CHAPTER 4
Kheraya’s Emergence, Year 634
Orzili emerged from the gap in the middle ward of Hayncalde Castle, naked as a newborn, blood pouring from the knife wound in his thigh and the bullet wound to his back. The injury to his leg was the more painful of the two. He didn’t know yet if the hole in his back would prove deadly.
He had landed on his knees, his skin abraded by the Spanning wind. The precise golden edges of his sextant bit into his cramped fingers and tears leaked from his eyes. This, too, he blamed on the wind.
Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled toward the nearest tower, scanning the torchlit plaza for guards. He considered going to Lenna’s chamber, but dismissed the notion. The Lenna of his own time would know better than to mock him. She would tend to his wounds, whispering words of sympathy. This older Lenna, the one brought back to him through the years by the exigencies of war and assassination, was less predictable. He wanted her, was drawn to her wisdom, her biting wit, her honed beauty, but he was wary of her.
He limped to his own quarters. Along the way he passed two Sheraigh guards, who appeared amused by his state of undress. Their mirth diminished when they noticed his wounds, and evaporated entirely when he identified himself and threatened to have them taken to the dungeon and stretched beyond recognition. By the time he ordered them to have a healer sent to his chamber, they were desperate to oblige.
Upon entering his quarters, he downed a generous cup of Miejan red, grabbed a blanket off his bed, and sat near the hearth. He covered himself without allowing the blanket to touch his thigh, and without leaning back.
He was well into his second cup of wine when someone knocked at his door.
“Come!”
The door swung open, revealing a woman with steel gray hair, and, behind her, a younger man bearing cloth, herbs, oils, and tinctures. They entered. The man set his burdens on a table near the hearth, and left.
“You’re the healer?” Orzili asked.
“I am now,” she said, crossing to him. She eyed the knife wound, peered at his back, and knelt by his outstretched leg. “This looks terrible.”
He glanced at it, that was all. He had never been squeamish, but this… It did look terrible. He would give every gold round in his purse to have that bloody Walker back in the dungeon. Tobias wouldn’t escape him again.
“Spare me the observations and heal it.”
She glanced up at him, her expression mild, an eyebrow quirked. She unstoppered one of her bottles and poured a small amount of liquid onto a cloth. The smell of spirit reached him.
“This is going to sting. Or would you prefer I kept that to myself as well?”
His mouth twitched. She had mettle. He admired that. “No, I appreciate the warning.”
She wiped away the drying blood, circling closer and closer to the wound itself. When at last the damp cloth touched his gash, it felt as though she had thrust a hot needle under his skin. He sucked a breath between his teeth.
The healer didn’t pause. He gripped the arms of his chair, weathering the pain of each brush of that cloth. Finally she stopped and examined the wound more closely.
Saying nothing, she retrieved a second cloth, doused that one, and shifted her attention to the bullet wound.
He had to smile. “Very well, healer. I surrender. I would hear your observations.”
“I wouldn’t want to presume, my lord.”
He half-turned his head, allowing her to see the lift of his lips. “Please.”
“Very well.” Her cloth touched the injury itself, drawing from him another hissed breath. “You were fortunate with this wound. I take it this was done with a firearm.”
“Yes. A pistol, from distance.”
“Still, the God was kind.”
“And the other? As terrible as you thought?”
“A blade wound, yes?” At his nod, she went on. “It slashed through muscle, and nearly to the bone. I can heal it, but you’ll need to tread gently for a time.”
“I can’t.”
“No, I didn’t expect you would. But as your healer I have an obligation to make the effort. Now, if you damage the leg permanently, it will be your fault and not mine.”
He laughed. “Did you poison the old healer? Is that how you came by this position?”
She didn’t answer. Bending over the wound, she laid her hands upon it. A misty glow enveloped her, as silver as a winter moon. Cold penetrated his flesh around the injury. For a tencount and more, it clawed at him like a forest beast. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, cursing Tobias Doljan under his breath. In time, the cold abated enough that agony gave way to relief. Not long after, the glow around the woman diminished and vanished entirely. She straightened to scrutinize her work. A bold scar remained where the gash had been.
“That will fade with time,” she said. “How does it feel?”
He shifted his leg, winced in anticipation of pain that didn’t come. The woman knew her trade. “Better. Thank you.”
“Don’t be fooled. You’re not healed yet.” She stood, stretched her back, and addressed the second wound. “I meant what I said about rest.” She probed his back with deft fingers. “The old healer left,” she said, answering his previous question. “It seems he was a Hayncalde man. A loyal subject of the old regime.”
“The Sheraighs let him go?”
“They had no choice. He fled in the middle of the night.”
