"What's not possible-or what I'd have thought to be impossible, anyway-is for them to completely ignore the situation like they have been. Even if they can't agree on a unified response, many dukes, barons, and Guildmasters would've responded on their own. We should've seen at least a few armies by now-mobilizing near the border, if not attacking outright."
Irrial nodded thoughtfully. "But the only soldiers we've seen have been guarding the cities and estates we've passed along the road. So something's keeping them not only from unifying, but from mobilizing entirely." She frowned. "Part of it, of course, is those murders."
"Which we both know I didn't commit." Then, at her expression, "Oh, come on, Irrial! No matter how much you might distrust me now, you were there."
"I don't actually know how much magic you have, Rebaine."
"If I could just whisk myself from city to city, do you think I'd be pounding my rear end raw on that saddle? Besides," he added, "you pretty much knew where I was every minute, didn't you?"
Irrial actually wrapped her arms around herself. "Don't remind me."
'Me, either.'
"The point," Corvis continued, pretending not to be stung by the revulsion in her tone, "is that my supposed reappearance is awfully convenient. Either whoever's impersonating me is in league with Cephira, or they're using the Cephiran invasion as a distraction from something else. In either case, while I can see the return of Corvis Rebaine causing quite a stir, I don't know if it's enough to keep every noble and Guild in check. So we have to find out not only who's pretending to be me, but what else is going on in the halls of power. And that means going to, well, the halls of power."
"And how, pray tell, do you plan to get anyone to tell you what's going on? Or convince them you're not responsible for the attacks?"
"As to the latter, I'm working on that. And as to the former…" Corvis grinned. "Let's just say that I still have a certain amount of influence."
"What sort of influence?" she asked suspiciously.
"Why, my lady, the same sort that inspires a Cephiran siege team to attack their own people."
Irrial had further questions-he could see it in her face-but her rising from the campfire and walking away was sufficient indication that, for tonight, she'd heard enough.
It was a modest celebration by any standard, attended by a scant two dozen souls-and if most had known the happy couple for less than a year, that made them ignorant, not blind. So when the groom vanished from the hall of that small wooden temple, someone was bound to notice, but for the moment he just didn't much care.
Outside in the courtyard, he strode through the sparse spring precipitation, feeling the water drip down the back of his fancy (albeit secondhand) doublet, watched the petals of the brightly colored flowers bend and rebound against the rain. Finding a marble bench that was likely older, and certainly sturdier, than the temple itself, he lowered himself to the stone. The accumulated rain that instantly soaked through the seat of his pants was a small price to pay for getting off his feet for a bit. Precisely what sadistic inquisitor, he wondered sourly to himself, had come up with what modern society laughably called "formal shoes"?
"You know," a gentle voice said from behind, "you're supposed to get cold feet before the wedding. Fleeing afterward doesn't really do any good."
He smiled and raised a hand to cover the smaller fingers on his shoulder. "I was actually just thinking about feet," he answered. "Aren't we supposed to be married longer than an hour before you start reading my mind?"
Tyannon, absolutely resplendent in a borrowed gown of whites and greens-and utterly oblivious to what the rain was doing to the fine materials, or the elaborate coiffure that had taken hours to arrange just so-stepped around the bench and took a seat beside him. "What is it?" she asked, her tone far more serious.
"It's just… Cerris."
She blinked, and he knew it wasn't because of the water. "What?"
"Cerris. Tyannon, the priest called me 'Cerris.' "
"Well, yes. That's what we told him your name was. It's not as though we could have-"
"I know. But…" He waved helplessly, sending a spray of water arcing over the flowers, perpendicular to the rain. "Can we build a marriage-" he asked in a whisper, "can we build a life-on a lie?"
"No! Not a lie." She slid from the bench, dropping to her knees before him, allowing the gown to soak in the rivulets of water and mud as she clasped both his hands in her own. "Cerris? The man you are now? He's a good man, and he's not the man you were. How can it be a lie for me to be married to Cerris, when that's who you are?"
Corvis-Cerris-stared down at his new bride, and gave thanks for the gentle shower that washed away his tears. AND THEN TYANNON WAS CALLING his name, her voice low but harsh. Except it wasn't Tyannon, as his bleary eyes opened, but Irrial standing opposite the embers of the dead fire, waking him for his turn at watch. She nodded brusquely as he awoke and returned to her own blanket without another word.
He was grateful, then, that the second woman Corvis had stolen from Cerris's arms fell swiftly asleep, for today no rain fell to hide his tears. THE LAST FEW LEAGUES OF ROADWAY GREW somewhat more crowded again, not with refugees-a few had come this far, true, but only a few-but with more traditional travelers: farmers and merchants, laborers and couriers.
And soldiers.
Not nearly enough, as Irrial had hoped when first spotting them, to suggest that Imphallion was finally mobilizing. No, these were sporadic patrols of a dozen or fewer, less concerned with advancing eastward than in carefully scouring those coming west. After their third time being stopped and questioned without explanation, Corvis realized that these sentinels must have been assigned to ensure that none of the fugitives come from the border were actually Cephiran agents in disguise.
As if there were any way to tell. "Damn fools," he grumbled to himself, his words lost to the tromping of the warhorse's hooves. "Even when they decide to do something, it's a bloody waste of effort."
'Sort of like leading an untrained resistance against the Cephiran army on behalf of a woman who'd now sooner behead you than bed you, Corvis?'
If this is just all in my mind, Corvis bemoaned silently, I must really hate myself.
Thanks to some quick shopping in towns along the way, the travelers who finally arrived at the towering gates of Mecepheum were not entirely the same pair who had fled Rahariem. Irrial wore a fine green cloak, lined in velvet, over a startlingly white tunic and thick riding trousers. The fellow accompanying her was clad in the formal but practical outfit of a household servant, and sported a few weeks' worth of neatly trimmed beard.
He also, due rather less to new clothes than to judicious use of subtle illusions, didn't especially resemble Corvis Rebaine. It had been a long time, but there were too many among the capital's elite who might recognize him.
When Irrial had asked how he could make use of his local contacts when he didn't resemble himself, he'd merely wiggled his fingers and said "Maaaaagic."
She hadn't spoken to him since.
Although it required standing in line for upward of an hour, they entered the city with little hassle or fanfare, stopping just inside the gates to take a long look. After occupied Rahariem, Mecepheum was an alien land. The streets were bustling-one might even say "flooded"-with people and horses, carts and wagons, all shoving their way through walls of sweaty flesh. The tumult was nigh overwhelming, but it was the typical rumble of daily life, with nary a sob of despair or a barked command to be heard. The absence of shattered homes and piles of rubble seemed somehow improper, as though Mecepheum were rudely refusing to acknowledge the troubles of its distant sister.