The Silver Mage (23 page)

But of course, news of the Meradan came early that spring as well, some days before the equinox. The sprouting hay had dusted the first terrace with pale green, and she stood at the edge of the field, talking with Rhodorix, when one of the guardsmen called out in surprise.

“Runners coming up!” He was pointing to the road. “But only two of them.”

The royal runners, the messengers whose speed and stamina helped the mages keep the scattered princedoms together, generally traveled in groups of four. Hwilli felt her heart thud in her chest as the two men jogged, stumbling weary, across the second terrace.

“Go down and meet them!” Rhodorix designated men with a sweep of his arm. “Carry them up here, or they’ll never reach us alive.”

The men ran off to follow his orders. When they brought the messengers back, cradled on their joined arms, Hwilli realized that both runners were wounded. Old blood crusted one man’s face and neck; the other had wrapped a clumsy bandage around his thigh.

“Get them to Master Jantalaber!” It was her turn to give the orders. “I’ll come with you.”

The man with the wounded leg gasped out a few words, “Meradan. Tanbalapalim’s fallen,” before he fainted.

Hwilli wanted to scream aloud, but she concentrated only on the work ahead of her, saving the runners’ lives. The guardsmen carried them up to the infirmary and laid them onto plank beds. Jantalaber took over caring for the man with the head wound, whilst she cleaned, treated, and stitched the other runner’s slashed leg. It was a miracle, she thought to herself, that he’d not bled to death. Once he was bandaged, she helped him drink water for his thirst and a healing infusion for his wound.

She’d barely gotten him comfortable, and Jantalaber was still tending the second runner, when Prince Ranadar himself strode into the chamber. Behind him clustered frightened advisers like sheep behind a ram.

“Can he speak?” Ranadar said to her.

“Some, Your Highness,” Hwilli said.

The runner tried to sit up. She grabbed pillows and arranged them under his head and upper back. “Lie still,” she said. “The prince doesn’t expect you to bow to him.”

“Quite so,” Ranadar said. “When did Tanbalapalim fall?”

A few words at a time, the exhausted runner stammered out the tale. The Meradan had appeared at the first sign of melting snow, an army of them, several thousand, perhaps, including a large contingent of the Children of Aethyr. They had surrounded the walled city but sent no heralds. When Prince Salamondar tried to parley, the Meradan slaughtered his heralds and threw their heads back over the walls.

“Why didn’t his farseers warn me then?” Ranadar asked him. “We could have marched to break the siege.”

Or try to,
Hwilli thought,
with our few men.

“They tried, Your Highness. They said there was too much rain and snow.”

“Of course. Somehow one always hopes—” He let his voice trail off. “Ah well, go on!”

“They made some sort of ram, Your Highness, and they kept on battering, screaming, pounding . . .”

Eventually the Meradan had broken down the gates. They scaled the walls; they were reckless and fearless, apparently, because they’d gained entry to the outer city within a few days. From the walls, the heartsick defenders of the citadel had watched the Meradan loot, burn, and kill helpless civilians.

“We wanted to go down, Your Highness,” he whispered. “The priests wouldn’t let us. They said, ‘Guard the temple towers.’ They would have cursed us. They made us stay.”

“I see.” Ranadar’s voice had turned into a growl of rage. “Go on.”

The fortress held out longer, giving eight runners a chance to escape by a bolthole dug under one of the towers. Two of them had lived to reach the edge of the Meradani camp. The others had not. The plan was for the men in the fortress to sally once the runners were well away.

“We reached the hills nearby. We looked back and saw the inner citadel burning.”

“So much for the sally,” Ranadar said. “Very well. You and your companion rest now.”

The runner nodded and let himself sink back into the pillows.

That night, the news spread in a wave of panic through the fortress. The prince and his council shut themselves up in the royal chambers. Master Jantalaber and the mages closeted themselves in Maraladario’s suite. The various court officers wandered here and there in the complex, trying to reassure the garrison that Garangbeltangim was a stronger fortification than Tanbalapalim, with its civilian population, could ever be. Hwilli doubted if anyone believed them.