Again he laughed. “And so they found you. A Sheraigh sympathizer?”
“A skilled healer who knows to keep her mouth shut.”
“Yet you tell me this, despite my ties to the Sheraighs. Perhaps you know less than you think.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, sounding less than contrite. “I didn’t think you were from Sheraigh. I didn’t mean–”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t come from Sheraigh.”
After a brief silence, she said, “I need to extract the bullet. I don’t believe it’s very deep, but it would be better if you slept while I did this.” She positioned herself in front of him again. “I can prepare you a sleep draught.” She glanced at his empty cup. “It won’t be as pleasant as the Miejan red, but neither will it give you a hangover. It will also work more quickly.”
“All right.”
She moved to the table that held her herbs and bottles. Another knock echoed in the chamber.
“Enter.”
Lenna breezed in. She paused at the sight of the healer before finding him in his chair. Her eyes flicked over his body and she flushed attractively, looked away. He smiled at her discomfort.
Her bronze hair was streaked with silver. Her Walk back to this time had left tiny lines around her lips and dark, liquid eyes. His own Lenna, the one who waited for him in Kantaad, was as young as he, and more beautiful than any woman he had ever known.
This older Lenna, though, had insinuated herself into his emotions. She was whip smart, wise almost beyond imagining. Age had roughened her beauty, but also deepened it. He wanted her more than he had wanted anyone, her allure heightened by her refusal to join him in his bed.
The healer went about her task with discreet efficiency, no doubt sensing that he and Lenna waited for her to leave. Within a few spirecounts, she had her draught ready. She placed it on the table beside his wine cup.
“Drink it all, my lord, and lie down. It should keep you asleep through the surgery.” She cast a glance at Lenna. “Summon me when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, healer.”
She nodded to Lenna and let herself out of the chamber. Only when she was gone and the door closed, did Lenna face him again.
“I heard you were shot.”
“And stabbed.”
“I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
“I’m well enough, thank you.”
“And the Walker?”
He glowered at the empty hearth. “He escaped. Two of my men were killed and the third was captured. We lost the tri-sextants.”
Lenna’s eyes widened, but she had the grace not to comment.
“We’ll get him back.”
“I’ve no doubt,” she said, subdued.
“You can’t leave yet, Lenna. I need you in this time.”
“Why? We’ve already determined that the boy doesn’t have a chronofor. If he did, he’d have gone back by now to warn Mearlan of the attempt on his life. You don’t need me to follow him through the years. And anything else you require, the younger me can provide.”
“She knows nothing about this. You know everything. That’s reason enough for you to remain.”
She knelt beside him, the gossamer scent of honeysuckle surrounding her. He breathed her in.
“Let me go, love. Please. You’ll be happier with the me that belongs in this time.”
“That’s not–”
“I won’t love you. I’ve told you as much. Keeping me here in the vain hope that I will is… It’s cruel, to all of us. Both of you, both of me.”
“Then leave.”
She blinked. “You would let me?”
“How would I stop you?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know,” he said, pressing his advantage. “You’ve told me repeatedly that you wish to return to your time, to the older me who you left there. And you’ve also said that you won’t go without my permission. Only recently has it occurred to me that this is an evasion on your part, a way to remain here while claiming that I’ve kept you from Walking back.”
She scowled, stood, walked to the hearth. “That makes no sense.”
“I disagree. I think you’re afraid that the older me you claim to love so much might reject you. Fourteen more years? More silver in your hair, more lines on your face? What if he won’t love you as he once did? That’s what holds you here. Fear of his indifference, and the understanding deep within you that you need my love.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I may be the only me you have left.”
Lenna crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to meet his gaze but unwilling to turn her back on him. “I don’t remember you being this cruel.”
“Neither do I. Perhaps it’s because of you?”
“You should summon her – the other me. Have her join you here. I’ll give you a qua’turn to do so. After that, I’m going back, no matter what.”
He held his tongue. She stood before him for two breaths, then strode to the door.
“Lenna,” he said, stopping her.
She sighed, regarded him over her shoulder.
“Where might he get another chronofor?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Any major city. Hayncalde, Sheraigh, Belsan, Rooktown.” She shrugged again. “They’re rare – more so by far than apertures and sextants – and they’re dear as well. He would need a good deal of gold. Still, if he seeks one, and I’m sure he does, he’ll find it before long.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Please tell the healer I’m ready for her.” She left him.
