The Song of Andiene

CHAPTER 23



It would be easy to leave without a farewell, Kallan thought. Not so easy to explain and speak gently. And he spoke with a divided mind, fighting back a fierce joy that he would not show, even to himself, for it was made of foolishness and treachery.

“Why did you not bring him back?” Andiene’s face and voice were filled with pain.

“What was I to do? March him back with my sword at his throat as though he were some felon? He was unsworn, free to come and go as he pleased.”

“Without one word.”

Such grief, such terrible grief was in her face. “My lady, he did not dare; he did not trust himself. He was almost torn in two with his own grief and longing.”

Then Andiene wept, unaccustomed tears. Neither he, nor Syresh nor any man but one, had seen her weep since she had come down from the dragon’s land. They watched in silence, the men from Oreja standing a little apart and murmuring among themselves, not understanding. And presently, Andiene raised her head, stony-faced, and gave the commands. They would turn and march west toward Mareja, as they had planned.

The day was spent descending into the foothills and shallow valleys of the kingdom. They passed a few people, gatherers and travelers, but not many, for most, seeing such a well-armed band, were quick to disappear into the brush at the side of the road. Andiene walked by herself. Kallan stayed back among the men he had recruited.

Syresh sought him out that evening, after they had eaten. “I do not like this. We are strong enough to frighten these weaponless villagers, but what use will we be against the army that Nahil will send when he learns where we are? He has had all summer to prepare and plan.”

“I trust her wisdom,” Kallan said. “I’ll not question it.”

Syresh looked doubtful. “Why did your friend leave?”

“He had reasons. He was no traitor, and no coward.”

On the other side of the campfire, Sireles, one of the archers who had shot their evening meal, spoke to Lenane. She smiled at him, but stepped past him. He spoke more urgently. Syresh began to rise, but Kallan caught at his sleeve and pulled him down again. “Let her fight her own fight.”

“It is mine, too!”

“Is it?” Kallan asked dryly. “I never saw one better suited for a camp of men—to defend herself, I mean!”

Syresh bit his lip and watched as Lenane walked away, not angry, or flirting, but coldly indifferent. He spoke suddenly. “That ring you wear, hidden under your shirt, how did she know of it?”

“Not as you’re wondering. The string that held it frayed, and it fell, and when I searched for it later, I could not find it. So I guessed rightly and asked her.” Kallan smiled as memories came back to him.

“There is an animal of the northern plains, ‘dunnerat’ they call it, that has an eye to little things, and will steal the dagger from your side while you sleep, or take your rings from your fingers … and one man swore that he woke stripped naked, even his boots pulled from off his feet, because the subtle little things had taken a fancy to his clothing.”

Syresh did not laugh. “She would not steal, once she grew accustomed to having all she needed,” he said confidently.

“If you like to think that, you may, but there’s no harm in having a fondness for a dunnerat, if you know it for what it is.”

Syresh started to answer hotly, but Andiene came toward them, her hair gleaming in the firelight like mirror-polished metal.

“Lord Kallan, I would have a word with you in private. Syresh, speak with the other men, and calm them if they should be afraid.”

Kallan felt a touch of fear, but he followed her obediently out of the ring of firelight, to the darker hillslope that rose above the camp.

She sat down in the long grass, hands clasped around her knees. “Nahil has sent his spies through all this land,” she said. “You know that as well as I. I want them to have news to report that will make their travel worth the time and trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“I chose you, because you were the oldest, have the longest memories,” she said. “And because you were the least likely to run mad with fear. You have an army within you. Think of the men you have fought beside, the men you have fought against.”

Her fingers wrapped coolly around Kallan’s wrist. When he had first seen her in the safehold, there had been the same tone of power and determination in her voice. But they had traveled many roads together since then. He trusted her.

Memories, bright memories, and where did he begin? He closed his eyes and called up the garrison of Mareja, numbering through the ranks one by one in his mind. Archers, swordsmen, the few arrogant horsemen. He tried to see them clearly, as she desired.

