undying legion 01 - unbound man (53 page)

He paused in the courtyard, turning for a final look at the building. Somewhere down in the cellar, Estelle lay sealed in the stillbox.
She’s probably shouted herself hoarse by now.
It was, he supposed, a fitting end for the one who had drawn him into Azador’s snare all those years ago. Yet her fate gave him no satisfaction. It had been necessary, and that was all.

They rode through the gate and into the thoroughfare. Clade gestured to Terrel, shading his eyes against the late afternoon sun. “Lead us out,” he called.

Terrel swung his horse around. “Which way?”

“West. The Lissil road.”

As they headed out, the bells of the Kefiran temple began to ring, the peals slow and resonant, like the voice of some unfathomable creature; as though Azador itself were calling him back.
But no, there is not enough rage in it to be Azador.
He allowed a smile at his fancy.
Something else, then. One that wishes me fair journey.

The sound pursued them all the way up the thoroughfare. When they left the main road to turn west, Clade could still hear the two loudest tones, one slightly deeper than the other, each ringing in turn, the odd, staccato rhythm sounding strangely like laughter.

•

Eilwen didn’t know how long she’d been walking. It had been dark when she started, and it was light now. Had it been dark again? She didn’t think so.
Only a day, then.
She frowned. That didn’t seem right. Was that really all? It felt like years.

A tall Kefiran jostled her as she passed. There had been a lot of that since it had gotten light.
Crowded streets, lots of buildings. Still in Anstice.
That was good, she supposed. At least she knew roughly where she was.

She’d written a long letter before she left. She remembered that. She’d wanted to apologise to the masters, to Brielle, and yes, even to Ufeus. She’d wanted to apologise to Havilah, too, but of course it was too late for that.

Havilah is dead.
There was something odd about the thought, something surprising, as though her mind were unable to make space for such a peculiarly shaped notion. Somehow, it just didn’t fit.

There was a weight, somewhere. A leather strap, pulling her shoulder down.
I have my bag.
She must have thought to take it before she left. That was good, too. It meant she didn’t have to go back.

Her hands moved over her body, feeling for the items she normally carried on her person.
Purse and dagger. Letters of reference from the Guild. Spare dagger in boot.
Nothing was missing, save the wire from her other boot. And beneath her shirt lay the black amber egg, the lambskin wrap pushed aside so that the egg’s smooth surface pressed against her skin.

Twice during her wanderings the egg had stirred, once in the pre-dawn as a carriage rattled past, and a second time in the press of a crowded street. But the beast within her seemed sated for the moment, and she’d experienced the egg’s voiceless whispers as though detached from her own senses, watching as it called to someone else. She’d felt neither compulsion nor revulsion, nor even curiosity, just an awareness that now it had found someone, and now they were gone again.

Havilah is dead. Gods. He’s dead.

At one point while it was still dark, a pair of youths had approached her, one twisting her arms behind her back while the other began pawing at her breasts. She hadn’t struggled or cried out. But when the one behind her relaxed his grip she smashed his nose, and by the time the other realised what was happening she’d already drawn her dagger and sliced open his cheek. She’d left them whimpering on the ground, adjusting her shirt as she walked away, never once having opened her mouth.

I didn’t kill them. Gods attend, I didn’t kill them.
For some reason that seemed important.

Her steps carried her to an intersection and she paused, looking at the streets in sudden recognition.
The Fanon road. That’s the eastern thoroughfare.
The city wall loomed to the east and south, the heavy, permanently open gates visible in both directions.
East toward Fanon or south toward Spyridon. Or west, back into Anstice. Or…

Eilwen looked north up the thoroughfare. The side-street that marked her usual detour was just ahead; and half a dozen lots beyond that, the high grey wall that she always, always avoided.

She craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of the building itself.
I should leave it be. Leave Anstice and not look back. Never have to worry about that building again.
But there was no weight to the words, not any more. The warning seemed meant for someone else, not her; so she nodded, noting its presence, then shrugged it off, making her way up the thoroughfare and halting before the drab, forbidden wall.

