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Chapter 6:

Family Heirlooms

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I


Killian had come to hate being seen with the blade. It was a gladius, the short, stabbing sword worn by most in the legion, manufactured to a high standard by an old Birani smith. He’d purchased it from a retiring centurion when he himself had been appointed optio, and he’d treated it well from that day forward. Any smart soldier took good care of his weapons. That he’d wielded it to deliver Adruvar Cabera’s death blow should have been happenstance, but his companions had made more of the weapon than they had his own prowess. So had his commander, Flaminian Marcius, who had borrowed the sword and then “restored” it with fine new wraps and a gem encrusted hilt, thinking to please Killian with the gift.

From then on it had been too beautiful to wield, and Killian had to purchase an unadorned replacement, consigning Adruvar’s death weapon with its ridiculous jewelry to his campaign chest until the end of his service. Then it had hung on pegs in his study near the books he’d never gotten around to reading.

He would rather have left it on the wall for the rest of his life. Now, though, the weapon swung on his belt, and owing to the damnably pleasant weather there was no need for a cloak, which meant everyone spotted the gaudy hilt. If those who noticed hadn’t happened to have heard what he’d done with the sword, his comrades obligingly told them.

The soldiers with him were fools and he’d long since tired of them. All eight were legionaries, but four had never been deployed beyond Tyvol and all had spent the bulk of their service posted in Derva itself until reassignment with him. The route to their destination required them to travel mostly through tiny farm villages, where they took meals from roadside taverns. Once the novelty wore off, the common fare and the dearth of female company left the men ill-tempered. They were too used to the capital’s luxuries.

In addition to these complainers, the revenants had saddled him with a wizard, and a green one at that. Publius was a thin young scholarly sort lacking the arrogance of his order, quiet unless someone made the mistake of asking him how his sorceries worked. Killian had committed that error only once, and been deluged with a wave of words that might as well have been a foreign language. He’d had to order the boy to shut up. The only thing Killian cared about the young man’s magics was whether they worked. Thankfully Publius mostly kept to himself, pouring over scrolls in the evening and even sometimes during their travel breaks. He had claimed to be glad he was away from the revenants, and it might even be true, for he didn’t speak to anyone about bloodlines or witches or the heresies of barbarians.

The revenant legate had the sense not to place the boy in charge of the expedition, even though the legate claimed it was the young wizard’s powers that would get them to their goal. He’d selected Killian to lead and had wanted to supply a guide as well, but Killian insisted on bringing his own, an unassuming fellow who had once been a wine merchant and knew much of the Turian countryside. Though Killian didn’t know him well, the man had a quiet competence which reassured him that at least one aspect of this assignment would succeed—they would get where they needed to go.

It had been a long, dull, irritating trip by horseback so far, but Killian forced them on. Life hadn’t been easy after his army days. He had generally failed as a farmer and even his generous pension had run through his fingers. Still, this commission could set things right. Maybe he could finally hire an overseer to manage the slaves so he and his nephews could spend their time hunting in the woods instead of fighting the soil.

He thought about that future as he led the way across the countryside, consulting sometimes with the guide. A day out from Turian lands, they reached a sizable roadside inn and Killian announced they’d stop for the evening. This cheered the legionaries, who’d had to camp out the night before. They anticipated not just wine, but women, and traded boasts about their stamina with both in phrases ages old.

Publius seemed delighted for reasons of his own and immediately requested he have his food served in a private chamber, so that he might study in peace.

Killian made the arrangements and passed over some coins to the innkeeper before settling into the common room in a corner far from the locals, some of whom bet on arm wrestling, and distant from his own boys, who thought themselves charming and amusing as they joked with the local harlots. He ate a decent meal and watched. Surely those soldiers weren’t so young that they didn’t know whores were predisposed to laugh at their jests, but then they were idiots.

The guide disappeared somewhere. Killian didn’t mind. He liked to be alone, which is why he wasn’t especially happy when an old man in a worn gray tunic came to his table and stood across from him.

