chance to escape. “All right,” he said. “I agree to give my will. But I want to see you set Myrrima free.”
Verazeth drew the knives back out of Myrrima’s flesh, and set them in the fire.
“We keep knives hot, in case change mind after wife gone,” Criomethes said. “Remember. Must want transfer will very bad.”
“I know,” Borenson said.
One girl threw a bucket of water on Myrrima, and she came out of her faint, lay shaking her head and weeping. In time, the poison wore off, and her eyes came open.
She looked to Borenson, “What’s going on?” Myrrima asked, voice shaking.
“I’m buying your freedom,” Borenson said.
“Buying?”
“With an endowment.”
Comprehension dawned in her eyes, followed by outrage.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Borenson said. “You can’t fight them. Just leave. Live your life in peace.”
Myrrima took his cue and only lay for a moment, weeping helplessly. Borenson felt grateful. Few women in Inkarra were ever granted endowments, and he hoped that the Inkarrans would not suspect Myrrima.
Criomethes nodded at Verazeth, and the young man unlocked the shackles on Myrrima’s feet. She sat up, rubbing her the metal cuffs on her wrists, and winced at the wounds in her flesh.
“Go,” Borenson told her. A woman helped Myrrima slide from table to floor, and she peered at Borenson for a long moment, as if to take a last look.
She limped to him and threw her arms over him, the heavy chains of her fetters clanking cruelly, and kissed him on the face.
Verazeth grabbed her shoulder, pulled her away, then escorted her down a dark hallway.
“Will remove wife’s cuffs,” Criomethes said, “when she away from here. Now, sit and look on me, your lord. Your master. No move. Keep perfect still.”
Borenson felt someone pull up his right pants leg. He glanced down. In the shadows, an old facilitator with a ghostly white face leaned over him with an inkpot and needles.
20
A Distant Fire
Of all mages, flameweavers are the most ephemeral. For the fire that fuels them also consumes them—first the heart, and then the mind.
High in the Hest Mountains, Raj Ahten led his army beneath skies so clear that he almost felt he could touch the setting sun.
No snow had fallen in these mountains in almost a week. By day the sun crept up and burned away the layer of white. By night the ground grew bitter cold and every pebble on the trail froze into place. The firm footing made for a safe ride. The force horses ran swiftly, for though they had nothing to eat here on the escarpment where grass could not grow, they knew that refreshment lay in the warm valleys below, in Mystarria.
So it was that Raj Ahten rode down into the pines in the late afternoon when he came upon a vast army.
Dirty brown tents squatted haphazardly beneath trees. The horses in camp were starved, with ribs and hips showing beneath dull hides.
As Raj Ahten’s army bore down upon the camp, its few guards grew frightened and blew their ram’s horns.
“Peace,” Raj Ahten said as he topped a rise and stared down the guards. “Your lord has returned.”
These were ragged troops, commoners. Here were archers and pikemen, smiths and washwomen, camp followers and harlots. He had sent this army over the mountains nearly a month ago in preparation for his invasion of Mystarria. They had not arrived in time for his first battle at Carris, being bogged down in an early snow.
But they had made good time in the past week, and would be able to accompany him now. The captain in charge of the troops rushed from his tent, carrying a half-eaten bowl of rice.
“It is our lord, the Great Raj Ahten,” a guard shouted, warning the captain to look sharp.
“O Light of the World,” the captain called as he tossed his dinner to the ground and drew near, trepidation plain on his face. “To what do we owe this honor?” The captain, a grimy man named Moussaif, hailed from a great family. He had won this post by accident of birth rather than from any skill as a leader.
“The time has come,” Raj Ahten said, “to claim Mystarria. Roust your men from their dreams. They must reach Carris by tomorrow at dusk.”
“But, O Light of Understanding,” Moussaif apologized, “my men are faint. We have had little food and no rest for days, and Carris is still thirty miles away. We just set camp an hour ago. The horses are tired.”
“Your men can rest at Carris,” Raj Ahten said. “They can eat Mystarrian food and drink Mystarrian blood for all I care. Tell every archer to bring a bow, a quiver of arrows, and nothing else. Tell every pikeman to bring his pike.”
“But, O Fire of Heaven,” Moussaif argued, “Carris is well defended. I was there at dawn myself, and rode close enough to see. Fifty thousand people are working like ants to rebuild the towers, and great columns of horses and men were entering the city. Its defenders number twice what you found a week ago!”
Raj Ahten stared down from his horse, seething.
“Of course,” Raj Ahten told himself. “I should have known. Gaborn felt the danger rising at Carris. He knew I would bring it down. So he hopes to make one final stand.”
“It is not you that worries him,” Moussaif said. “My spies got close enough so that they could hear some workmen talk. They say that reavers are marching on Carris once again.”
In a fit of rage Raj Ahten spurred his horse up a nearby ridge, to a lone peak where only a stunted pine grew. With his endowments of sight, he peered down upon the world, like an eagle from its perch.
To the south, more than three hundred miles off, he could see a veil of blowing smoke, and feel the heat of distant fires. The power in them called to him, whispered his name. Beyond the flames lay an endless black line of reavers that stretched over rolling hills. There had to be tens of thousands of reavers coming to battle, perhaps hundreds of thousands.
Ahead of their lines, he could see the distant glint of sunlight on mail, and the twinkle of flames. The knights of Rofehavan were trying to stall the reavers in their march, slow them with a wall of fire.
To the west, but thirty miles away, he could see the workers at Carris, struggling to repair the castle walls and prepare for battle.
Raj Ahten closed his eyes. He had nearly died at the hands of reavers when last he visited Carris. He had grown since then. In Deyazz, his facilitators vectored endowments to him. Raj Ahten could feel virtue filling him in waves, renewing his strength and vitality.
But he had gained more than just mere endowments. A hidden inferno burned inside him now, enlightening his mind. He consulted the flames.
Attack, Fire hissed in a voice like flickering flames. Many will die. Make a sacrifice of them to me, and I will give you victory.
“I hear and obey, my master,” Raj Ahten whispered.
He smiled. A battle was rising, such a battle as had never been seen before. He had some surprises in store for his enemies—men and reavers alike.
21
Raven’s Gate
Never fear a man based upon his outward form, but upon his inner spirit.