He stood, limped to his bed, and drank the healer’s tonic. Before sleep could take him, he realized what day it was – what day it would be when he woke. Kheraya’s Emergence. The Turn of the Year. On every isle between the oceans, this was a day of celebration, of drink and feasting and passion. On this, the day of the Goddess, lovemaking was initiated by the woman. He and Lenna – the younger Lenna; his Lenna – had always laughed about this. As if she needed the excuse of the equinox. In Fanquir, in the flat they shared, she would be thinking of him, missing him, desiring him.
Guilt knifed through him. Maybe the older Lenna was right, and he was being cruel to all of them. He just didn’t know how to stop.
Over the next several days, Lenna avoided him, and he refrained from visiting her chamber. The healer checked on him each morning, and on the fifth day of the new year pronounced him fit to resume some activities.
“You’re still healing,” she told him. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
He wanted to ignore her warnings and go after Tobias straight away, but he couldn’t. He had no idea where the Walker had gone, and no tri-sextants with which to pursue the lad. For now, wherever he Spanned he would arrive naked, alone, and unarmed.
And he knew his first Span would have to be to Qaifin, and the court of Pemin, autarch of Oaqamar. He couldn’t imagine a worse place to go without a weapon or the protection of his men.
After the healer left him, he did go to Lenna, out of necessity.
At her response to his knock, he entered her chamber, his gait stiff and awkward.
She glanced up from the volume she was reading, and then set it aside. “You’re on your feet,” she said, her tone brittle.
“Finally, yes. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m going to Qaifin and I thought you should know. In case… Well, Pemin isn’t going to be happy with me.”
“He needs you. He won’t kill his finest assassin out of pique.”
He found this oddly reassuring. They endured a strained silence.
“Anyway,” he said. “I wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you. Come here when you’re back. I’ll want to know… how it went.” That you’re alive.
So much for reassurance.
From her chamber, he climbed to the castle ramparts and ordered the soldiers there away from him. Once he was alone, he stripped off his clothes and piled them neatly in a crenellation. He calibrated his sextant and aimed it.
It had been some time since he last Spanned any distance in this way. He had escaped the strand a few nights before, but that demanded only a quick jump to the castle, and his mind had been on his wounds rather than the Span itself. Over the previous turns, he had grown accustomed to the ease of Travel by tri-sextant, to remaining dressed, to carrying his weapons and arriving in the company of soldiers or his trained men. Before fleeing the strand that night, he had forgotten how jarring and isolating this primitive form of Spanning could be.
He thumbed the release and was jerked into the gap, his head snapping back, the sextant nearly torn from his grip. Wind abused his skin, seeming to carry shards of glass. Light and sound and smell assaulted him. His leg and back ached, the wounds chafed by that savage gale. He feared his scars would open again. Within moments he was desperate for the Span to end, though he knew he had hundreds of leagues to go.
The gap pounded at him, his senses under siege from every direction. He had Spanned great distances using a simple sextant, but rarely this far, and never so soon after sustaining such wounds. The ordeal stretched on. He could no longer say if he was upright, or even fully conscious. He felt he had slipped into a sort of trance, somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion.
When the gap dropped him onto an expanse of cobblestone, he toppled, rolled, and came to rest leaning against the wheel of a cart. Blinking against the blazing sun, he realized he was on the edge of a marketplace. Surrounded by people. Naked, scraped, and bruised. He clutched his sextant in one hand.
A young woman stepped out from the back of the cart, eyed him, and disappeared again. She spoke in low tones, and a fivecount later a man emerged from the same location. He was older, burly and tall. He dropped a blanket next to Orzili.
“Cover yourself up,” the man said, the accent of Oaqamar sharpening his words.
At least he had reached the right isle.
The blanket was rough and moth-eaten, and it stank of horse, but Orzili wrapped it around his middle and stood, his legs unsteady.
He turned a slow circle and spotted the autarch’s castle. Not as close as he had hoped, but not so far that he couldn’t cover the distance.
“Thank you,” he said. He nodded to the young woman behind the man. She barely glanced at him; the man frowned, but said nothing.
Oaqamarans, he remembered from past visits, didn’t care for Northislers, particularly Travelers. Pemin himself had plenty working for him – Spanners and Crossers. No Walkers that Orzili knew of. Other than Lenna.
Pemin’s subjects were a different matter. During previous visits to the autarchy, Orzili had heard others with his coloring called “gaaz demons,” “shit-skins,” and worse.
“If you’ll be here for a time, I can return the blanket,” he told the man.
The peddler wrinkled his nose. “Keep it.”
Orzili didn’t know if the man was disgusted by the blanket itself, or by the thought of reclaiming cloth that had touched a Northisler’s skin. He didn’t care to find out.
“Good day, then,” he said, and walked away, carrying himself with as much dignity as circumstances allowed.
