Читать книгу Shadows of Destiny - Rachel Lee - Страница 12

Tuzza was surprised, both at the progress that had been made in constructing his army’s camp and in the men who had risen to the forefront in the process. Some were experienced officers who had shown themselves willing to follow Tuzza’s lead in stepping in to share the manual labor, and in reaching out to the Anari for help. But some were men he would never have known by name, but for their exceptional performance in this exercise.

One such man stood before him now. Denza Grundan was a mere filemark, serving his second term of conscription. By all accounts, Grundan was a capable and brave soldier, well skilled and respected by the men of his file. He was also one-quarter Anari.

Given his heritage, and it was apparent from his deep, burnished brown features, his accomplishments shone even brighter.

Even Grundan’s rearmark had stepped out of the way over the last week, content to let Grundan organize the accommodations for not only his own file, but the entire company. What at first had seemed like sensible leadership had become something else when Tuzza had asked after the rearmark, and after some searching had found him drunk in his tent. That, combined with the rearmark’s reputation among his men and his fellow junior officers, had made Tuzza’s present decision an easy one. If Tuzza was to rebuild his command, this was an ideal way to begin.

Tuzza stood and spoke with a voice that would have rung through the company camp, even if the company had not been formed in ranks before him. “Filemark Denza Grundan, you have excelled in your duties, demonstrating not only strength of mind and will but also humility and attention to the needs of your men in the highest tradition of the Bozandari legions. Your character and commitment are above reproach. It is for this reason that I now appoint you a Rearmark, an officer in this legion from this time forward. Will you kneel and accept the oath of commissioning?”

“Aye, my lord,” Grundan said, kneeling and presenting his sword to Tuzza.

Had this ceremony occurred in other times, Tuzza would have asked Grundan to swear fealty to the emperor. In the present circumstances, Tuzza had rewritten the oath of commissioning.

“Do you swear by your life to serve these your men with your full measure of loyalty and honor, to obey all lawful commands of your seniors, to devote your whole mind and strength to your duties, and to respect and bear upon yourself the proud history and traditions of the Bozandari legionnaires and our Anari brethren?”

“Aye, my lord,” Grundan said, “upon my honor and my life itself, I swear myself thus.”

Tuzza smiled. “Then stand, Rearmark Grundan, and receive your company.”

Grundan stood and pivoted smartly, sheathing his sword and holding out his hands to receive the company’s battle standard. It was not the spotless pennant that had been carried out of Bozandar months ago. It was like Tuzza’s legion, tattered and soiled by the campaign, save for the radiant image of the white wolf, which had been stitched into the pennant by one of the men. Tuzza felt tears in his eyes. This company standard reflected the trials these men had borne, their defeat, and their hope of redemption under their new allegiance to the Weaver.

As Grundan grasped the staff that bore the standard and lifted it above his head, the men erupted in a cheer. In another time, in another legion, it would have been no more than a formality, a change-of-command ceremony, little noticed and less remembered. At this time, in this legion, it was so much more. It was the start of a new tradition, a beacon of hope to those with the talent and commitment to serve with honor, and a warning to those who thought their status guaranteed by patronage.

“For the Snow Wolf!” Grundan cried.

“For the Snow Wolf!” his men replied.

The word of Grundan’s appointment spread quickly, and in the days that followed, as Tuzza visited other units, he found that each had added a snow wolf—the prophesied companion of the Weaver—to its pennant.

“Your men speak of themselves as the Snow Wolves,” Jenah Gewindi said, walking beside Tuzza.

Jenah, alongside Ratha and Giri Monabi, had been one of Archer’s three chief lieutenants in the campaign against Tuzza’s men. Giri had fallen in the battle of the canyon, and his brother Ratha was still observing telzehten. This left Jenah as the only Anari commander on hand to forge a command coalition with the Bozandari, and at Archer’s order he had spent the past two days with Tuzza in the Bozandari camp, observing their training and the appointment of new officers as needed.

“Yes,” Tuzza said. “It began with the commissioning of one of your brethren. I have since been told that it was the decision of Rearmark Grundan and two of his fellow filemarks to add the Snow Wolf to their pennant. But it has served to rally my men, to give them a new sense of shared identity.”