“It’s the numbers,” she said to Rhodorix. “There are thousands of Meradan, aren’t there?”

“A horde of them, truly,” he said. “But what’s swelling their ranks are people like us. I wonder how many others there are, off to the north, waiting to join the looting?”

“People like us. I suppose they’re like us.”

“Ye gods, Hwilli, do you doubt it?”

“Not doubt it, but I don’t want to think we could be so savage.”

He snorted in disgust. “Why not? Look at how the People treated your mother! Slaves will always rise up if there’s someone to lead them against their masters. The Rhwmani war taught me that, if naught else.” He smiled with a bitter twist of his mouth. “Why do you think Ranadar sent the farm folk away?”

“To spare the food they’d eat, I suppose. Or did he think we’d rise against him?”

“Most likely both. There are more guards down in the south, from what Andariel tells me, and they have more leisure to keep the slaves under control.”

“Slaves? They never called us that, but I suppose that’s just what we are to them.”

“Most of us. They make exceptions for the likes of you and me.”

“How can you go on fighting for them?”

“Because I gave Prince Ranadar my word of honor that I’d serve him. Why do you go on doing your work here?”

“Because the people I heal are sick and injured and need me.” Hwilli heard her voice begin to shake. “They’re not to blame.”

Hwilli managed to keep from weeping only through her fear of disgracing herself in front of the man she loved. He put his arms around her and drew her close to stroke her hair.
At least I have him,
she thought.
The gods have given me that much in life.
When she remembered how much she’d feared growing old, she had to suppress a mad impulse to laugh. She had wasted her fears on something that very likely would never happen.

“They’ll come here next, won’t they?” Hwilli said. “The hordes, I mean.”

“Most likely,” Rhodorix said. “I won’t lie to you.”

“You have my thanks for that. And they’ll take the fortress, won’t they?”

“Unless the gods stop them. No one else can.”

He looked oddly calm, his eyes stripped of all feeling. She realized, that night, just how completely men like him lived to die.
I’ll have to be as strong as he is,
she told herself,
when the time comes.

In the morning, news of another sort swept through the fortress like a winter wind. The prince had decided to hold out against the Meradan as long as possible, and thus drain off men from the Meradani stampede down to the coast, in order to let Rinbaladelan reprovision and fortify. He was planning on stripping Garangbeltangim of every servant, every woman, wife or not, and every child. Even the mages and priests would leave, every single person who could not fight, but who would prove a drain on the fortress’ provisions in case of siege. They were to march east with the Mountain Folk and try to make some sort of new life for themselves in some safe place.

At first Hwilli thought little of the news. As a healer, she would stay, or so she assumed. Master Jantalaber disabused her of that delusion with the noon meal, which they ate together in the herbroom.

“You’ll be coming with me and the others, of course,” he said.

“What?” Hwilli stared at him. “No. I can’t leave Rhodorix.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. This is the last meal we’ll have in Garangbeltangim, Hwilli. Pack up your things as soon as you’re done eating.”

“No!”

“Am I your master in your craft or not? You’ll do as I say. Don’t you think I’m heartsick, too? But we have our work. We have the place of healing to build.”

“I don’t care—” Her voice choked on tears. “I’m too weak to matter to the work.”

“Not so! Your life is precious, the first person of your kind to study magic and succeed.”

Cold, icy cold, despite the sun falling through the tall windows, despite the warmth of the stove in the herbroom—Hwilli could hardly breathe from the cold that had gripped her entire body.

“You’ll be coming with me,” Jantalaber went on. “Come now, Hwilli. Think about this—Nalla will be joining us when we reach the Lake of the Leaping Trout. You’ll see your friend again, at least.”

Hwilli pushed back her chair and stood up. Jantalaber rose as well and held out one hand.

“Hwilli, please, think of the work! I know you love your man, but once the Meradan have been beaten off, we can return. And then, after the wars are over, won’t our people—both our peoples—need the place of healing more than ever?”

She could only shake her head and stare at him.

“Go pack up your belongings,” he said. “Say farewell to your beloved. I know it won’t be easy, but—”

“No!” She screamed out the word. “No! Once we leave, we’ll never come back here. Can’t you see that?”

