Colonel Grimme went into a fury when he was dispossessed of his tent, but the order had been given, and not even he was brave enough to challenge a Sorian for it after Hallstoy had backed down. Dujahn stepped inside the musty tent. It reeked of sweat and ale. The fabric blotted out some of the noise and he stood quietly for a moment, feeling his entire body race with the heat. He had felt the power in the orb as he held it in his hand. He could have done anything with it! He wiped his forehead and paused, listening to the sounds of the camp rumble around him. Reaching into the pouch at his waist, he withdrew the fist-sized sphere again. The smoky orange light pulsed inside it, giving the orb a throbbing dull red glow. It was like staring into smoking coals, but the orb was cool. There were shapes in the mist, but she had warned him not to look at them. It was dangerous to do so. Dujahn looked away and set the orb on the tent floor. He backed away from it.
The flickering magic danced in the orb and the shapes began to take form. The reddish light grew brighter, yet darkening the tent as well as it covered his boots and hands and then the tent wall all around. The churn of magic came inside the pavilion, and Dujahn felt it grip and twist his stomach. It was like dancing on a hill during a lightning storm. A cool breeze came from the red-hot orb, and suddenly Dujahn found himself shivering.
There was a rustle of velvet robes and Miestri stood before him, holding the sphere in her palm. She smiled and raised her eyebrow, as if asking him why he was shaking. Two Shae appeared behind her, gripping their ash longbows. As the red light jumped back into the orb, Dujahn saw gorgeous woven rugs and dangling crystals within the tent. It smelled like cinnamon and sage. A soft bed with three pallets filled nearly the entire space, but there were also stone animals – ravens, sparrows, and vultures – and wooden puppets suspended from leather strands coming from the tent poles. He stared at the dangling ornaments, but recoiled when he saw the leering and tortured faces.
“Well done,” Miestri said approvingly, slipping the ball-sized orb into her robes. “You handled Hallstoy well enough. If he had balked, you would have used the orb on him as I showed you?”
Dujahn bowed his head and stepped back, nodding. He’d killed men before. But never with magic. Never like that. Even though it was cold in the tent, he hadn’t stopped sweating. “What else do you need me to do, my Lady?” He tried not to look in her eyes, but he found he couldn’t help it. They were dark, almost black, and he couldn’t distinguish her pupils. Swallowing was a word he felt described them best. It was like staring down a cliff at night.
She stepped closer, making the velvet robes rustle. “I want to know what is going on here, Dujahn,” she whispered in her low musical voice. “Where is the Shoreland Commander? Where is Mage? When will they return? See what information you can gather and bring it to me at dawn.”
“Of course,” he answered and nodded. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Go find where the prisoners are kept. I want a young man, the youngest you can find. Bring him to me when you return.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“Don’t think, Dujahn,” she warned. “Just bring him to me.”
Dujahn felt something go black inside of him. Blinking, he thought for a moment he would faint. Stumbling, the Gray Legion spy left the tent, grateful for the soggy warmth that nestled into his armpits once he stepped outside. The buzz and the rumble of camp soothed him. There were men outside used to war and death and the thousand faces of pain in between. He understood them. He understood their motivations, fears, and desires. That was easy.
But Miestri of Vale? He shook his head, remembering what it felt like to be around her. Understanding a Sorian was like trying to understand what made the wind.
XIV
The only thing Thealos would have dreaded more was Elder Nordain walking into the Foxtale instead. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. A Crimson Wolfsmen quaere! He knuckled his forehead, worry turning to panic inside his chest. There was no mistaking it. How long had they been following him? From the plains? Or had these been watching the streets of Sol for him to arrive? Desperation tore at him, making him want to bolt for the door. But they had already positioned themselves there. There was no escape that way.
Where are you, Jaerod? Thealos silently seethed, hiding his face in his hands. Hiding his face wouldn’t help. If he could feel them, then they could certainly feel him. He risked a look across the tavern hall. They sat silently, waiting.
“In trouble with your friends?”
Thealos glanced up at the serving girl. He hadn’t heard her approach the table. He swallowed. Looking into her eyes, he realized that worry shone on his face and she could tell.
She nodded imperceptibly, forestalling an answer. “I could send for the garrison. Or would that be even worse?” Her voice pitched low enough so that only he could hear.
Thealos watched the Wolfsmen over his knuckles. He shook his head, cursing his own foolishness. “Do you have a way out the back?”
“Yes,” she nodded, holding a tray in front of her. “But the last thing you want right now is a dark alley where they can get you alone. Doesn’t look like they mean any trouble right now. Probably waiting for you to leave.” She offered a pretty smile. “I’m Ticastasy.”
“Thealos,” he replied, nodding. It helped to be talking to someone, though he knew she wouldn’t be able to do anything to save him. Not even the knight from Owen Draw in the corner of the tavern could defeat four Crimson Wolfsmen. It would take a whole company of knights. He doubted even a Sleepwalker could match that many.