Then he went further back, and along darker ways, thinking of the ones he had seen executed for treason, not as they were dragged to the executioner’s torch, but as they had been before, strong and proud, too many of them, but he numbered them quickly.

The men he had fought against were blurred in his mind, but as he tried to recall them, their faces became clearer, mazed with disbelief as death came to them. There were some he did not dare to think of, a king of Mareja and his sons grown tall and strong, so he turned his mind north, to other kingdoms, Montrubeja, Lareja, Alliseja—men that had served other kings. The young ones, so foolishly young; the old ones grown grim and cruel. It sickened him to think of them. Truly, I must be growing old.

The toll went on, men wearing the mail and colors of the lords of six kingdoms, so many of them dead, so long ago. Kallan was weary beyond all endurance when he opened his eyes and stood up, to see an army standing behind them, an army of ghosts, stretching back and back into the shadows.

They seemed solid. They had no ghost-look about them. Their chests rose and fell gently as though they breathed. They stood as though quietly awaiting orders, but the nearest one, Moranar, Kallan knew. He had died ten years before.

Kallan stretched out his hand, and staggered as he touched not mailed leather, but empty air. And Moranar vanished at the touch, but row after row of silent and patient men stood beyond. Their garments were battle-worn and stained, but they did not bear the marks of their death. Ones who had died at one another’s hands stood together, comrades at last. No life lay in their eyes, but blind patience only.

When Kallan stepped back, Moranar reappeared, his face the same, obediently waiting. Andiene’s voice was proud. “Does it not make a brave showing for any spies?”

Kallan looked at her wildly. “What are these? Where did you conjure them from?”

She laughed. “Nothingness. Air and nothingness. Do not fear. I have not called up the spirits of the dead, but their likenesses only. Nothing but your memories made visible. I could have used my own memories, but you have known many more warriors than I have ever seen.”

The phantom army stood quietly, a well-trained host. Kallan looked at the faces more closely. They were filled with shadowy pain. The tinge of his memories, or some more subtle thing? Did it trouble the dead to have their guises used thus? Then he turned back to the camp, and his own troops, men who breathed and lived and were full of dread at the sight of the shadow army that waited on the hillside above them.

It was not easy to reassure them. Kallan kept guard that night. No movement on the dark hillside. The men were too afraid to try to flee. On the upper slopes, the quiet shapes of the dead blotted out the stars. Kallan watched and did not sleep.

“Why did you summon them so soon?” he asked in the morning.

“They will protect us,” Andiene said. “We need fear no ambush. The spies will keep their distance, and he will know I have an army to be reckoned with. Your men will grow accustomed to them.”

Her gaze drifted to where Syresh and Lenane sat. “What troubles them, do you think?”

They had joined the camp arguing softly, continuing their dispute through a quickly eaten breakfast. Then Syresh’s voice rang louder. “Not so!” he said. He caught hold of her hand and held it above the campfire. “You are witnesses, all of you.” Lenane looked at him in amazement, but made no move to pull away.

“You are all witnesses,” he repeated, and indeed he had the attention of all of them, his old comrades, and the new band that Kallan had brought.

“We have shared our bed, and we have shared our food, and we will walk together through winter and summer, and all that I have I bring to you.”

Lenane opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She swallowed once, twice; Kallan could see the motion of her throat. Her face was filled with disbelief, but at last she spoke. “We have shared our bed, and we have shared our food, and I will walk with you through winter and summer, and whatever I have, I bring to you.”

Kallan spoke softly to Andiene. “In Mareja he has a mother and father, proud and stiff-necked, ready to kill the witnesses to such an ill-matched marriage. But they cannot kill us all!”

Then he smiled as he looked at them, a proper pairing, it seemed, the two least touched by sorrow, grief, and guilt. He was filled with gratitude to them, too, that they had given such a joyful distraction to the others. The men of Oreja laughed and joked and seemed almost to have forgotten the silent ones behind them.

