The Sea of Time

XXI Before the Storm

A ghostly gibbous moon had just risen above the eastern horizon, signaling midafternoon on the last day of winter. Most of the Southern Host was busy in the training fields south of the camp, as usual. Dust rose there, and steel glinted through it in mock battle.

So much practice, to what end? wondered Harn Grip-hard as he stood on his balcony, looking south over the inner ward and the red tiled roofs of the Host’s camp. The Kencyrath had many foes, but at that moment, the war he feared most brewed within it, between brother and sister.

Blackie’s latest message lay on his desk. It was written on a scrap of parchment with jerky, dark red letters that looked like dried blood. So, Harn expected, it was. The Ardeth cadet who had presented it to him three days ago with a bandaged hand had looked quite unwell.

“The Highlord asked Lady Kirien to send this to me to give to you, Ran,” he had said. “Torisen wasn’t previously aware that the Ardeth had a far-writer among the Southern Host.”

Harn hadn’t known that either. One tended to overlook the Shanir until they suddenly became indispensable. How much time might have been saved if he had known about this earlier—except it was a surprise that Blackie had stooped to using a Shanir at all. He must feel very strongly about this message.

Harn remembered when the first letter had arrived by the usual postrider fifteen days ago:

“Something is wrong with Brier Iron-thorn.”

He had summoned the Kendar, of course, and there she had stood before his desk, dark red hair aglow, green eyes cautious in an immobile, sun-darkened face. He had known her since she was a stocky, inscrutable child, and her mother before her.

“Well, Iron-thorn. You’ve done something to upset the Highlord. What?”

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it’s because the bond between us broke.”

Harn was shocked. “Why? What did he do?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She floundered for words. “He’s so gentle.”

Harn sat back, absorbing this. He knew how gingerly Torisen dealt with those bound to him, as if they were all at his mercy—which, of course, they were. Raised by Kendar, he had never really understood the Highborns’ sense of entitlement. Harn valued that freedom. Others, especially those like Brier raised under tight control, might mistake such care for weakness.

“Still,” he said, “that’s no reason to break from him.”

“It wouldn’t be, except . . .” She had paused, a frown gathering as she thought. “His sister . . . I don’t really understand it, especially in one who seems so fragile and, well, peculiar, but there’s an iron core to her. She can also be merciful. I was in great distress over the death of the seeker’s baby. Torisen wasn’t there. She was.”

“So she bound you.”

Brier raised somber eyes. “One might almost say that I bound her.”

Now, that had been a tricky message to convey. Torisen’s answer had come back virtually overnight. Harn wondered that the blood in which it was written didn’t smolder.

Below in the ward he saw eight figures emerge from the streets of the camp, some walking together like the Brendan and the Jaran, others aloof like the Randir. They crossed the grass. Soon they would be at his door. It was, of course, only a regular meeting with the barracks’ commanders.

“Huh,” he muttered, under his breath.

Some fifteen minutes later they were seated about the round table in Harn’s cramped conference room. Genjar had adopted the southern style of lounging on pillows. Harn and Torisen before him had preferred northern formality, although Harn frequently prowled around the room while the others sat, saying that it helped him to think.

“Where’s Coman?” he asked.

“He’s expecting a report from his outriders,” said the Edirr, with a grin.

The others smiled indulgently. The young Coman commander was responsible for gathering information on Kothifir’s external foes. Raids from Gemma aside, though, what enemies did the city possess? However, as one of the Kencyrath’s smallest houses, the Coman always made a fuss about whatever they did to inflate their own self-importance. The Coman commander had been hinting since late summer that Gemma was up to something.

“All right,” said Harn. “What news from the Overcliff?”

The Ardeth commander folded his thin, aristocratic hands, gathering his thoughts. “The Change hasn’t yet resolved itself,” he said. “Life goes on in the city, but in a bumpy fashion without the authority of king, guild lord, or grandmaster to steady it. More towers have fallen. Krothen remains in seclusion. Merchandy and Professionate are in hiding. Ruso, the former Lord Artifice, has taken up quarters with the former Master Iron Gauntlet, Gaudaric. Grandmasters like Needham are trying to gather followers . . . on what basis in his case I don’t know, given that the silk trade seems to have ended forever. Prince Ton and his mother Princess Amantine are also looking for supporters. Politics aside, I don’t know what natural laws are in operation here.”

“I’ve always said that we don’t adequately understand Rathillien religions,” said the Jaran commander, leaning forward.

The Caineron snorted. “You and your scholar’s obsession with native cultures. What is there to understand? We know the truth.”

“As we see it, yes. Our Three-Faced God is behind everything. Has it ever occurred to you, though, that his power is in short supply on this world?”

“Blasphemy,” growled the Caineron. “Our lords stand, do they not?”

“And our priests,” murmured the Randir, Frost.

“Oh, leave them out of this,” snapped the Danior. His home keep, after all, was across the river from the Priests’ College at Wilden, too close for comfort. “What good do they do any of us?”

“Here in Kothifir, they seem to benefit the natives more than us,” remarked the Jaran. “The current mess started when our temple disappeared. And if you can explain how that happened, you will have my full attention.”

