The Song of Andiene (35 page)

Dear heart, bring me Radel’s Bane,

(The far-off shore, the bitter sea,)

Do not let me live in pain,

(The waterfall roars endlessly,)

It was the Song of Karstir, how he and Lanissiril, his friend who was not a mortal man, went to the edge of the world in search of the great dragon who had destroyed Radel in all his pride.

Radel’s Bane lies far away,

(The far-off shore, the bitter sea,)

But I will find him if I may,

(The waterfall roars endlessly,)

I will find him if I may—”

“Enough!” said Andiene. Do not sing that song!”

Lenane was a minstrel, quick to obey the whims of her listeners. She did not protest, but began another tune, one that Kallan did not recognize. “Better yet, find me some gray cloth,” Andiene said.

“How did you know she would have it?” asked Kallan, as Lenane searched through her pack.

“She has not failed me yet,” Andiene said, “whether it be scissors or a soup-kettle I need.”

“At some point, you will have to teach her to mend her manners.”

“I know, but she has given me laughter when I needed it more than any other thing in this wide world.”

She went to where Lenane sat. Together they cut and sewed the badges, gold quartered with gray, the tan of unbleached lanara serving for gold.

Syresh sat by himself, a fond and foolish smile on his face as he watched Lenane.

“There’s the matter of another song,” Kallan said, so softly that none could hear. “The lord who was so beguiled by a dunnerat that he married her.” Still, for all his amusement, he had not forgotten that it was the eve of battle. Soon, he called Syresh to him, and they went to where the men of Oreja waited, quiet and eager.

When he had recruited them, he had told them stories of magic. They had come prepared to see strange things. As Andiene had predicted, they had grown accustomed to their silent companions.

Now, Kallan spoke to them of the coming battle. “Stay in groups of two or three, close enough that you can warn and guard each other.” They nodded, sober-faced. “But do not be too brave. Strike a few blows, and then lose yourselves in the crowd, else they will know the true men by the dead that surround them.”

Indeed, he sounded more confident than he was. Who had ever fought this kind of battle before, to know what men would do when faced with a vision of terror. The next morning, he was still more doubtful, as the south gates of the city opened, and Nahil’s men came out, a never-ending procession, ten hundred, fifteen hundred, certainly all the fighting-men the city and countryside had held, swordsmen, spearmen, archers, and horsemen. One in the front ranks rode an albanet, a rare sight in any battle.

Kallan felt more alone than he had ever been, for no swordsmen stood at his side, in this battle greater than any he had witnessed. On either side of him marched the silent hosts born of his own imagining and a sorceress’s powers.

There was no parley before the armies met. Nahil wanted no treaty of peace, nor did Andiene, but they waited for some time, as though judging each other’s strength. If these ghosts had all been true men, her army could not have stood against that great host, Kallan thought
. Nahil must be greatly afraid, to stake all his men on this one battle. But he has had the summer to think and fear, as Andiene planned.

The toneless bellow of horns was the call to attack. Nahil’s archers stood back and shot over the heads of their own men. Kallan, running forward, could have laughed, if he had had time, to see that bright-feathered deadly rain fall as harmlessly as any rain among the silent ghosts. They ran on either side of him as living men would have run, wearing gold and gray badges that were not woven of cloth, but of the mind’s delusion.

As always, time seemed to have slowed, in the moments before the front lines collided. Then there was fighting to be done, but strange fighting. Nahil’s men burst through the front line, swords slashing and stabbing at the air, then turned in bewilderment to try to discover their enemies.

Kallan fought as he had planned, to strike and step aside, so that they did not know who their enemy had been. And he was glad that he had planned so long and often, for in the battle there was no time for thought or fear. Blood and death, the ease of fighting that comes of long practice, and many battles. He stepped aside from one who ran blindly striking out at phantoms, and then cut him down from behind.

Butchery, sheer butchery. There were ones he knew among this crowd, ones he had trusted. No time for pity or recognition. He thought coldly that if Nahil had not betrayed him, he would have been one of them, blundering his way through a fog of enemies. Creatures of air and nothingness surrounded them. They could find no one to fight, and yet, they saw their comrades die.