She turned and ran—sprinting from the herbroom, running down the corridor, bursting outside into the cool spring sun with tears drenching her face. Where was Rhodorix? She would have to find Rhoddo, have to tell him she’d never desert him, never! For what seemed like days she searched for him, running back inside to their chambers, running out again, back to the stables, up to the walls, down again to question every man she saw, “Where is Horsemaster Rhodorix?”

At last someone told her. He’d gone down to the first terrace to bring back the men who’d been working there. She started to run to the gates, but already those who would leave were assembling in front of them. Master Jantalaber stood at the edge of the growing crowd, looking this way and that. When she came up to him, panting in exhaustion, he smiled, but it was a mournful smile, and his eyes were moist with sympathy.

“I packed your things for you,” he said.

Hwilli felt too cold, too sick from running this way and that, to do more than let a few tears fall.

“Draw back!” an officer was shouting. “Clear the gates! Clear the gates!”

Jantalaber caught her arm and drew her gently with him as the crowd of refugees followed orders. One massive gate swung open to allow the line of mounted men to trot in. On his golden gelding, Rhodorix brought up the rear, chivvying the others along toward the stables. Hwilli longed to run after him, but Maraladario herself, wrapped in a dark blue cloak shot through with silver threads, stood in her way. Her emerald-green eyes narrowed.

“You’ll come with us,” she said. “Don’t make me ensorcell you, Hwilli. It would go against every principle I hold, but by the gods, I’ll do it if I have to.”

Hwilli could do nothing but weep. She despised herself, she felt humiliated to the core of her very soul, but still the tears ran. The People had broken her, she felt, torn out her soul and replaced it with another. Had she any true strength, she would run away and hide where no one would find her, until at last the refugees had left, and she’d be left behind, free to die with her beloved, but the tears drained her strength, or so she felt, and made it impossible to move, much less run.

Bronze gongs rang out from the priests’ tower, signaling, perhaps, the end of everything. Silver horns blared the signal that the prince himself was approaching. At the same moment Rhodorix and his men came running into the ward from the direction of the stables. They flung themselves down to kneel just as the doors of the palace opened and Ranadar, followed by his retinue, stepped out. Hwilli had no interest in the prince. Seeing Rhodorix had given her part of her soul back, or so she felt.

“Rhoddo,” she called out. “Rhodorix!”

Before Maraladario or Jantalaber could stop her, she broke away and ran to Rhodorix. He scrambled up to face her.

“Don’t let them send me away,” she said. “I want to stay with you.”

“You can’t stay here,” Rhodorix said. “Now, listen. I’ve asked the prince to let my brother go with you. His twisted leg will keep him from fighting, so the prince agreed. Gerro will take care of you and the child. Do you understand?”

His words were making little sense. Hwilli grabbed his arm with both hands. “I want to stay with you,” she repeated.

“You can’t.” He pulled his arm away. “It would mean your death.”

“I don’t care.” She raised her head to let him see the tears. “I’ll die with you when it comes to that.”

She took one step toward him, but hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back. Master Jantalaber had reached her. She twisted in his hands, struggled to get free—until she heard a voice she recognized even in her grief.

“What’s all this?” Ranadar, the prince himself, came striding up to them.

Rhodorix knelt, head bowed. When Jantalaber let her go, Hwilli flung herself down beside him.

“She won’t leave, Your Highness,” Jantalaber said. “My apprentice, that is, because of the love she bears your horsemaster.”

Hwilli looked up at the prince, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his head tilted to one side as he considered her. The afternoon sun glittered on the sapphire in his dweomer pendant and turned the chased roses as fiery-gold as the harsh light itself.

“You have to go,” Ranadar said. “You can’t fight, and so you’re just another mouth to feed.”

“I can bind wounds, Your Highness.” Hwilli felt her voice shaking in her throat, but she forced herself to speak. “I can tend all manner of ills—”

“We have other healers, ones who can draw a bow as well as bind wounds. You swore a vow to your master, didn’t you? I pity you, but I’ll order you all the same. Go! Your prince commands you. Go with your master, child!”