“Avila, why don’t you take Vahil and get him something warm to drink?”
Temar opened his eyes at Guinalle’s soft words, forcing away the horrid image.
“No, there are others in greater need than I—” Vahil began to object uncertainly, but he followed Avila meekly enough when she took his hand, forcing a smile on to her own worn and tear-stained features.
Den Fellaemion looked up at Guinalle from his seat on a low rock ledge. In the dim light filtering through the greenery fringing the cave’s mouth, he looked almost as gray as the rocks around him. “What have you to tell me, my dear?”
The blend of love and grief in Guinalle’s eyes as she gazed at her uncle tore at Temar’s heart when he could not have imagined anymore emotion could have been wrung from him.
“We have tended the wounded as best we can, with Artifice and with what medicaments we were able to salvage.” Guinalle unconsciously pushed a blood-stained sleeve back above one elbow. “Most are settled and, Ostrin be thanked, most of the injuries are relatively minor. Still, there are a number whom we simply dare not move, not for some days, if we are not to send them straight to Saedrin’s mercy.”
“Have you determined how many of your Adepts escaped?” Temar wondered at the urgency in Den Fellaemion’s question.
“Nearly all.” Guinalle’s answer was bitter with irony. “We were so much better able to defend ourselves when the invaders started using that Artifice of their own.”
Temar’s urge to demand aid from Guinalle and her students in surveying the caves died on his lips as he was suddenly overwhelmed by remembrance of the horror of the previous sunrise. Waking from a contented sleep to the sound of screaming, pure terror ripping through the air, horrid shrieks rising to be cut off by merciless blades as black-liveried invaders poured from ships driven high on to the mud flats to fall upon the undefended colonists. Temar’s hand groped for empty air at the memory of grabbing his sword, rushing from his bed in Den Rannion’s steading, only to see fires raging all around, women and children fleeing in desperation from the flames only to die on the greedy tongues of swords flashing bright as the building inferno struck a false dawn from the glowering clouds.
Temar’s heart began to race, anguish twisting within him as he tried to think what he could have done different, how else he might have succeeded in rallying the men who appeared, whatever weapons they might find in hand, desperate to gather in some concerted defense of the frail wooden gate. Cold fingers gripped Temar’s heart, cold sweat beading on the back of his neck as he heard again the echo of their screams, flinching from his own memories of the evil Artifice that had robbed so many of their wits and will, leaving them standing dumbly like beasts awaiting the poleaxe to die under the black metal weapons of the invaders. A tear trickled unheeded down one cheek and he looked down to see his knuckles shining white in a very death grip on his sword.
“You had to flee when you did, Temar,” Den Fellaemion laid his own desiccated hand over the younger man’s. “Saedrin be thanked that you had some little Artifice of your own to defend you, or we would have lost you as well.”
Temar could not trust himself to speak but neither could he resist a guilty glance at Guinalle. He saw only understanding and sympathy in her eyes, and for an instant that made everything even worse.
“Who are these cursed people?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why are they doing this?”
“Since any attempt at a parley has ended with our envoys meeting a hail of missiles, it’s a little hard to tell.” Messire Den Fellaemion’s mirthless smile would not have looked out of place on a deathmask. “I can’t see us resolving this by negotiation.”
“I have some idea of where they might be from,” began Guinalle hesitantly.
“What?” Temar and Den Fellaemion demanded in the same breath. “How?”
“When I was repelling their attacks, I made an unexpected contact with someone imperfectly practiced in their Artifice.” Guinalle looked uncharacteristically defensive. “Last night, when I was sure the youth was asleep, I used that touch to look into his memories.”
“The risks—” Temar drew breath to remonstrate with her but subsided at the Messire’s warning glance.
“What can you tell us, my dear?”
“They come from a place far to the north of here, small, barren islands locked together in the heart of the ocean,” Guinalle’s eyes grew distant as she looked again on the images she had stolen. “It’s a cold place, pitiless, few trees and bleak, gray rocks all around. They have very little, and what they have they steal from each other, counting blood well spent for a few measures of land. Lives are renewed in due season but land ends at the water’s edge.” Her voice deepened and took on a harsher inflection. “Artifice is used to keep the priests as rulers of the people. They can sniff out disloyalty in the sleeping mind and kill with a thought. Unity is everything when both nature and culture surrounds you with perils, foes always armed against you.”
She caught her breath on a sudden shiver and her expression and tone returned to normal. “They have discovered what they see as an endless land of unimaginable riches and will not share it with anyone, no matter what,” she concluded softly.
Before Temar could speak, Den Fellaemion rose and gathered Guinalle in a close embrace. “My dearest child, such insights may be valuable but you are more precious still.” A hint of rebuke stiffened his words. “Your skills are our only defense against the evil of their artifice and we cannot risk you in this way. You are not to attempt such a contact again.”
“He would only have thought he was dreaming of home,” protested Guinalle, but her expression was chastened nevertheless.
Temar interrupted as an urgent thought demanded immediate speech. “Have you managed to contact home—Zyoutessela, Toremal, anywhere that might be able to send us aid?”
Guinalle shook her head unhappily. “I have been trying, but something is preventing me, some kind of smothering that is limiting the range of my Artifice.”
“Have you tried working with some of the others?” Den Fellaemion looked up from studying the rocky floor of the cavern.
“I have and that was even worse; we found ourselves harried on all sides by hostile Artificers.” Guinalle shuddered at the memory. “We barely broke free of entanglement, Larasion blight their seed!”
“So we have only ourselves to rely on,” said the Messire softly, grimly.
“We’re well into the sailing season,” Temar protested halfheartedly. “There will be the new ships on the way who can break through the blockade, if we can only hold out for half a season, maybe less. How close would they have to be for you to contact them, Guinalle, without making yourself a target?” he added hastily.
Den Fellaemion sighed. “There will be no ships, Temar, in this season or any other.”
Temar could only stare, first at Den Fellaemion and then at Guinalle, who colored and hung her head. “What do you mean?”
“There will be no new colonists this year, Temar.” Den Fellaemion could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “We had precious few last year, didn’t we? The last ships of the season brought me several letters, from my House and from others, all saying the same thing. Nemith is running the Empire into the sands on all fronts, hamstringing his troops with lack of resources at the same time as driving them on like a madman with a metal flailed whip. No one has men or coin to spare to venture overseas; all the provinces are going up in flames. We are on our own here.”