Jenah nodded. “This is important, Topmark. Even now there is talk of doing the same among the Anari.”

“Your men would share the symbol of a Bozandari legion?” Tuzza asked, incredulous.

“Perhaps,” Jenah said. “Perhaps we both share a symbol of and allegiance to something greater than either of our peoples. It is this that I have suggested, when I have been asked for my view on the issue.”

“Very politic,” Tuzza said, smiling.

“An alliance cannot be formed without such,” Jenah said with a faint shrug. “My people are no more eager to fight beside yours than your men are to fight beside us. Yet necessity commands it, and it falls upon men like us to make it possible.”

“How many are you?” Tuzza asked. “We never knew, for certain, during the campaign past.”

“We were never more than five thousand under sword, and fewer still in the end,” Jenah said.

“Between us we are barely a legion strong,” Tuzza said, his brow furrowed.

“Perhaps,” Jenah said. “But even if we were thrice thus, we could not count on weight of numbers in the march to Bozandar. And in our very weakness may lay strength.”

“How so?” Tuzza asked.

Jenah smiled. “Consider how your emperor would respond if three legions marched out of Anahar.”

“That would seem nothing less than an invasion,” Tuzza said, nodding. “They would see no option but battle.”

“Precisely,” Jenah said. “But an understrength legion, composed of Bozandari and Anari marching side by side. That can seem like a peace envoy.”

“Let us hope,” Tuzza said. “My men have no desire to slay their brethren. However committed they may be to the Weaver, to lift swords against men they have known and fought beside before would be very difficult.”

“Aye,” Jenah said. “Thus it would be for Anari also. No, our strength will lie not in numbers, but in the gifts of our Ilduin, and perhaps your own gifted tongue.”

Tuzza looked at Jenah. “If our future rests upon my gift for clever speech, I fear we are all in graver danger than I knew.”

“It will come to all of us to give what we can,” Jenah said. “Whether that will be enough rests on shoulders larger than our own.”

Tess sat beside an icy stream, her feet bare and pink in the cold. The need to escape to quiet and privacy had driven her into the mountains by herself. She could still see Anahar’s beauty below, so she was in no danger of becoming lost. But the hike had made her feet tender, since it appeared her new boots were better made for riding than walking. She had soaked them in the stream until she could bear the frigid water no more.

As she turned her ankle to one side, she noted again the tattoo of the white rose, still as fresh-looking as if it had been done within the past year or two. How did she know that about tattoos?

For a moment, she closed her eyes, reaching for the information, but as always when she sought her past, it was as if the doors closed even more impenetrably. A small sigh escaped her, and she shivered a bit as the icy breeze caressed her feet. She should put her boots on again, before her bare feet sucked out all the warmth that her woolen cloak preserved.

But instead she looked again at the tattoo, knowing in some unreachable part of herself that it was more than a pretty decoration. It said something about her past, about who she was. Perhaps it even said something about her destiny.

Gingerly she poked a hand out from the shelter of her cloak and touched it. Within, she felt no reaction to it at all. At this moment, it was nothing but a pretty little bit of folly.

But it was her only true link with her past, that and the memory of holding her dying mother in her arms, a memory that Elanor had returned to her. An unhappy, unwanted, inexplicable memory. It told her almost nothing, and she had a crying need to know something.

If she was a pawn of the gods, and it appeared she was, then why must she take every action in blindness? Why was she permitted to know little of any real use?

Her own powers, powers that had been steadily revealing themselves, terrified her. If she was capable of so much, ’twould be better for everyone if she knew how to control this wild talent. Instead she discovered her abilities in moments of dire need, and so far as she could tell, other than healing, she had little say in what she did.

She lifted her fingers from the tattoo and studied it for another few seconds, then sighed and pulled her white leather boots on again.

For some reason, nearly every piece of serviceable clothing she owned, from the very first clothes given to her by Sara so long ago at the Whitewater Inn, was white. When she had asked the bootmaker to make her a fresh pair, he had made them white. She was quite certain she had not asked for that. The same had happened with every other item that she requested.

