“You’ve known this all winter?” Temar stared at Den Fellaemion’s pallid face, the sunken eyes still steady and stern.
“What difference would it have made to spread such news?” demanded the older man. “What benefit would there have been to stir up despondency and doubts when we were doing so well, had gathered a bountiful harvest, Drianon be blessed? We were set fair to spend a busy winter making ready to spread our wings further in due season. From all I could see around me, we had no need of further men and women from Tormalin, if none should choose to come.”
Temar opened his mouth to protest but shut it again, feeling foolish as the force of Den Fellaemion’s words struck home. “And I was so sure we had driven off whatever sortie these invaders had sent against us,” he remembered bitterly. “That the loss of the Salmon was the end of it.”
“We all were,” Guinalle spoke up, her face somber. “It’s as much my failing as anyone’s, Temar.”
“We cannot simply sit here like rats in a trap, waiting for someone to put in our skulls with a club!” Temar sprang to his feet again and ripped a handful of ferns from the rocky wall, peering up hungrily at a distant patch of uncaring blue sky far above. A wisp of cloud was tinged with gold, mute evidence of the unseen sun sinking toward evening.
“There is an alternative, Temar,” Guinalle began hesitantly, her eyes sliding sideways to her uncle who gave her an encouraging nod. “There is a way we can use Artifice to hide us all in the caves until help can be summoned from Tormalin itself. We can be concealed from any search the invaders might attempt.”
Temar blinked, startled. “How? But even if you can conceal us, how will we survive? You heard what Vahil said about our lack of supplies. Curse it, Guinalle, there must be close to a thousand people here by now, and more will find their way in before nightfall, Talagrin willing, if they escape the invader’s hounds. I’m none too happy about the water supply and think how cold it was last night. To send a vessel to Toremal and wait for rescue, you’re looking at the best part of a full season, maybe more if things at home are as bad as Messire thinks!” He shook his head with fresh determination, ignoring the fear of confinement in the caves that was clamoring in the back of his mind. “No, whatever the risks, we must find a way out of here and try to make it overland to the new settlement. Use your Artifice to conceal us while we’re doing that, to stop these murdering bastards hunting us down and cutting us to pieces again.”
“Even if we could find a way out undetected, half these people would be dead before you’d crossed the first range of mountains, Temar.” Den Fellaemion looked down the rough-cut steps crudely hacked into the rock to give access to the main body of the cave. Temar followed his gaze, to the knots of families huddled together over a few meager possessions salvaged from the nightmare, at the individuals sitting isolated in the horror of their memories, at the still ranks of wounded, laid carefully on beds improvised from cloaks, blankets and in not a few cases leafy branches and sacking. The oppressive silence had a dull, defeated quality, broken only occasionally by a child’s whimper or a low sob of pain, mental or physical.
“We can’t just give up!” protested Temar, fighting to shore up his own determination.
“We can hide ourselves in a sleep woven of Artifice,” Guinalle said softly, boundless pity in her soft eyes as she looked down at the ragged remnant of the once optimistic colonists. “We can give these people respite, all life and thought suspended, Arimelin willing, until help can come to drive away these invaders.”
“How?” demanded Temar, incredulous.
“There is a way to separate mind and body,” Guinalle shook the loose hair back from her face and fumbled in a pocket for something to tie it back. “It is a rarely used technique…” her voice faltered for an instant, “only considered in times of grave illness, as a rule. The mind, the consciousness, the essence of the person, is bound into something they value, something they have an attachment to. With the mind removed and in stasis within the artifact, the body is held uncorrupted in an enchantment until the two are reunited.”
“And how would you propose to do that, even supposing you manage to do this with so many people?” Temar stared at her, absently handing her a scrap of leather thong pulled from the trim of his jerkin.
“This is where sending a small detachment overland to the new settlement becomes a valid plan. You’re right, Temar, there is a way through the caves; some of the miners found it a while back. It’s difficult and narrow, underwater in places but it’s passable with care and Misaen’s favor.” Animation brought a false hint of color to Den Fellaemion’s wasted cheeks. “We send a picked band, fighting men, good in the wilds, to get past the invaders undetected, with the aid of Artifice if we can spare someone. They can take these valuables, wherever the minds of these folk left behind reside.”
“To tell the stockmen to strike back, to mount a rescue?” Temar’s doubts warred with gathering hope in his voice.
“No.” Den Fellaemion shook his head decisively. “To tell them to take ship and flee, Dastennin guard them. Curse it, Temar, you’ve served your House in the Cohorts; how could farmers and stockmen hope to take on greater numbers of trained troops, secure in a defended position, even without the complications of Artifice? No, my orders will be absolutely clear; they must make all speed back to Zyoutessela while the weather is favorable. Then they must enlist the aid of every House that has blood or tenants here in gathering a fleet to come in force and drive these white-haired demons back to their barren islands.”
“You think the help will come in time?” asked Temar, struggling to absorb this astounding proposal. “Could force enough be rallied to cross the ocean before the autumn sets in?”
“Could the Sieur of any House deny his support, given tokens that contain the very life-essence of his people to hold in his hand? Could he face his brothers and sons knowing he was condemning those minds to forever remain frozen and insensible, far from their bodies sleeping in a distant cavern for all eternity?” Den Fellaemion’s voice was soft, but his eyes were as keen as steel.
“I see what you mean,” said Temar faintly. “How could they refuse?”
“So will you help us?” Guinalle asked, her eyes pleading with Temar. “We need to persuade our people here that this is their only hope. We have to call on all the ingrained loyalties to each Name that we bear, give them just enough information to convince them to do this. Without their belief in the plan, it cannot work.”
Temar nodded, his mind already searching the plan for any flaw or opportunity. “So who will you be sending overland?” he asked Den Fellaemion, “Those with families in the new settlement might be best—”
“They will be the first to submit to Guinalle’s ministrations,” Den Fellaemion said sternly. “Use your wits, Temar, these people have been through a waking nightmare and I am only going to put demands on them where I must.”
“I don’t understand,” frowned Temar.
“Think about it, lad,” the Messire rubbed a weary hand over his bloodless lips. “If we are sending people away from horror and death, toward safety and their loved ones, if danger threatens, who among them is going to struggle to protect a burden, however precious they have been told it might be? I don’t mean to condemn our people as cowards, but be realistic, Temar, we need to send men who will lose their lives before they lose these valuables. More than that, we need to give the settlers at the new port every incentive to get home, to rouse a riot if need be, to summon aid and bring help to restore their own loved ones to life again.”
Temar could see Guinalle was as shaken by this uncompromising argument as he was.