Killian fixed him with a glare before returning to the mutton and lentil pottage. “Whatever you want, I’m not interested.”

The old fellow placed his brown knapsack on the table, then rested his hand on it as he sat down at a bench on the other side of the battered wooden surface. The man’s face was seamed with sun and dirt. The hair was shaggy. The nose was slightly hooked, the eyes a bluish gray. A scraggly beard hung down from his chin but his face was otherwise clean-shaven.

“I have been waiting for you,” the fellow said ominously. His voice was less weathered than his attire.

Killian’s sigh was more a growl. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“You’re hunting Caberas, aren’t you?” The old man leaned forward. “You are the man I foresaw. You bear the sword.”

While Killian was processing that, the stranger whipped a dark brown object from his bag, displaying it with a flourish. Strange symbols and wandering lines and a mystic Hadiran eye all drawn in black decorated the top. Killian didn’t recognize the grisly thing for a skull until the old man turned its empty sockets to him and planted it on the table.

Killian pushed back, snarling. “I’m eating! Put that away!”

“Adruvar Cabera can’t hurt you,” the man said with a chuckle. “You already killed him.” But he slipped the skull back into its bag.

“How do you know what I’m hunting?”

“I could tell you I have dreamed of it. I do have dreams, Centurion. But there’s a simpler explanation. I know someone high among the revenants, and word was passed along to me.”

“And who are you?” Killian took a second look at the old man’s stained tunic, coming to the belated realization that he spoke with a priest of Lutar, lord of the dead. Between that and the skull, Killian felt his annoyance ebb before a sense of foreboding.

“I am Brencis. And I, too, hunt Cabera. I’m told you have a tracker in your midst, but all I saw when you came in were these soldiers and the reedy one. Surely he’s not your tracker?”

“I don’t see what business this is of yours.”

“Those with you may be good soldiers but it takes no skilled eye to see that they are Dervan boys. Do any of you speak Turian?”

“Our guide has some,” Killian admitted. “You don’t look Turian.”

“But I speak it. Well. And I can help you locate the Cabera.”

The man’s abrupt approach surprised him, but Killian had met clever con men in his time. “I assume you want pay?”

“No.”

“Attention, then.”

“I want blood, Centurion. It’s as simple as that. I have seen Narisia Cabera. I know what she looks like. Can any of your people say that?”

The old man spoke with such an air of conviction that Killian studied him anew. “You have dreamed of her?”

“Yes. But more than that. I have seen her with my own eyes. You know the docks in Ostra where the Volani slaves were first delivered? I marked her well.”

Killian grunted at this news. On hearing it he wondered why Legate Aquilius hadn’t sent someone on this quest who’d recognize its main target. It seemed a foolish oversight.

“You might have started with that, instead of the hoary skull,” Killian said. “What’s the point of carrying it around?”

“The point of the skull is to bring me closer to anyone of their bloodline. This skull was bathed in that blood. It can help me find others who bear it, living or dead.”

“My wizard says he can do something similar.” Killian nodded his head toward the staircase up which Publius had retreated. “If you can find Hanuvar’s daughter or any other Cabera with your skull, why haven’t you?”

“I have limits. Bring me within a few miles and I can feel them. Bring me within a few hundred paces and I will single them out of a crowd.”

Over the course of their conversation, the man’s words and quiet intensity had convinced Killian he was an unlikely charlatan. He put down his spoon. “You say you want blood. Why?”

“My brothers died in Hanuvar’s wars.” Brencis looked as though he might have said much more, but his mouth thinned and he fell silent.

Killian had heard enough to take a risk. “I’m charged with helping the boy find Narisia or Hanuvar Cabera himself. Or both. I’m told my tracker has the best chance the revenants can muster. But I’m always willing to improve my odds.”

“Do you want them alive or dead?”