He followed a winding, ascending lane to the castle, drawing stares and more than a few gibes, none of them too barbed, and several that made him laugh.
“Hey! I once rolled dice with the same fella that fleeced you!”
“Did you used to be a horse?”
“A man with a pillow came by before. He went that way.”
Guards stopped him at the gate, of course.
“You lost?” one asked, grinning at his companions.
“Before you say more,” Orzili said, keeping his voice low, “you should know that my name is Quinnel Orzili. I’m a Spanner–” He held up his sextant, “–and a trusted agent of the autarch. His Excellency will want to know I’m here, and he’ll expect to see me forthwith, clothed and shod.”
Instantly, their bearing changed.
“Of course, my lord,” another said. “We’ll inform him of your arrival and find you clothes immediately.” He nodded to the others, who scurried away.
Within a quarter bell, they’d found him a chamber and ministerial robes: black satin, trimmed in shades of brown and gold. From there they led him down a short corridor to the autarch’s antechamber.
Floors of pink marble, curved walls adorned with works by Oaqamar’s greatest artists, and grand wooden doors inlaid with exotic woods to create an image of a barred lion: the isle’s sigil.
One of the guards knocked, and at a word from within opened the door and indicated that Orzili should enter.
He was weaponless, as always when in Pemin’s presence. On this day, he felt especially vulnerable.
Pemin stood in the center of the chamber wearing plain garb: black breeches, a white satin shirt, and a sash embroidered in gold and brown. Most royals and nobles strove to outdo one another with ostentation: jewels, busts of themselves and their ancestors, crass art and weapons notable for their gaudiness rather than their practicality. Not Pemin. His chamber was simple, sparse, understated. This was a man who did not require finery to accentuate his authority. Indeed, his subtlety, and the confidence it conveyed, had impressed Orzili the first time they met, and remained the quality he most admired in the man. He was to those other leaders what a battle blade was to a gem-encrusted ornamental sword.
He was tall, lean, as elegant and graceful as a falcon. Pale gray eyes stared out from beneath a shock of straight brown hair, untouched by the smile on his lips.
Orzili bowed. “Your Excellency.”
“Be welcome, Orzili,” he said, extending a hand.
Orzili took it, pressed his brow to the back of it.
Pemin moved to one of several dun chairs near the hearth. He waved at another. “Join me, please.”
Orzili followed him, waited to sit until the autarch had settled into his seat.
“I didn’t expect you.”
“No, Your Excellency. Please forgive the intrusion.”
Pemin considered the robe Orzili wore. “One of mine, I see. You Spanned here?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself. No tri-sextants.”
It was offered as a statement. No doubt, guards had described for him the exact nature of Orzili’s arrival.
This was the dark counterpoint to Pemin’s royal bearing. He toyed with those who served him – ministers, Travelers, assassins – no doubt intent on reminding all, at every opportunity, that his was the keenest mind at any gathering.
“That is correct, Your Excellency.”
“Out with it, then. Obviously you’ve failed me. What’s happened?”
More direct than usual, that. Orzili tried to keep his pulse steady.
“The Walker has escaped.”
The autarch waited, gaze unwavering.
“I fear he has Mearlan’s child with him.”
“A baby, and a boy cloaked in the body of a man – these two proved too much for you?”
“They had help.”
“An excuse?” Pemin demanded, voice rising.
“No, Your Excellency. This was my fault, and mine alone. I miscalculated.”
“What of the tri-sextants?”
Orzili resisted the urge to look away. “One was destroyed, the other two were taken.”
“Time and gold, wasted.”
Orzili bit back his first response. “I apologize, Your Excellency. I fully intend to find the Walker and the princess.”
“Is the woman still with you? The one from the Walker’s true time?”
He wanted to lie, to tell Pemin that she had already Walked back to her future. He knew where the question might lead. He didn’t dare, though, not even about this. There was no better measure of how much he feared the autarch.
“She is,” he said.
“Why haven’t you sent her back?”
“To what end, Your Excellency?”
Pemin glared. “To alter an unsatisfactory outcome!”
“She wasn’t there, Your Excellency. She had nothing to do with the events of that night. Sending her back would not change the outcome.”
It seemed he was willing to lie to the man after all. Because there were things Lenna could do. She could warn him, and thus compel him to bring more men to the strand. Had he Spanned with ten Sheraigh soldiers in addition to the men he had lost, he would likely have prevailed.
He had resisted doing this, unwilling to spend still more of her days. Eventually she would return to her own time – additional years together lost to both of them. She accused him of being cruel to his future self, and to the Lenna he loved in this time.