Harn raised his big hands to stop the wrangle. Religion was the last thing on his mind at present.

“What about the treasure towers?” he asked.

“We share guard duty there,” said the Brandan. “Everyone knows that control of them equals control of the city. Needham and his followers are constantly threatening to storm them, while Prince Ton wants to distribute their wealth to buy himself support.”

“And the Rose Tower?”

“Krothen prefers native guards, or so we hear,” said the Brandan. “These days, nothing comes from him directly.”

The others stirred uneasily. Krothen was the Host’s paymaster, but he had paid no wages since the beginning of the Change. The Kencyr quartermaster had been reduced to buying rations on credit in the common market.

“I still say we should break into the towers and take what’s owed us,” grumbled the Caineron.

“If we do that,” said the Brandan, “how can we justify keeping others out? We are sworn to protect Kothifir, not to loot it. Anyway, it would start a riot.”

Harn waved away this troubling subject as he had that of Kothifiran religion. “What about the rumor of Karnids in the city?”

The Ardeth shrugged. “No question, they are there in the shadows, biding their time.”

“Until what?”

“We don’t know.”

“How many of them?”

“We don’t know that either.”

The Caineron snorted.

There were other, more mundane subjects to discuss: class schedules involving the training fields, a clash between cadets and regular troops, thieves sneaking into the camp. Harn started to relax as the usual wrangles played themselves out.

“If that’s all . . .” he began, rising to dismiss the council.

But the Randir Frost didn’t move. “There is one other thing,” she said, examining her nails. “What are we going to do about the Knorth Lordan, Jamethiel? She’s been absent without leave for—what? Twenty days?”

“That is house business,” Harn growled, and began to pace around the table. Here was the topic that he had feared most. “Also remember: this isn’t a meeting of the senior Randon Council. Our authority is limited to the Southern Host.”

“Which is where she belongs,” said the Randir. “What are you going to do about her?”

Ran Onyx-eyed, the Knorth commander, had barely spoken during the meeting, but that was her way. Now she looked up. “We’ve made inquiries, of course,” she said mildly. “Our patrols have visited all the places in Kothifir she might be, without success. She does have a record of disappearing, though, as noted during her career at Tentir.”

“Might she be dead?”

“No,” said Harn. Brier would have told him if that were true. For that matter, he suspected that he himself would have known, given his link to the Knorth.

“With any other cadet, such behavior would merit being sent home in disgrace. Are we to judge lordan by a different standard?”

“We did your Randiroc,” snapped the Danior. “Ancestors know, he was as peculiar a cadet as ever won his randon’s collar.”

Frost’s smile turned brittle. “We won’t discuss the so-called Randir Heir, thank you very much.”

“There is also such a thing as detached duty,” remarked the Jaran. “Your cadet Nightshade has been assigned to Ran Awl this entire year. And she’s missing too, along with a dozen others of your house.”

Harn continued to pace as they wrangled. From the beginning, he had sensed that Jameth, or Jamethiel as he supposed he must learn to call her, had other duties than most cadets, first with the Merikit hill tribe and now here in Kothifir. He was aware of her unique status as the only other Highborn besides Torisen to possess pure Knorth blood, discounting for the moment rumors about their cousin Kindrie. The Knorth had led the Kencyrath from the beginning. To disrupt their fragile hold now felt to him like the end of the world.

“You put great faith in your two remaining Highborn,” said Frost, as if reading his mind. “Do they really merit it?”

Onyx-eyed stirred. “At Gothregor, Torisen opened a door that to all others was locked. In the camp, on her first day here, his sister did the same. I don’t quarrel with such power. You should think twice before you do.”

Hasty footsteps sounded on the stair, and the Coman commander burst into the room, red-faced, panting.

“I told you,” he wheezed, hands on knees, pausing to regain his breath. “I said Gemma was up to something. My scouts report a Gemman army on its way to Kothifir.”

“By what route?” snapped Harn.

“Along the Rim.”

“How strong?”

“At a guess, twenty thousand, composed of Gemmans, raiders, and any other opportunists they’ve been able to hire. Kothifir’s weakness draws them. Besides, I always said that Krothen shouldn’t have hung that assembly man’s son. They will be here by dusk with horses, chariots, and mounted war lizards.”

Everyone had risen.

“The livestock is a challenge,” said the Jaran, “but we should be a match for the rest. We’ve got to get everyone on top of the Escarpment and outside the city walls to meet them. There are four lift cages, but only one of them is big enough to accommodate horses.”

“So, no horses,” said Harn.

He could see the battlefield laid out in his mind. The Gemmans would lead with their thunder lizards, not as big as rhi-sars but quite large enough to rout an unprepared foe. The Kencyrath, on the other hand, had clashed with such beasts before. The rest, discounting chariots, would be hand to hand. It could indeed be done, if enough Kencyr could be conveyed to the battlefield in time.

“We need to move,” he said. “The cadets should stay in camp, though. For one thing, we haven’t time to get everyone Overcliff. For another, someone has to watch our back door. Commanders, see that your second-in-commands stay behind to monitor them.”

Thus the Kencryath rose to war and streamed through the city streets toward the wall, watched by many dark eyes. In their wake, as the sun set, the shadows began to move.