Kallan kissed Lenane, as was his right, and said, “All this great work accomplished so easily, with no show of claws!”

Syresh heard it and turned, ready to fight if necessary, but saw that both of them were laughing.

But the laughter died when they broke camp, for the ghostly army followed after them, marching silently, their feet not bending a blade of grass as they passed. A true army would have filled the air with talking, curses, the ringing of metal. But these were silent, and the true men were silent too, oppressed by the ones that followed them.

In a week they came to the wide valley that lay below Mareja, that Kallan had sketched in the earth for Andiene, weeks before. When he looked to the west now, he saw the dazzle of light upon the water.

The blaggorn grew scanty in the valley. No bands of thornfruit hedges crossed it, nor did any lanara trees grow in it. Rusty flowers sprang in the grass, sangry and carniven, blooming in remembrance and prophecy. The city shone golden in the setting sun.

“Tomorrow,” said Andiene.

“What colors have you chosen?” Kallan asked. “I have worn the colors of two kings, and Syresh, young as he is, of two also, but I think that these you choose will be the last that we will wear.”

“Gray and gold,” Andiene said.

“A strange mix.”

“Gray, for my schooling, and for my adversaries.” She waited and watched him. Though his mind ran wild with speculation, he did not speak. “Gold, my father’s color, and for royalty.”

“Royalty and death,” he said. “The same color.”

“Ilbran might have said that,” she said, the first time she had spoken his name. Kallan nodded. In the stillness, Lenane began to pluck her lute and sing.

Dear heart, bring me Radel’s Bane,

(The far-off shore, the bitter sea,)

Do not let me live in pain,

(The waterfall roars endlessly,)

It was the Song of Karstir, how he and Lanissiril, his friend who was not a mortal man, went to the edge of the world in search of the great dragon who had destroyed Radel in all his pride.

Radel’s Bane lies far away,

(The far-off shore, the bitter sea,)

But I will find him if I may,

(The waterfall roars endlessly,)

I will find him if I may—”

“Enough!” said Andiene. Do not sing that song!”

Lenane was a minstrel, quick to obey the whims of her listeners. She did not protest, but began another tune, one that Kallan did not recognize. “Better yet, find me some gray cloth,” Andiene said.

“How did you know she would have it?” asked Kallan, as Lenane searched through her pack.

“She has not failed me yet,” Andiene said, “whether it be scissors or a soup-kettle I need.”

“At some point, you will have to teach her to mend her manners.”

“I know, but she has given me laughter when I needed it more than any other thing in this wide world.”

She went to where Lenane sat. Together they cut and sewed the badges, gold quartered with gray, the tan of unbleached lanara serving for gold.

Syresh sat by himself, a fond and foolish smile on his face as he watched Lenane.

“There’s the matter of another song,” Kallan said, so softly that none could hear. “The lord who was so beguiled by a dunnerat that he married her.” Still, for all his amusement, he had not forgotten that it was the eve of battle. Soon, he called Syresh to him, and they went to where the men of Oreja waited, quiet and eager.

When he had recruited them, he had told them stories of magic. They had come prepared to see strange things. As Andiene had predicted, they had grown accustomed to their silent companions.

Now, Kallan spoke to them of the coming battle. “Stay in groups of two or three, close enough that you can warn and guard each other.” They nodded, sober-faced. “But do not be too brave. Strike a few blows, and then lose yourselves in the crowd, else they will know the true men by the dead that surround them.”

Indeed, he sounded more confident than he was. Who had ever fought this kind of battle before, to know what men would do when faced with a vision of terror. The next morning, he was still more doubtful, as the south gates of the city opened, and Nahil’s men came out, a never-ending procession, ten hundred, fifteen hundred, certainly all the fighting-men the city and countryside had held, swordsmen, spearmen, archers, and horsemen. One in the front ranks rode an albanet, a rare sight in any battle.

