The Starfollowers of Coramonde (15 page)

She made a
sound, neither agreement nor objection. She had half-turned from him, used to
keeping her birthmark from the sight of others. He moved casually to stand to
her left; she relaxed perceptibly.

“Not like
yourself at the very least, eh?” she replied. “We are permitted little contact
with male siblings in Glyffa, but Jade searched me out from curiosity about our
mother. She died birthing him, when I was young, but I remember her well. He and
I have spoken, oh, five times or more now. A very close relationship, in
Glyffa.” She clasped her hands behind her back, head tilted down, debating
whether she wished to finish. She did.

“I brought
the column by this route, some small measure from its way, because, for some
reason, I wished to see him. I knew he would probably be up among the
hillsides; his favorite places are there.”

“What was
that hand-signal thing he did to me before he went?”

“It was a
blessing of sorts, but—” She hesitated. “It means he wishes the pity of the
Bright Lady for you.”

He looked to
where Jade had disappeared into the gloaming. “I’d like to know what they’re
coming up with, Jade and the others.”

“I, too.
Whatever their decision, it is Mandated that we abide by it. We hold the
country in trust, until that time comes. That is
our
learning Trial.”
Her face shone, but Gil retained his conviction that all final solutions were
suspect.

“Are they all
as remote as Jade?”

“Many. Their
paths lie deep within themselves. Others are not, doing what they can to aid
and sustain their fellows. Some are formed in mendicant or praying orders, but
many operate vast retreats where they care for anyone who is sick or injured.
They set aside chambers where a woman may come and conceive a child, but she
must depart when it is accomplished, and never see the man again.”

Gil chewed
that one over. “The population’s down since a hundred years ago, right?”

She confirmed
it. “But not dangerously so.” Mischief crept into her face. “That will change
with the Reconciliation.”

Sadness
retook her. Gil wanted to ask why, with a battle looming, she’d detoured to
have a word with her brother. To see him a last time? He dismissed the
question; her own affair. As he often did with profundities, he changed the
subject.

“We get to
your boss’ camp tomorrow?”

“Aye. There
may already be fighting. The Southwastelanders are in great array.”

“Who’re they
anyway, these Southwastelanders?”

“How can you
not know? They are enlisted of Shardishku-Salamá, a broad term for many tribes
from lands south of the Central Sea. They ward the Masters against invasion,
and used to make the occasional raid into Veganá. But now they aggress in
hordes, mustering a mighty corps for this enterprise.”

“Wait a
minute; Salamá’s mounting major campaigns in the Crescent Lands?”

“You are not
the least perceptive of listeners.”

“I’m a
dipstick.” He’d never thought the Masters could mass that much manpower, or why
would Bey have spent decades weaseling control of Coramonde? Apparently they’d
just wanted to save their best shot for the main event. Gil knew he was
spitballing. His attention went back to Swan. “You, however, aren’t. You’re
about a pure talent.”

She inclined
her head in mocking gratitude. He colored in embarrassment. She laughed. “And
what uncommon fellow are you? Old Sir Angorman, with his far-northern accent,
still speaks with less novelty than you. You are altogether odder than your
companions.”

He couldn’t
think of a pat way to explain alternate Realities. He swiped a line from Van
Duyn. “I, uh, I hail from different probabilities than you.”

She shrugged,
“As you like.”

“Hey, no
offense. It’s tough to run down for you. I’m outside my own place and time.
Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

“Seeking what?”
He didn’t get it. “Jade said it; what are you seeking, seeker?”

He thought
hidden thoughts feeling the Ace against his chest. She stretched and yawned.
“You are a mystery, open and yet closed. Do not speak from social grace, but I
should be interested in hearing what you have to say, when you are truthing.”

She made
prompt departure. He went to find his campfire. Angorman and Andre were gone;
they’d been spending time off on their own in earnest conversation since they’d
hit Glyffa. Woodsinger and the baby had been allocated a bigger tent, ringed by
guards, close to where Swan bunked. That left Ferrian reclining by the fire.
Gil eased himself down.

“We have gone
from skirmish to battle,” Ferrian said, not turning from contemplation of the
flames. “Shall we then go from battle to war?”

“Looks like.”

