Traitor's Moon

20 THE PASSING OF IDRILAIN

Midnight was long past by the time Korathan reached Phoria's camp. He'd outdistanced his escort some miles back, pressing on alone in the vain hope of catching his mother's dying words.

The pickets recognized his shouted greeting and cleared out of the road without challenge. Thundering into camp, he reined in at the tent showing his mother's banner, scattering a crowd of servants and officers gathered there.

Inside, the heavy odor of death assailed him.

Tonight only Phoria and a wizened drysian attended the queen. His sister's back was to him as he entered, but the drysian's solemn face told him that his mother was already dead.

"You're too late," Phoria informed him tersely.

From the state of her uniform, he guessed she'd been called in off the battlefield, too. Her cheeks were dry, her face composed, but Korathan sensed a terrible anger just held in cheek.

"Your messenger was delayed by an ambush," he replied, throwing off his cloak. Joining her beside the narrow field bed, he looked down at the wasted corpse that had been their mother.

The drysian had already begun the final ministrations for the pyre. Idrilain was dressed in her scarred field armor beneath the lavish burial cloak. That would please her, he thought, wondering if these considerations were Phoria's doing or the servants'. The strap of her war helm was cinched tight to hold her jaw shut, and her dimmed eyes were pressed open for the soul's journey. Her ravaged face had regained a certain dignity in death, but he saw traces of blood and dried spittle crusting her colorless lips.

"She died hard?" he asked.

"She fought it to the end," replied the drysian, close to tears.

"Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your way home, my Mother," he murmured hoarsely, covering Idrilain's cold hands with his own. "Did she speak much before she went?"

"She had little breath for talking," Phoria told him, turning abruptly and stalking out. "All she said was, 'Klia must not fail. »

Korathan shook his head, knowing better than anyone the pain Phoria's anger hid. He'd watched for years in silence as the gulf between queen and heir had widened while Idrilain and Klia drew ever closer. Loyal to both, he had been able to comfort neither. Phoria had never spoken of what caused the final rift between herself and their mother, not even to him.

Whatever it was, you are queen now, my sister, my twin.

Leaving the drysian to complete his task, Korathan walked slowly to Phoria's tent. As he approached, he heard her voice raised sharply. A moment later Magyana emerged hastily from the doorway.

Seeing Korathan, she gave him a respectful bow, murmuring, "My sympathies, dear Prince. Your mother will be sorely missed."

Korathan nodded and continued in.

He found Phoria sitting at her campaign table, greying hair loose about her shoulders. Her soiled tunic and mail lay in a heap beside her chair. Without looking up from the map before her, she said tonelessly, "I'm appointing you as my vicegerent, Kor. I want you in Rhiminee. The situation here is too dire for me to leave the field, so we'll hold the coronation tomorrow as soon as you round up the necessary priests. My field wizard will officiate."

"Organeus?" Korathan took a seat across from her. "It's customary for the former queen's wizard to officiate. That would be—"

"Magyana. Yes, I know." Phoria looked up at last, pale eyes flashing dangerously. "But only because Nysander died. Who was she before that but a wanderer who spent more time in foreign lands than in her own? And what did she do while she served Mother except convince her to become dependent on foreigners?"

"The mission to Aurenen, you mean?"

Phoria let out an inelegant snort. "The queen's not cold an hour and Magyana is in here badgering me for a pledge to continue with Idrilain's plan! Nysander would have been no different, I suppose. Meddlers all, these old wizards. They've forgotten their place."

"What did you tell her?" Korathan asked quickly, hoping to circumvent another tirade.

"I informed her that as queen I do not answer to wizards, and that she would be informed of my decisions when I saw fit."

Korathan hesitated, choosing his words with care. One had to, when Phoria was like this. "Do you mean to abandon the negotiations? The way things have gone these past months, Aurenfaie aid might be of value."

Phoria rose and paced the length of the tent. "It's a sign of weakness, Kor. I dare say the surrender of the Mycenian troops along the northwestern border—"

"They surrendered?" Korathan groaned. Never in the history of the Three Lands had Mycena failed to stand with Skala against the incursions of Plenimar.

"Yesterday. Laid down their weapons in return for parole. No doubt they've heard that the Skalan queen sent her youngest daughter begging to the 'faie and it took the last of the heart out of them, exactly as I predicted it would. Southern Mycena is still with us, but it's only a matter of time until they turn coat, too. And of course, the Plenimarans know. I've had reports of raids on the western coast of Skala as far north as Ylani."

Korathan rested his face in his hands a moment as the enormity of the situation rolled over him. "I've been pushed back nearly ten miles in the past six days." The force we met above Haverford had necromancers in the front line. Powerful ones, Phoria, not the hedgerow conjurers you've met with back here. They killed an entire turma's horses beneath them as they charged, then sent the corpses galloping back among our ranks. It was a rout. I think—"

"What? That Mother was right?" Phoria rounded on him. "That we need the Aurenfaie and their magic to survive this war? I'll tell you what we need: Aurenfaie horses, Aurenfaie steel, and the Aurenfaie port of Gedre if we're to defend Rhiminee and the southern islands. But still the Iia'sidra debates!"

Korathan watched with wary fascination as his twin paced, left hand clenched over the pommel of her sword so tightly that the knuckles showed white.

Her old campaigning sword, he noted. She'd put aside the sword

of Gherilain for now so that she could be formally invested with it at her crowning, with all the power and authority it represented. He'd known all his life that this moment would come, that his sister would be queen. Watching her now, why did he suddenly feel as if the ground had given way under him?

"Have you sent word to Klia?" he asked at last.

Phoria shook her head. "Not just yet. I'm expecting fresh dispatches by tomorrow. We'll wait to see which way the wind's blowing down there. Strength, Kor. We must preserve a position of strength at all costs."

"Any news you get by dispatch, even if it comes tomorrow, will be at least a week old. Besides, Klia is sure to put the best light on things, especially once word reaches her that you've taken the throne."

Phoria gave him a strange, tight smile that narrowed her pale eyes like a cat's. Going to a table at the side of the tent, she unlocked an iron box and took out a sheaf of small parchments. "Klia and Torsin are not my only sources of information at Sarikali."

"Ah, yes, your spies in the ranks. What do they say? Will the Iia'sidra give us what we ask?"

Phoria's mouth set in a harsh, unyielding line. "One way or another, we shall have what we need. I want you in Rhiminee, my brother."

Going to him, she took one of his large hands in hers and tugged a ring from his finger, the one set with a large black stone carved with a dragon swallowing its own tail. Smiling, she slipped it on the forefinger of her left hand. "Be ready, Kor. When this dragon comes back to you, it's time to go after another."