Andiene’s ghosts fought with the skill of the swordsmen whose likenesses they wore. Nahil’s men warded off death-blows from phantoms, and seeing that those enemies were but phantoms, they did not guard themselves from other blows struck by men with swords of true steel.

Here and there, knots of close-packed men fought and slew one another, for lack of a better enemy. And some, run mad in another way, recognized friends and comrades arrayed against them, ones long dead. They fled in terror, throwing down their weapons.

Soon, more fled, and more, in a terror that grew like forest madness. The gates of the city were closed and barred against them; Nahil had been the first to flee. The men came to the high city wall and divided like waves breaking against a rock. Some fled east to freedom, and some fled west to the sea-cliffs, as far as they could run.

The field was clear. Kallan called his men to him. They came; he counted them. There were wounds that would need to be cleaned and bandaged, but none that should kill a man. They were alive, all walking, still battle-drunk. He praised them, as they stood looking around in wonder. The shadow folk stood a few paces off, as perfect as ever, untouched by the day’s fighting. The sun had not risen far above the horizon.

Andiene came to them, weeping as she went. “Do not weep,” Kallan said joyfully. “This is a great victory, of a few against a mighty army.”

How shall I pay you when this day is done?
For a moment he saw mad anger in her stare, and death itself as his payment for his service.
He who gives a king his heart’s desire must beware
. Then she was calm again, but weeping still. “This was what I dreamed of, long ago. I saw this valley, too.”

She stared up at the sky, where the vultures circled already. There was passion and grief in her voice. “I would that there would be no more dying!”

“There may not be,” he said.

“We have not won into the city yet.”

“We may not need to.” He spoke to Syresh and Eliad. “Tend to your wounds, and when you are done, see what you can do for those we fought, the ones that live.

“And come with me,” he said to Andiene. “No, leave your army where it stands. We do not want to drive them over the cliffs with terror.”

It was her turn to be confused, but she followed him, as he walked toward the men that huddled on the brink of the sea-cliffs, an army no longer, but men gone mad with fear, with barely enough wit to halt on the edge of the solid earth.

“I do not think they will dare to attack us, but if they do, can you guard us?” Kallan asked. Andiene nodded. “I only hope that one of the high command was left to deal with,” he said.

They stopped a few hundred paces from the crowd of soldiers, and waited. Kallan scanned the crowd. Murmuring and uneasy movement, fearfulness, none bold enough to speak. He waited patiently. One pushed his way through the crowd, speaking brisk orders. They obeyed. Kallan narrowed his eyes to see better, and shouted, “Aren!”

The man turned, shading his eyes, for the sun was low in the east behind them still. He took an uncertain step closer. Kallan advanced also. “Aren, do you know me?”

“I know no filthy illusion!”

“Who trades words with an illusion? I am as real as you. Look.”

Kallan unbuckled his sword from his back, and tossed it aside. He pulled his dagger from its sheath, and threw it far and wide to ring on a rock as it fell. “See, I am weaponless and real. Come and treat with us, if you have the power.”

The other man hesitated, then, dropping his sword and dagger on the ground, he came forward. He was a warrior like many others, a little older than Kallan, taller, swarthier, not greatly marked by the battle. His wary eyes surveyed them both.

“You know me, Aren. I am no ghost and no sorcerer. I fight for Andiene, who is rightful queen of your city.” He needed to give no better explanation. Aren turned to look at her in wonder.

“Do your men have so much love for Nahil that they will continue the fight?” Kallan asked.

“No. No, my lord, my lady.” Aren looked doubtfully from one to the other.

“If you have men that are skilled in woundcraft, you may send them to the field to help their fellows. Only have them lay down their weapons first,” said Kallan.

Aren grinned joylessly. “There are more weapons thrown down on the field than they took with them. But I thank you.”

“I pray that you may save them all,” Andiene said in her young and grieving voice. “They are my people.”

Aren called his orders to the men behind him, then turned back, to study her for a long time. “Only let us return alone, my lady, and we will open the gates for you.”

