Finding Destiny (21 page)

“Zeilas?” she whispered.

A familiar armored body rose into view, aided by the lady Knight. He unstrapped and tugged off his helm, wincing and lifting a hand to the back of his head. Marta didn’t care that there were still half a dozen people between them. She sprinted toward the Knight, pushing people aside, torn between laughing and shouting and crying over the fact that he was still miraculously alive.

“
Zeilas!
” Flinging herself at him, Marta wrapped her arms around him. He was lumpy from armor and his helmet fell from his started hands, banging against her left boot as it clattered onto the ground, but she didn’t care. “
Zeilas!
”

He looked just as stunned and just as relieved to see her. “Goddess,
Marta
!”

That was all she gave him time to say. Dragging him down by the back of his neck, Marta kissed him. She didn’t care that more and more people were gathering around the fallen machine, that more and more of her fellow Guildarans could see their Consul-in-Chief kissing the Arbran ambassador. She only cared that Zeilas was
alive
. Part of her reveled in his life, in his lips, in his embrace, despite the uncomfortable chunks of rune-carved cavalry armor he wore. Part of her mind did acknowledge that the others were all watching, and that the consequences of it couldn’t be damned and set aside so easily.

Part of her, having seen the Aurulans’ determination that Gabria return to Aurul with them, was struck with a brilliant, if slightly crazy, plan. One sparked in part by the Mage-Captain’s choice of words, though mostly prompted by her own desire.

Their kiss finally ended when he pulled back just enough to caress her face, then lean in again, resting his forehead against her own. Face flushed, eyes wide, he murmured, “So much for courting you discreetly ...”

She smiled and chuckled, eyes still a bit watery but otherwise feeling much, much better. “I have a solution for that. But, um ... first, the war field has to be cleaned up.”

“Right. Duty first.” Drawing in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, his expression sobering. He winced in the next moment, shifting the hand on her cheek to the back of his head. “Duty, and a cold compress. I think I hit my head when I dived off my Steed, taking cover between his legs.”

Not wanting him to
always
put duty first, Marta leaned up and kissed him. Just a quick peck of their lips, but it was enough to put some of the warmth back into his expression. Both from embarrassment and from pleasure. Turning back to the others, Marta lifted her chin, resuming her role as Consul-in-Chief.

“Mage-Captain Ellett, please cast your lie-detecting spell on the prisoner. The chief prisoner,” she amended, realizing that some of her people, interspersed with his, were herding groups of other former Mekhanans their way, their hands manacled together and their ankles hobbled by more of the same golden glow that held the warlord aloft.

Bowing, he complied, lifting his hand and chanting a short piece. The syllables meant nothing to her, and Gabria had once confessed most of them were just mnemonics meant to help the mage shape the magic within them to his or her will. The effect was palpable, however. As the other two mage-warriors lowered him and released their levitation spell, the brown-armored man started to glow a dull silvery gray.

“... The gray is simply the color he assumes when he says nothing,” Ellett murmured.

She accepted the explanation with a nod. “Alright. Another request ... is there a way to make everyone see and hear what I’m about to do and say?”

One of the other Aurulans twisted her hands, fitting forefingers to thumbs in front of her face in a sort of rectangle shape, muttering words under her breath. Light and color rippled into existence overhead, forming a tableau of Ellett, Marta, Zeilas, and the bound man. That enlarged projection showed every detail of his tooled leather breastplate, carved with the insignia he had chosen for his banner, and the equally brown gambeson and trousers he wore underneath the various boiled leather plates. In fact, he wore velvet clothes under his armor, instead of sensible woolens and linens, she realized with distaste, no doubt copying the highest rankings of the False God’s wealth-bloated clergy.

Her own choice of common, knitted wool and plain leather was meant to bind her closer to the average Guildaran, not set her apart from them. All she could feel for this would-be conqueror was contempt and disgust, and a tightly reined anger that he had dared harm even a mere square inch of her realm. Suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose in distaste, Marta addressed him sternly.

“Warlord Durn ...” She broke off as her voice echoed across the valley. Wrinkling her nose anyway, she continued, focusing on him instead of on the oversized illusion of herself floating high overhead. “Warlord Durn, the so-called Dreaded, you are bound and brought before us under the charges of unlawful invasion, wanton destruction of property, and the willful murder of sovereign citizens of the Guildaran nation. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He lifted his chin, one of his eyebrows turning puffy and dark from bruising, and sneered at her. “
I
don’t talk to
sheep
. If there’s a leader among you worth his bollocks, I challenge him one on one! You had to use
magic
to defeat me. There’s not a one of you that can stand against me in a fair fight!”

His words, like hers, echoed over the fields. Not all of his speech glowed green, however. Parts of it glowed red, notably his last statement. Marta heard the answering growl from her people, not magically projected, but audible all the same. She was not swayed in the least by his challenge, and not taken in by his lie.

“Warlord Durn, to hear you speak of a ‘fair’ fight is, at best, a poor and failed piece of mockery. As for sheep, I wouldn’t toss a sick lamb to a rabid wolf, even if that rabid wolf were starving and beaten ... just like you.”

“You little piece of dung!” he snarled, and lunged at her. Or tried to. While most of him was unbound, his hands and feet were still shackled by golden power. All it took was the lifting of a hand from one of his two mage-captors and he jerked to a halt, straining against his glowing, immobile bonds.

“
This
‘little piece of dung’ is Marta Grenspun, Goddess-chosen Consul-in-Chief, ruler of the free nation of Guildara,” she stated coldly. “Beside me stand Mage-Captain Ellett of the Royal Guard of Aurul, and Sir Zeilas, Knight-Envoy of Arbra. Your offenses against Guildara have affected not only our sovereign selves, but our good neighbors who, like us, only desire peace. You have brought
war
to my nation, and shed the blood of my citizens, the blood of the Arbrans, and the blood of the Aurulans.