Kallan felt more alone than he had ever been, for no swordsmen stood at his side, in this battle greater than any he had witnessed. On either side of him marched the silent hosts born of his own imagining and a sorceress’s powers.

There was no parley before the armies met. Nahil wanted no treaty of peace, nor did Andiene, but they waited for some time, as though judging each other’s strength. If these ghosts had all been true men, her army could not have stood against that great host, Kallan thought. Nahil must be greatly afraid, to stake all his men on this one battle. But he has had the summer to think and fear, as Andiene planned.



The toneless bellow of horns was the call to attack. Nahil’s archers stood back and shot over the heads of their own men. Kallan, running forward, could have laughed, if he had had time, to see that bright-feathered deadly rain fall as harmlessly as any rain among the silent ghosts. They ran on either side of him as living men would have run, wearing gold and gray badges that were not woven of cloth, but of the mind’s delusion.

As always, time seemed to have slowed, in the moments before the front lines collided. Then there was fighting to be done, but strange fighting. Nahil’s men burst through the front line, swords slashing and stabbing at the air, then turned in bewilderment to try to discover their enemies.

Kallan fought as he had planned, to strike and step aside, so that they did not know who their enemy had been. And he was glad that he had planned so long and often, for in the battle there was no time for thought or fear. Blood and death, the ease of fighting that comes of long practice, and many battles. He stepped aside from one who ran blindly striking out at phantoms, and then cut him down from behind.

Butchery, sheer butchery. There were ones he knew among this crowd, ones he had trusted. No time for pity or recognition. He thought coldly that if Nahil had not betrayed him, he would have been one of them, blundering his way through a fog of enemies. Creatures of air and nothingness surrounded them. They could find no one to fight, and yet, they saw their comrades die.

Andiene’s ghosts fought with the skill of the swordsmen whose likenesses they wore. Nahil’s men warded off death-blows from phantoms, and seeing that those enemies were but phantoms, they did not guard themselves from other blows struck by men with swords of true steel.

Here and there, knots of close-packed men fought and slew one another, for lack of a better enemy. And some, run mad in another way, recognized friends and comrades arrayed against them, ones long dead. They fled in terror, throwing down their weapons.

Soon, more fled, and more, in a terror that grew like forest madness. The gates of the city were closed and barred against them; Nahil had been the first to flee. The men came to the high city wall and divided like waves breaking against a rock. Some fled east to freedom, and some fled west to the sea-cliffs, as far as they could run.

The field was clear. Kallan called his men to him. They came; he counted them. There were wounds that would need to be cleaned and bandaged, but none that should kill a man. They were alive, all walking, still battle-drunk. He praised them, as they stood looking around in wonder. The shadow folk stood a few paces off, as perfect as ever, untouched by the day’s fighting. The sun had not risen far above the horizon.

Andiene came to them, weeping as she went. “Do not weep,” Kallan said joyfully. “This is a great victory, of a few against a mighty army.”

How shall I pay you when this day is done? For a moment he saw mad anger in her stare, and death itself as his payment for his service. He who gives a king his heart’s desire must beware. Then she was calm again, but weeping still. “This was what I dreamed of, long ago. I saw this valley, too.”

She stared up at the sky, where the vultures circled already. There was passion and grief in her voice. “I would that there would be no more dying!”

“There may not be,” he said.

“We have not won into the city yet.”

“We may not need to.” He spoke to Syresh and Eliad. “Tend to your wounds, and when you are done, see what you can do for those we fought, the ones that live.

“And come with me,” he said to Andiene. “No, leave your army where it stands. We do not want to drive them over the cliffs with terror.”

It was her turn to be confused, but she followed him, as he walked toward the men that huddled on the brink of the sea-cliffs, an army no longer, but men gone mad with fear, with barely enough wit to halt on the edge of the solid earth.