A little smile curled one corner of her mouth. Only her gown for the wedding had been a different color, and now that the wedding was past, she had no excuse to wear it. It was as if some silent conspiracy existed, insisting she wear only the color of the white wolves, the White Lady, the Weaver.

Shod once again, her feet numbed enough that she did not feel the mild irritation of her new boots, she resumed her hike, now heading toward Anahar. The quiet and solitude had allowed her to relax, a luxury she rarely knew. For a little while she had stopped worrying at the temple for more information, she had escaped councils of war, and the cacophony of voices that accompanied the crowding of the city of Anahar by Anari summoned from far and wide to battle.

A snatch of music danced across her mind, and she recalled the day that Anahar had sung. The rainbow-hued city had gleamed from within its every stone as the music had emerged from them, sending out a call to every Anari, a call that could be heard nearby with the ears, but elsewhere with the heart, according to the Anari.

And the Anari had come from far and wide, dropping every task to answer the summons. They had become the army that had defeated Tuzza’s legion.

Now Tess wondered if Anahar would sing again, for it seemed they were about to march again, this time toward Bozandar.

The chill that passed through her then had nothing to do with the weather. She could not imagine that the remains of the Anari army, even allied with the remnants of Tuzza’s legion, could withstand the might of Bozandar, be it only one fresh legion strong.

Yet march they must, for more than their own lives hung in the balance. It was a somber, sober burden, one which weighed more heavily with each step toward the city.

Again the snatch of music danced across her mind, as if trying to tell her something, but before she could reach for its meaning, it was gone again.

Perhaps Anahar was calling her, telling her it was time. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she realized this was not Anahar calling her. No, this was something else, something far darker than Anahar could ever be, even in the silence of the blackest night.

Yes, Tess. You will come. But not for their sake. You will come for me!

Tess slammed down the walls within her mind, even as she began to run toward the city. Blisters bedamned. She knew she had not the strength to withstand this attack alone. She needed her sisters.

She needed them now.

Archer had been looking for Tess, to confer with her about the army’s departure. She was, whether she knew it or not, the only true unifying point for the two groups who would march toward Bozandar. Not even his own birthright, Firstborn Son to Firstborn King, would unify in the way the Lady Tess’s mere presence seemed to.

Nor did he begrudge her that, though he still wondered about her origins. For his part, he had no desire to be the rallying point for what was to come. He would simply do his duty and use his expertise as needed. Having once heard his name used as a rallying cry, and having seen what followed, he never wanted to hear it that way again.

’Twas then that he spied Tess hurrying out of the wood at the far end of town. The way she was racing and stumbling concerned him, and he spurred his mount toward her, his heart suddenly hammering.

When he reached her, he saw terror on her face. He slipped at once from his saddle and reached for her, swinging his cloak around her to cover her even as he assumed a protective stance, hand on his sword hilt.

“Are you pursued?” he demanded roughly. “Has someone hurt you?”

“No…no…”

He relaxed, but only a little, as he felt a shudder rip through her.

“It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s him.”

“Him?” In the deepest part of his heart he knew who she meant, but he didn’t want to accept it.

“Him,” she whispered again, as if afraid to speak his name. “I feel him again. He is near in my thoughts, his touch so cold…colder than ice. He wants me.”

At once he wrapped his other arm around her, as if he could shield her from the assault. As if anything could. “Tess,” he said. “Tess…” It was all he could say. He had no idea how an Ilduin might fight such an assault on her mind. No idea how to protect her. All he could do was give her the sound of his voice and the touch of his arms for her to cling to lest she be swept away.

She shuddered against him, as if from great cold or great effort. “He knows,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Knows what?”

“He knows you are here. He knows we are coming. And he wants me.”

He hesitated only a moment, then with one easy movement lifted her onto his saddle. An instant later he was behind her and they galloped toward the city.

“Take me to my sisters,” Tess begged. “He wants all of the Ilduin! And none of us can withstand him alone.”

I could have, Archer thought grimly as his mount devoured the distance in hungry strides. He had had countless opportunities to deal with Ardred, when they were children or even young men, before the evil had taken root and transformed his brother into his enemy. He had missed them all. But not again. I could have, and this time, I will.