The disquiet
in Ferrian was finding its way out. “When I was Champion-at-arms of the Wild
Riders, always I counseled against war. I thought,
If I am strongest, no man
dare deride my rede; the Horseblooded will stay at peace.”
He put his hand
to his empty sleeve. “No man has that strength. I grow to hate the sword and
spear, Gil MacDonald.”

Gil said
nothing. Ferrian rolled over to sleep, but his despondency was infectious. The
American pulled the chain up, held the Ace. He tilted the tarot and watched
firelight lick across the sword, the firmament. It was as if a universe were
burning.

I am nearer home today

Than I have ever been before…

Phoebe Gary

“Nearer Home”

“THE outlanders, your Grace.” The
travelers entered the tent on cue.

When they’d
arrived at the camp of the Trustee of Glyffa, spread over a high saddle of land
above a broad river, Swan had been admitted immediately to the pavilion that
was her Liege’s headquarters. Gil, beating dust off himself, saw many wounded
around him and concluded that the Sisters of the Line had been mauled. There
were about seven thousand of them, not counting however many were farther
downslope in the camp of the ousted army of occupied Veganá.

The Trustee
turned out to be a slender old woman with an oval face, green eyes, and gray
hair shot through with white. She wore no armor, though the women clustered
around her did. She was seated, dressed in flowing vestments of springtime
colors, gathered at her waist by a broad yellow sash set with lapis lazuli. She
held a tall shepherdess’ crook which, Swan had said, was her staff of office.
It was inscribed with cursive spell-phrases and curlicued sigils.

She swept
them with her gaze. It paused on Angorman and his cockaded hat, but when the
Trustee rose, it was to Woodsinger she went, asking to see the baby. Her voice
was reedy, but measured. After she’d looked at the child and heard her laugh,
she addressed the others.

“Please
pardon me. So much strife have I seen these last weeks that I had to take
myself a moment to focus on life.” She looked around again. “But, did Swan not
say you were five besides the infant?”

Andre wasn’t
with them. He’d hung back, at the entrance. The Trustee’s glance found him, and
her face lost animation. Swan was as mystified as anyone.

The wizard
came slowly into the room and stood before the Trustee. “Greetings, Andre,” she
said at last. There was emotional weight to it. “You could not be more
desperately needed. You have my gratitude.”

His voice
strained. “Phases end, lives converge. This reunion was due… Mother.”

She reached
out, and he put his hand in hers. Gil saw now how closely the green of her eyes
matched Gabrielle’s. He’d heard the deCourteneys’ mother was a famous
enchantress, but it had never occurred to him she’d be Trustee. Chairs were
brought, and Andre seated to her right. His plump, stubbled face was at peace
for the first time in days.

The Trustee
turned to her son’s companions. “Pardon us; we have not had one another’s company
for—how long, Andre?” Her eyes fell away from his. “Since your Kasara was taken
from you.” She sighed. “Foolish anger of the moment, and my fault, I
acknowledge it.”

Gil was
fitting in the pieces. So Andre had been Kasara’s lover, later her husband. When
she’d been executed, when the Bright Lady had imposed her Mandate on Glyffa,
Andre must have defied it, exempted himself. The falling-out with his mother
had lasted nearly a century.

“And your
sister, Andre? I have word from her only very infrequently. Is she well?”

“Quite. And
happy, I believe.”

“Then I am
content. I worried when she went with you from Glyffa, but knew you two would
need one another.”

Angorman
cleared his throat; they were all feeling uncomfortable. “The campaign has gone
ill, madam?”

“Not well,
say rather. Would you not all take somewhat to drink?” They accepted tots of
brandy. Swan performed introductions as chairs were brought.

“Your
bringing Blazetongue and the heiress is good hearing,” the Trustee declared.
“The Veganán commander is due for council. I know he will find this more to his
liking.”

Gil was
worried about Salamá’s manpower. “How bad are you outnumbered?”

“Badly
enough, though we have pruned down the odds a bit since the beginning. Many
landings were made on Veganá’s southern coasts. They lost several ports, and
the Masters poured in more men. They swept Veganá and hold most of it, if
uneasily.”

“Which
Southwastelanders are these?” Angorman inquired.