“I do not think they will dare to attack us, but if they do, can you guard us?” Kallan asked. Andiene nodded. “I only hope that one of the high command was left to deal with,” he said.

They stopped a few hundred paces from the crowd of soldiers, and waited. Kallan scanned the crowd. Murmuring and uneasy movement, fearfulness, none bold enough to speak. He waited patiently. One pushed his way through the crowd, speaking brisk orders. They obeyed. Kallan narrowed his eyes to see better, and shouted, “Aren!”

The man turned, shading his eyes, for the sun was low in the east behind them still. He took an uncertain step closer. Kallan advanced also. “Aren, do you know me?”

“I know no filthy illusion!”

“Who trades words with an illusion? I am as real as you. Look.”

Kallan unbuckled his sword from his back, and tossed it aside. He pulled his dagger from its sheath, and threw it far and wide to ring on a rock as it fell. “See, I am weaponless and real. Come and treat with us, if you have the power.”

The other man hesitated, then, dropping his sword and dagger on the ground, he came forward. He was a warrior like many others, a little older than Kallan, taller, swarthier, not greatly marked by the battle. His wary eyes surveyed them both.

“You know me, Aren. I am no ghost and no sorcerer. I fight for Andiene, who is rightful queen of your city.” He needed to give no better explanation. Aren turned to look at her in wonder.

“Do your men have so much love for Nahil that they will continue the fight?” Kallan asked.

“No. No, my lord, my lady.” Aren looked doubtfully from one to the other.

“If you have men that are skilled in woundcraft, you may send them to the field to help their fellows. Only have them lay down their weapons first,” said Kallan.

Aren grinned joylessly. “There are more weapons thrown down on the field than they took with them. But I thank you.”

“I pray that you may save them all,” Andiene said in her young and grieving voice. “They are my people.”

Aren called his orders to the men behind him, then turned back, to study her for a long time. “Only let us return alone, my lady, and we will open the gates for you.”

“I want no more fighting,” she said.

“No fighting will be needed. We are an army ourselves, and those few that are within are our friends. You will be able to enter into your kingdom this day.” He turned to the remnants of his army. Gradually, they ordered themselves and began the march back to the city.

Andiene looked around the battlefield once more. Mounds of cloth and flesh strewn like stones on the ground. The white albanet lying still, its throat gashed red, its rider crushed beneath it. The cries of men in mortal pain, the golden ones gliding wide-winged to earth.

I have no power to heal, only to destroy. She remembered the dragon’s voice. No seed, nor root of healing, nor could seed grow in that barren soil.

Her voice was bitter, as she said, “I see the difference now between the prophesies of my return in glory and power, and the truth, this plain scattered with death.”

Kallan shook his head. “This was an easy battle. Did you truly believe the songs? They never speak of such things.”

***

Far to the north, Ilbran bound Kare’s eyes with a strip of cloth. She did not protest, or ask him why. She had not spoken many words since he had chosen the paths to the north. She grieved silently for her companions, and did not weep.

Her father grieved also. No hounds of men or demons hunted him now. He had chosen his path and he walked on it freely. This was freedom, far from the walls of the city or the paths of the forest. Still, he grieved.

Bright Andiene. ‘For all eternity,’ I vowed, as lovers do. I am twice forsworn.



No joy lay in this land, where his daughter followed him blindfolded. He did not look right or left as he climbed through the rocky hills. The shortest path to the kingdoms of the north lies through the city of the dead. Once, he had turned aside from that horror, but now he was older, and the ones that he had loved were long dead, their bones picked clean and cast aside.

On this day, he saw no living man, the only life the vultures and golderlings, the golderlings that had warmed him through the long night and had licked his poisoned wounds clean again. Swift and joyful they ran to him, the little ones, the loving ones. Ilbran did not slow or hurry his pace.

When he stood on the highest point of that land, he turned to look south and west. Golden vultures glided on the paths of the air, flying south. Far away, a wheel of them circled patiently, dark against the sky. He did not look back again.