The building might have been five storeys high, featureless save for a roofed gallery along the top level. The gate was timber, similar in colour to the grey stones of the wall, which was surmounted by a pair of ornamental cannons. A small door beside the main gate stood open, and Eilwen glimpsed an equally drab courtyard beyond, empty of sunlight save for the small patch admitted by the door itself.

The egg stirred at her side as though muttering in its sleep and she placed a hand over it, caressing it through layers of fabric and lambskin.

There they are. The Oculus.
There were dozens inside, no doubt. Maybe more.
I gave you a ship, and you tore it in two.
Tammas had asked her to smuggle the two oversized crates on board, so she had, never asking what was in them; and by the time he told her the truth, the sorcerers had already emerged and killed half the crew, and there’d been nothing left to do but stave the treacherous bastard’s head in and then watch as the Oculus ripped the
Orenda
to pieces.
You killed my ship and let me live. You didn’t even have the decency to take me with it.

And now, if Laris was to be believed, they were on the brink of mounting an invasion. Eilwen found the prospect strangely pleasing.
Out in the open at last. No more skulking around, playing at war in the shadows. An honest fight, there for all to see.

And for her, perhaps, the same.
Not a murderer, not any more. A soldier.
If only she could have explained it to Havilah. He wouldn’t have asked her to stop if he’d known. He would have been proud.

Havilah, who was dead.

Hooves clattered within the courtyard. The gate swung open, revealing half a dozen riders within; and as they came into view, the egg swirled to life, tugging at her awareness.
Sorcerers.
At least two, probably more, and others bearing locuses as well. By the look of their bags, they were provisioned for a modest journey, perhaps to a nearby city like Spyridon. They’d be on the road for days, staying in inns, or perhaps even sleeping rough.

The beast within seemed to stretch, sniffing at the scene before her like a wolf sniffing the air. Then it straightened, eyes gleaming, and gave a growl of assent.

A worthy target.

The riders filed through the gate, halting in the thoroughfare. Eilwen saw one of them raise his hand against the slanting sun. “Lead us out,” he called.

A shorter man nodded. “Which way?”

“West,” said the first man, glancing up and down the thoroughfare. “The Lissil road.”

They moved off, the short rider forging a path through the traffic, the rest following in his wake. Eilwen watched their halting progress down the thoroughfare as jangling bells rang out from a nearby building. Seven Oculus on the Lissil road. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

She stepped into the flow of pedestrians, allowing them to sweep her back into the city, toward the river. There was a stable near Bastion Bridge where she could purchase a horse for a reasonable sum. It was late in the day to be setting out, but the road was good enough that she could ride into the night if need be. A group like that would be hard to miss outside the city.

See me, Havilah. I am a soldier. I go now to fight the enemies of the Guild.

Look upon me and be proud.

Chapter 21

To contest, to argue, to fight — to find that which is yours and no other’s — this is what it is to live. Only in death are all men one.

— Daro of Talsoor
Dialogues with my Teachers

The village clung to the road like barnacles to a ship. Many of the buildings were derelict, hollow shells with sagging, weather-worn roofs and gaping windows. The rest filled Arandras with a sense of weariness, as if those within continued to scrape out an existence simply because they couldn’t think of anything better to do.

“Lost a field a while back,” the innkeeper said in response to Narvi’s enquiries, gesturing in the direction of the Tienette. The river was narrower here, flowing through the bottom of a gorge twice as deep as Arandras was tall. “Landslide. Biggest spring melt in years.” He shrugged, narrowing hooded eyes. “Four died.”

Despite the feeling of malaise hanging over the village, the inn seemed prosperous enough, a fact commented upon by Narvi and explained by the swarthy innkeeper as deriving from its proximity to the nearby bridge. Though too narrow for anything larger than a handcart, the crossing was the last before the lake at the river’s source, a feature which apparently attracted sufficient travellers to support not only the inn but also a good part of the remaining village.

“Don’t often get as many folk as you, though.” The man rubbed his chin. “Could be a tight fit.”