“I want no more fighting,” she said.

“No fighting will be needed. We are an army ourselves, and those few that are within are our friends. You will be able to enter into your kingdom this day.” He turned to the remnants of his army. Gradually, they ordered themselves and began the march back to the city.

Andiene looked around the battlefield once more. Mounds of cloth and flesh strewn like stones on the ground. The white albanet lying still, its throat gashed red, its rider crushed beneath it. The cries of men in mortal pain, the golden ones gliding wide-winged to earth.

I have no power to heal, only to destroy.
She remembered the dragon’s voice.
No seed, nor root of healing, nor could seed grow in that barren soil.

Her voice was bitter, as she said, “I see the difference now between the prophesies of my return in glory and power, and the truth, this plain scattered with death.”

Kallan shook his head. “This was an easy battle. Did you truly believe the songs? They never speak of such things.”

***

Far to the north, Ilbran bound Kare’s eyes with a strip of cloth. She did not protest, or ask him why. She had not spoken many words since he had chosen the paths to the north. She grieved silently for her companions, and did not weep.

Her father grieved also. No hounds of men or demons hunted him now. He had chosen his path and he walked on it freely. This was freedom, far from the walls of the city or the paths of the forest. Still, he grieved.

Bright Andiene. ‘For all eternity,’ I vowed, as lovers do. I am twice forsworn.

No joy lay in this land, where his daughter followed him blindfolded. He did not look right or left as he climbed through the rocky hills. The shortest path to the kingdoms of the north lies through the city of the dead. Once, he had turned aside from that horror, but now he was older, and the ones that he had loved were long dead, their bones picked clean and cast aside.

On this day, he saw no living man, the only life the vultures and golderlings, the golderlings that had warmed him through the long night and had licked his poisoned wounds clean again. Swift and joyful they ran to him, the little ones, the loving ones. Ilbran did not slow or hurry his pace.

When he stood on the highest point of that land, he turned to look south and west. Golden vultures glided on the paths of the air, flying south. Far away, a wheel of them circled patiently, dark against the sky. He did not look back again.

Chapter 24

Andiene watched the gates of the city swing open. She stood between the dragon’s paws, those wide-stretched lines of stone that welcomed those who entered the city. This was what she had waited for. The many years, the cruel schooling, the forest paths, the summer journeying, and this was all it meant. She walked numbly, shapes and colors pulsing and blurring, sounds blaring loud, and fading away. For a week she had not truly slept, for fear that the shadows she had summoned would slip from her grasp

She heard the shouting from the city, “Reji Marates! Andiene Rejin!” The bells were ringing a discordant jangle. Someone had gone ahead of her. Was this her victory?

It was too easy, like a dream. There was no joy in it. The bells had rung that other time, too, and they had named a king. The crowd had shouted then, too.

The mass of soldiers divided and left her a pathway. They had thrown something over the palace walls, a man’s body, sprawled and broken. She walked to where it lay, and stared down at Nahil’s body, his face turned blankly to the pale autumn sky, a face she had carried in her thoughts for eight years. He was younger than she remembered, scarcely older than Kallan.

Her anger grew. It was all she had left to her. “Who robbed me of my revenge?”

“No one,” the eager voice of a stranger answered. “It was self-slaughter. When he saw his army scatter like songbirds before a sea-hawk, he took his sword, set the hilt to the ground and the point to his heart, and kneeled down.”

She shook her head. “Then what has become of my revenge?”

Kallan stood at her side, speaking urgently. “Be glad this is the way it ended. He was your father’s brother. Be glad that it was his own fear that destroyed him. What more could you have done? Maybe this will break the old cycle of son killing father, and brother killing brother.”

“He had a son,” she said. “Does he still live?”

He nodded.

“What shall I have done with him? You have solved such problems before.”

Kallan raised his head and saw the unforgetting anger in her eyes.
He who gives a king his heart’s desire must beware.

“Before, I was never asked such questions,” he said. “He is young and his mother is dead. Have him fostered by one who is loyal to you.” He looked to where Syresh stood, with Lenane close beside him.