? ? ?
She feels his return with a rush of joy, untarnished by the fierce enmity with which he colours his mind. The long days of his absence have been hard. Loneliness, once a long-forgotten sensation, has been difficult to master, provoking a despairing ache as she indulges in memories of their glorious time together. Instead of his voice this time he offers a vision, from the clarity she judges he has spent a long time viewing this scene, trying to capture every detail. She deduces that his return is not accidental, whatever contrivance he has used to mask his dreams now removed; he wants her to see.
A thousand or more Varitai and Free Swords lie dead in a canyon, somewhere in the hill country east of New Kethia to judge by the landscape. People in mismatched armour wander among the dead finishing the wounded and gathering weapons. She finds herself smiling in amusement. You win a victory, beloved, she tells him. How delightful. I’ve been searching for some excuse to execute the governor of Eskethia.
The enmity deepens, the thoughts coalescing into words, her heart leaping at the sound of his voice. Come and face me. We will finish this.
She sighs, pushing a hand through her hair and letting her gaze wander over the grey ocean stretching away from the cliff. It is starting to rain, the north-western coastline is ever damp in winter, though the seas are calmer than expected. Her slaves scurry forward bearing an awning, keen to shield the Empress from the elements. She dismisses them with an irritated wave. They are expert slaves, attentive in the extreme, but for a woman accustomed to privation and danger, their devotion to her comfort is an annoyance, leaving scant regret at their imminent fate.
I’m sorry, beloved, she tells him, eyes now fixed on the horizon and her heart beating faster with the joy of anticipation. But I have business here. You’ll have to amuse yourself with my slaves for a while longer.
The enmity subsides, transforming into a reluctant curiosity. She laughs, exulting as the first masts appear on the horizon, raising her gaze to the sky and finding it rich in clouds. She beckons the captain of her escort to her side, an Arisai like the others, promoted due to his slightly more controlled viciousness. “Kill the slaves,” she tells him. “Also, we passed a village a mile back. There can be no witnesses to my presence here. See to it.”
“Empress.” He bows, his expression one of near adoration, though, like the others, cruelty is rarely absent from his eyes. He turns away, moving towards the slaves and drawing his sword.
Her limbs tremble as she turns back to the sea, deaf to the screams as she summons the gift. She is slightly regretful at the necessity, having grown fond of this shell. But another awaits her in Volar, this one a little taller though not quite so athletic.
Formalities must be observed, my love, she tells him, raising her arms and focusing on the clouds, watching them dance in response to the gift. It is time for an empress to greet a queen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vaelin
The next storm lasted longer than the first, two full days of labouring along behind Cara’s gift-crafted shield. The constant exertion had forced her to reduce its reach, obliging them to move in a dense clutch, Orven’s guardsmen walking shoulder to shoulder with Alturk’s Sentar. For all the jostling and unwelcome proximity there was no trouble; the ferocity of the storm raging on all sides left little room for other preoccupations. Cara began to falter on the second day, stumbling to her knees several times and only managing to maintain the shield by sharing with both Kiral and Marken at once. By the time night fell the other Gifted had all shared to the point of collapse and Cara was barely conscious, mumbling in delirium as blood flowed from her nose and eyes.
“We have to end this!” Lorkan railed at Vaelin, barely able to stand himself. “Any more and she’ll die.”
Vaelin turned to Wise Bear with a questioning glance. The old shaman frowned and pushed his way to the edge of the company, poking his staff beyond the shield wall into the howling white fury beyond. “Wind dies, but slowly,” he reported. He hesitated, glancing back at Cara then straightened with decision. “Make circle, horses on outside. Cover all flesh, keep tight together.”
It took some awkward manoeuvring to arrange the horses and ponies in a circle, by which time Cara had weakened yet further. “Stop now, Little Bird,” Wise Bear said, maintaining his habit of ignoring their own names for those he chose.
“Can’t,” she breathed, eyes closed and leaking blood. “The storm . . . the price.”
“Storm fades,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Stop now.”