“You aren’t even a wolf,” she disdained. “You are a rabid dog, bringing pain and misery to all you encounter. We have heard how you have conquered much of the northern lands of former Mekhana through fear, intimidation, sabotage, and outright battle. You think to proclaim yourself both a warlord and a king ... yet no God or Goddess will Manifest to support your bloody methods, never mind your mad ideology.” Turning to look first at Zeilas, then at Ellett, she asked, “Sir Knight, Mage-Captain, it is my best judgment that a rabid dog should be put down, to prevent his madness from further contaminating our otherwise peaceful lives. What would you and your governments have to say about this?”

Zeilas looked around at the debris of the battlefield. “This used to be good farmland. It will likely take a full year before it can be used for such again, if not longer. Arbra as a nation will not condone such wanton destruction of property, ours
or
Guildara’s. I believe His Majesty, King Tethek, will agree. You do not allow a rabid dog to run loose, destroying everything it meets. But you
do
grant it a swift death, giving it the mercy which, in its madness, it does not comprehend.”

“I am
not
a dog!” Durn growled.

“As it was said, so it was written; thus it is proved, and so shall it be,” the Mage-Captain stated, his words sounding almost ritualistic. Ellett shrugged calmly. “I have no objections to granting him a swift, clean death. I am here to aid your people specifically because my liege foresaw that he must fall, if there is to be peace within this realm.”

A fifth figure joined their projected tableau as Precinct General Stalos joined them. “I would concur, Milady Chief. We have too much healing, repairing, and rebuilding to do to worry about an ambitious madman getting free and starting up all over again.” He drew a dagger from his belt and saluted her with it. “I stand ready to execute the sentence.”

“
We
are not madmen, nor bullies, nor evil,” Marta agreed. “And we should be merciful ... but you gentlemen are right. He is too dangerous to lock up, in the fear that he might break free. Too mad to be reasoned with. Make it swift, and may the Gods have mercy when judging his soul. We have more important things to do.”

Nodding, Stalos dragged the former warlord off to the side. It was swift, with the dagger applied to the other man’s spine. Marta dragged her gaze away, glad that part had not been projected. Mindful of her giant illusion-self, she addressed the war field. “Those of you who followed Durn the Would-Be Warlord will be questioned under truth-verifying spell, as administered by our Mage’s Guild, by the Arbran Knight-mages, and the Aurulan Royal Guard. If you fought under duress, you will be free to return to your homes in the north.

“If you are here of your own free will, and intend to continue harming the people of
any
of these three nations ... you will be granted the same swift and merciful death. The rest of you will be treated according to the severity of your participation and war crimes. Expect to labor for the restoration of these fields as payment for your actions, at the very least. Take the time now to make up your minds as to how truthfully you will answer. For those of you set free to return to the north, carry this piece of news for us: Guildara will accept into our nation any village or town or populated expanse of land who votes to join us by a majority of eighty percent of its adult population. Otherwise ... you’re on your own. We have no interest in conquering
you
in return.”

She paused to let her words sink in, then turned to Sir Zeilas, letting her speech be heard by all.

“Even in times of sadness, there is often some joy. Guildara has laid the foundations for firm alliances with our neighbors to the east and the west. There is still more work to be done to secure and stabilize that peace, however. Sir Zeilas, some of the greatest ties two nations can enjoy come not from words on parchment, but from the actions and deeds of two of its people. I wish to solidify our mutual peace and understanding, Guildaran and Arbran, with your assistance,” she stated, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin slightly, aiming for dignity in the face of her speech. “I would like to propose an alliance of marriage between a Guildaran and an Arbran, to symbolize the alliance of our borders in peaceful coexistence. What do you say to this idea?”

“I think it’s a very wise idea. If I may suggest a particular couple ... Marta Grenspun, will you ‘mage’ me?” he asked, giving her a smile.

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. The gleam of humor in his brown eyes helped free the laughter that bubbled up inside, even as his words caused confusion among the rest of their audience. She let herself chuckle out loud only for a few moments, then sobered. Somewhat.

“Your Guildaran needs just a little more practice,” Marta teased, smiling at him, “since we say
marry
, not
mage
. But yes, I will
marry
you.”

The cheer that rose up across the smoldering battlefield was ragged, but full enough to let her know that most of her people approved. Relieved—if mindful that everything was still being magically projected overhead—Marta accepted a quick kiss from her intended.

“As it was said, so it was written,” Ellett murmured as the illusion ended. “We can delay three days, Milady Chief, but no longer, then we must return to His Majesty. It isn’t much time, but perhaps with our help, we can set much of today’s injuries and damages to rights, and still have time for a celebration of your impending personal alliance before we go?”

“Your help would be deeply appreciated,” she acknowledged, eyeing the devastated land. “I wish this battle hadn’t happened, and that everyone was alive and well, but ... I don’t regret the alliances that were made.”

SEVEN

L
eft in the front room of the “chief suite” of the palace, Zeilas eyed his surroundings in curiosity. Like much of the palace, the floor and walls were covered in carefully joined strips of wood. They formed diamonds, circles, stars, zigzags, and braids, some dark, some light. Special attention had been paid to those areas that framed the doors, neatly carved in rectangular panels, and the windows, many of which were glazed with stained glass in yet more geometrical patterns. Not that they could be easily seen, since it was now late at night, but they would be similar to the other windows in this place, he was sure.