The truth was, he sought ways to protect all of them. The damage done already was almost incalculable. He wouldn’t compound it by sending her farther into the past.
He had reconciled himself to tracking down the Walker and Mearlan’s child, knowing it might take him turns, or a year, or more. As long as it took, that was how long he might keep the older Lenna here in this time. She would spend those turns with him, away from his older self. But every day she spent with him was one day fewer she had to Walk back to her own time.
It was a ledger he never would have shared with Lenna, but one that allowed him to justify keeping her with him for another day, another turn.
His one advantage in speaking to Pemin of such things lay in his own knowledge of Traveling, and the autarch’s ignorance of the finer points of being a Walker or a Spanner. With a bit of luck, and his superior understanding of Lenna’s talent, he might survive this exchange.
“Why didn’t you have her with you?” Pemin asked. He sounded less sure of himself than he had.
“This Lenna is aged, Your Excellency – from her own years and the Walk back. She isn’t as young and capable as the Lenna I left in Kantaad. Her mind is nimble, her experience vast, but she wouldn’t have been an asset in combat.”
Another lie, though not one Pemin was likely to discover. Of course, Lenna would have been furious with him. Both Lennas.
“Couldn’t she bring you word of what happened? Wouldn’t that allow you to take precautions you ignored this first time?”
Maybe his advantage wasn’t as great as he thought.
“Possibly, Your Excellency. If you insist, I will return to Daerjen and have her Walk back so that I can try again. It is a risk, of course. I barely escaped with my life this time. If I’m killed in a second attempt, you’ll lose more than tri-sextants. You’ll lose all that I know of the matter and any chance we might have to track them down quickly.”
Pemin’s frown narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t argue the point. Orzili forged on.
“If instead, you allow me to dedicate all my resources to pursuit of the boy and the babe, I believe I can track them down before long.”
Still looking displeased, Pemin said, “You’ll need to have that Binder make you more tri-sextants.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. That would be my first priority.”
“Very well,” Pemin said. “Before you return to Daerjen, though, I want you to dispatch the winged demons.”
Orzili tried to conceal his distaste. And failed.
“This is not a negotiation, Orzili. For now at least, I will let you have your way with regard to the woman. I believe sending her back might yield more than you suggest, but there are other considerations, particularly when we’re spending her years at such a rate. I might yet need to send her back to her time, and I want her to arrive there with strength enough to be of use to me.” He paused, allowing what he’d said to sink in.
Orzili had been playing a more dangerous game than he knew.
“The Belvora are mine to command. As are you, lest you forget. I want them patrolling every sea and isle between the oceans. Do I make myself clear?”
He hated working with any demons, but the Belvora most of all. They were vicious and stupid, an unfortunate combination. Still, given the choice between employing the Belvora and sending Lenna farther back in time, he would always choose the demons.
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
“Good. You will Span to the Sana and give them their orders. If you must, remind them of the protections I’ve offered their kind, and the cost to them of defying me.” The autarch gave a small grimace. “You should stop here again before Spanning to Hayncalde. Report to my guards and let them know you’ve succeeded in contacting the demons.” And haven’t been killed. The words hung between them, unspoken but palpable. First Lenna and now Pemin. Everyone was so concerned for his safety. It might have been funny, had he not shared their fears. Treating with any Ancients carried risks, but the Belvora could be particularly difficult, especially for Travelers, whose magick the winged ones craved most.
“Yes, Your Excellency. I’ll do that as well.”
Pemin stood, forcing Orzili to do the same. Their conversation was over.
“I’m sure you understand the perils of failing me again.”
“I do, Your Excellency. And so I won’t.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Pemin held out his hand. Orzili made obeisance and turned to go. Before he reached the autarch’s door, Pemin spoke his name.
“You say you almost died?”
He should have known that revelation would capture the man’s interest. “I did.”
“The boy did this?”
“He’s Windhome-trained, Your Excellency. He’s also a fullgrown man, despite his years.”
Pemin’s smile shaded toward a smirk. “I meant no offense. I was merely curious.”
“Of course, Your Excellency. He managed to stab me, and then to shoot me. The bullet struck nothing vital, or else I might not have survived.”
“How fortunate for us all that you did.”
He said it with mischief in his eyes, but sincerity in his voice. Orzili wasn’t sure how to respond and so chose the safest path.
“You’re too kind, Your Excellency.”
He let himself out of the chamber and climbed the nearest tower to the castle ramparts. Though he longed for his chamber in Daerjen, Pemin had made his desires clear. First he would Span to the Sana Mountains in central Oaqamar. The distance wasn’t great, but he would have to confront the Belvora naked, weaponless. He didn’t expect them to offer him a blanket.