“They are of
the Occhlon, once a peaceful race. The Five recruited them through Yardiff Bey;
now they are truest fanatics, avid to lay down their lives for the Masters,
foremost in the favor of Salamá.

“They took
Veganá in four pitched battles. We have fought them twice within our borders,
drawing them on. They are eager for us though; I suspect they would relish an
opportunity to trounce us rowdy bitches who have emptied so many of their
saddles, pour souls.” She shifted her shepherdess’ crook. “This war must be
resolved; the Reconciliation is not far off, eh, Swan?”

The High Constable
of Region Blue agreed. Hands clasped behind her back, she went to the
pavilion’s entrance, her thoughts on her many ideas to improve life in Glyffa
for all. “Your legacy will be human weal,” she said to the Trustee at length,
“and fulfillment. Your name will live forever.”

Swan stepped
back from the entrance, seeing someone coming. A man marched into the tent, the
Commander of Veganá, Lord Blacktarget. He was barrel-chested, with eyes ringed
with proclamations of fatigue. He doffed his helmet, holding it in his left
arm. His head was shaved smooth, gleaming in the light. His hand went up to
touch back his long mustachios, which were waxed stiff. He wore an unusual
blazonry, a red circle with a heart done in jet, like a fencing mark. His
broadsword hilt was set with a carnelian-eyed basilisk, and his cloak was
stained and muddy from the campaign.

The Trustee
rose. “Please welcome new friends, my Lord Blacktarget. They bear best tidings
to us all.” The travelers were quickly named.

“What tidings
are they?” Blacktarget asked curtly. Andre took the wrappings from Blazetongue.
He handed it to the astonished general.

“But—the
Sword of Kings. This is past belief! I know it from old songs, but I never
thought I—” His gaze caressed the blade, then suspicion showed on his face.
“From whence comes it?”

“Sword and
owner found their way to one another,” Andre said, “in a time of convergences.”

“Yes, but
how?” Andre’s words suddenly penetrated. “Owner, did you say? The Princess has
been found?”

Woodsinger
came forward. In the middle of the drama the baby had fallen asleep.
Blacktarget’s shock was visible. “Stolen the night her parents were killed,” he
recalled, “but I have held the Princess Cynosure myself, and I know her. Note
the shape of her ear. It is indisputably Cynosure. How many prayers entreated
for our sovereign and our symbol of fortune at war?”

He took a
seat, unsettled, even while he exulted. “These are the things I need, at the
moment I need them. Now will Veganá triumph.” He jumped up again, his arms wide
over Cynosure, so the shadow of Blazetongue fell across her. “Blacktarget the
fool! The fates have thrown back the night, just when I despaired most!” He
swung around, laughing, impetuous enough in that moment to catch up the Trustee
and give her a hug; they’d had their share of disagreements during the
campaign. She stopped him with a little
ahem!,
and he sobered.

“Stories are
to be told, I think,” she said.

There was
jubilation in the camp of Veganá. Lord Blacktarget had gone before them holding
the baby and Blazetongue, basking in their hurrahs. But the Southwastelanders
were moving up, and the next day would bring battle.

While the
Veganáns were cheering Blacktarget, the Trustee was telling Swan and the
company. “They shall need all their fervor tomorrow. The enemy has more horse
than we, some of it heavily armored warriors like knights of Coramonde. I pray
we will see Sword and Princess in their appointed place. Andre is right; there
are vast forces moving those two toward Veganá, for reasons that we do not
fully understand.”

Angorman
averred, “The Order of the Axe will work to that, and you may rely upon my help
tomorrow.” Andre and Ferrian seconded him.

Gil was
smoothing up a diplomatic way to steer clear of the impending battle. “What if
it’s a decoy? Bey’s used sorcery trying to get at the baby and sword. Why not
again?”

Andre, Swan
and the Trustee became grave. The High Constable beckoned him, saying, “Come, I
shall show you the disposition of the camp, and where you may shelter.”

She led him
to the northern face of the hill. He waited, knowing he’d committed a gaffe,
but not seeing how. She began, “You know of Gabrielle, Andre’s sister? Good,
and you are familiar with the details of her parentage?”