Narvi dismissed the man’s concern with an easy smile. “We’ll take whatever rooms you’ve got.”

In the end, the innkeeper proved able to offer six rooms, each with space enough to bed two. To Arandras’s complete lack of surprise, Fas determined that Quill personnel should be given priority, leaving Arandras and Mara to fend for themselves.

“I could find you space in the stables, perhaps,” the innkeeper said, with a frown that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure they wouldn’t disappear in the night with their pick of the inn’s horses.

“No need,” Arandras said. The evening was warm, with a light breeze blowing in from the southeast. “We’ll find somewhere grassy out back.”

Supper was served by the innkeeper’s nephew: a tagine of chicken, tomato, honey, and early season pine nuts, seasoned with something that put Arandras in mind of a Sarean spice he couldn’t name. He ate quickly, relishing the hot food.
Not bad for a rundown village with every second house a rotting husk. Perhaps there’s life in the place yet.
He made little effort at conversation and departed as soon as he was done, leaving Mara to drink and joke with as many of the Quill as would join her.

There’d been scant opportunity for Arandras to revisit their disagreement since their brief exchange the other day. Somehow, Mara always seemed to be occupied whenever Arandras was nearby, often in close conversation with one Quill or another, leaving him no opening even to ask whether something was amiss. Not that he could have done much about it if it was. It was he who had pointed out their failing, and she who had refused to hear it.
If she’s expecting me to apologise, she’ll have to get used to living with disappointment.

A vast array of stars glittered overhead, cool and remote in the pitch-black sky. A fat moon hung close to the horizon, allowing Arandras to pick his way across the meadow behind the inn with ease. Selecting a spot free of rocks and tree roots, he wrapped himself in his travelling cloak and lay down, bags beneath his head, breathing deep the fresh scents of grass and wildflowers.
Weeper, but it’s good to be out of the city.

He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until a hand on his shoulder jolted him awake. “Arandras,” someone said, and for a sleep-fogged moment he thought it was Mara, come to confess her wrongs. “Arandras,” the voice said again, and this time he noted its low, male tone. “Wake up, damn it.”

“Who?” he said, blinking at the shadowy form.

The figure put a finger to its lips. “Hush. It’s Bannard. Listen to me, Arandras. I can’t do this any more.”

Arandras sat up with a stifled groan. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m done. You hear me? I’m leaving, now.”

“What? What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“What do you think I mean?” Bannard blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t keep leading that bastard on behind us. I’m done with it.”

Arandras rubbed his eyes, trying to think.
Weeper’s tears, why is nothing ever simple?
“You leave like this, the Quill might not have you back.”

“I know. I’m not going back.” Bannard’s voiced hitched in the darkness. “I’m a snake. Do you know how that feels?” He gave a bitter chuckle. “Well, I guess you do. Maybe you can live with it. I can’t.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Arandras began, then stopped.
Not the time.
“Forget it. Tell me what signs you’re leaving for Clade.”

“If I do, then whatever happens next is on you. I have no part in this after tonight.”

No part.
The words echoed in his mind, recalling his own thoughts in Isaias’s shop.
I said that too, but it was too late.
“Please. What signs?”

“Stones,” Bannard said reluctantly. “Four the same size to show the points of the world, then a smaller one — white, if possible — to show the direction we took.”

Arandras nodded. It was a simple enough method. “Thank you.”

“If anyone asks about me in the morning, just say you slept through and didn’t hear anything, all right?”

“Hey, if you want out from the Quill, there’s no way I’m pointing them after you.”

“All right.” Bannard coughed softly, as if he wanted to say something else.

“What?”

“Nothing.” A pause. “It’s just… you still have a choice, you know. Don’t let him turn you into someone you’re not.”

Bannard rose and jogged away in the direction of the stables. Arandras glanced around the colourless meadow. Mara’s curled form lay beneath a sparsely-leafed tree, too distant to have heard their conversation. A soft whinny floated down from the stables, then the sound of muffled clops slowly receding back up the road. Sighing, Arandras stretched out on the soft grass.