Another figure spread his hands; his voice was smooth as silk. “You’ve said it all already.”
“Let us be more plainspoken, then,” the Tortho said. “After mad Xenovere and the crazed primate, this new emperor may be the best thing to happen to Tingara in a very long time. But he has spent much of his time living as a foreigner, and his loyalty to Tingara is untested. He has friends in Altura and Petrya and among the Hazarans. Speaking simply, we cannot afford to lose the Legion. If Altura calls, and the emperor decides to send away those who should rightfully be protecting Tingara, then the emperor’s decision must not stand. We have sent men to the west to isolate Altura, but here at home we must prepare for a signal still reaching the emperor.”
Carla gulped. This was where she came into the plan, she knew. She’d fought hard to take her seat at the secret circles of power in Seranthia: a Halrana by birth, she’d had to prove herself time and again before she’d earned her new family’s trust. After the death of her father, the streetclans were the natural home for someone who despised the mad emperor, someone who had no family, no home, and no other place to go. She had to fulfill her duty.
“Though we come from different backgrounds and share different interests, we are united patriots, all of us. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Although our last rulers were despots, they nonetheless gave rightful precedence to Tingara above all others. We are uncertain about the new emperor. If he cares more for the other houses than he does for Tingara, he threatens everything.”
A chorus of assent came from the room.
And then they told Carla what she must do.
16
Jehral rode through the desert as only a horseman born and bred could do, lunging up the soft sand of the dunes and scrabbling down the reverse sides as he spurred his horses to ever greater efforts. Carrying only enough water for a few days, he strictly rationed himself to tiny sips, hoping the speed of his journey would get him through.
Taking advantage of the glittering starlight shining through the clear night skies, he rode through the days and into the nights, rotating mounts as he went, speeding past the strange rock formations and finally seeing red boulders replace the yellow sands as he entered Petrya.
As he left the desert behind, he was able to make better headway, spurring his horse into a gallop, with his two remounts trailing behind. The sound of hooves clattering on rock filled his consciousness, providing an unceasing rhythm to his journey so that even in the small snatches of sleep, he dreamt of the patter of horse feet.
Winding through Petrya’s northwest, skirting the forests of rust-colored trees, he found the thin trail leading up to the mountains, and called forth ever greater efforts from his mounts as the slope steepened and the trail carved a zigzag path up the face of the mighty Elmas.
Jehral cursed when the treacherous Wondhip Pass again forced him to dismount. Leading all three of his horses, he walked as fast as he was able over the loose scree and treacherous gravel, navigating his way around fallen boulders and into the gully that was the pass’s highest point.
As Jehral was about to pass under Ella’s tower, he looked up at the prism, seeing it was still dark and unlit. The enemy fleet must still be missing. Only Jehral knew it was close. Miro needed to send every man to Castlemere and prepare for the worst.
He thought about what he’d seen. The wrecked revenant ship told a story better than any written account. He remembered the way the single animated corpse had destroyed his men. The urgency of his mission spurred him on. Altura must know.
One of Jehral’s horses, a young and inexperienced mare, stumbled and whinnied in pain as Jehral heard a terrible crack that sent a shiver crawling up his back. The horse drew to a halt, and Jehral saw her lift her leg, eyes wide and body trembling. Splinters of bone protruded from the broken leg; the horse would never make it down from the mountain.
Jehral cursed and felt the animal’s pain and terror as if it were his own. He led his other two mounts forward through the gully and to the other side. They wouldn’t want to see this.
He hobbled the two horses and turned back into the gully. The wounded mare was in terrible agony, and Jehral’s heart reached out to her.
“You have done well,” he whispered in soothing tones. The mare looked at him and rolled her eyes while she shivered. Jehral drew his sword and rested his hand on the horse’s neck as he found the right place to make his strike, behind her foreleg. He continued to speak in a soft voice, and then with one swift move he plunged the blade into the horse’s side, driving hard to reach the heart. She died instantly as Jehral stood back and hung his head.