Killian concluded the eager old man would prefer the latter. “I get paid more if alive, but I’m sure they won’t be that way long no matter what condition we bring them in.”

Brencis’ mouth thinned disapprovingly, but he acquiesced. “Fine.”

“We travel light, and we travel fast. Have you a horse? Travel gear?”

“I do.”

“We leave at dawn, on the morrow. Ride with us if you will. If you trouble me, I’ll dismiss you. If I find you’re a spy, I’ll cut you down.”

“I will be there.” The old man bowed his head to him and slipped away. Killian watched him go, wondering why there was something familiar about him. He then realized the intensity in his eyes was reminiscent of the kind of hunger for vengeance he’d seen on some old veterans.

At the least, it would help to have someone else along who knew how to talk with the Turians. And if the priest should prove untrustworthy, well, Killian was no stranger to eliminating problems.



II


The previous winter Hanuvar had observed the revenant mage from a rooftop while the young man labored over a kind of portable wooden platform holding spell ingredients, carried through the streets of Derva by a pair of assistants. Unlike the vast number of those claiming magical provenance, Publius’ powers actually worked, and he had doggedly pursued two men Hanuvar had freed from captivity, up until Hanuvar’s snowball had disrupted the mage’s tracking spell.

How Publius now planned to locate Narisia, Hanuvar had not yet learned, but he wished to be on hand when the mage threw his spells. Apparently the sword that had dealt Adruvar’s death blow was to be somehow instrumental in the spellcasting, though Carthalo hadn’t yet learned the details.

In his identity as a guide, Hanuvar’s chief intelligence agent had worked partly into Killian’s trust, and was consulting with him that morning in the predawn glow while each held the reins of their mounts. Carthalo pointed south along the road, his finger moving as though delineating points ahead. The rest of the men stretched and complained and tightened saddle girths while their horses snorted. No official introduction was passed along about Hanuvar’s position in their party, but word had been disseminated, for the soldiers took him in, and he noted the surreptitious inspection the skinny young mage gave him.

Killian got them moving with a minimum of words. He led the way, with Carthalo riding along side. After him came the scholar, and then, in four pairs, the legionaries, though they had dispensed with leg greaves and heavy armor. Hanuvar brought up the rear, eating their dust.

Riding to the rear was a necessary evil. Hanuvar wished neither to be examined closely nor to appear particularly clean. The dirt would continue to disguise both his appearance and his age, for it emphasized his creases.

On they rode through the green lands south of Derva. Little of the Tyvolian countryside was flat, but this rolling farmland was more level than usual, and they occasionaly viewed tenant farmers and slaves working the fields for rich families ensconced in country villas beyond the road or absent entirely. The green bulk of the worn-down Acanthes rose to the west, usually blocking sight of the more rugged and distant Vertigines. The sun was warm against his neck and shoulders, and he smelled of his own sweat and that of his mount.

The road they traveled had been old when Derva was just a little hill village and Turia waxed mighty from the coast to the rugged western highlands. Later generations had bricked the road with great care, but the route was unchanged. Hanuvar himself had traveled it more than once, long years before. Had he been inclined to do so, he might have maundered on about the changed circumstances of his life, or the irony that he should be travelling in the company of Dervans to hunt for his own blood.

Instead, he was watchful. From time to time one of the soldiers would glance back, and he hoped all that they would ever see was a strange old priest of Lutar. He dreaded them growing more inquisitive and dropping back to ask suspicious questions of him.

It was not the soldiers who eventually fell out of formation to join him, but Carthalo. The spy would never deliberately draw a connection between them, so Hanuvar knew there’d be a reasonable explanation.

Carthalo coughed a little and waved his hand in front of his face. “You seem to have found all the road dust, old man,” he said.

The spy had an astonishing ability to blend into his environment. He was sturdily built and ordinary, and his appearance could be affable and unassuming, or stern and certain. Under the identity of a guide, he looked more the latter, a seasoned man of middle years. He’d chosen a tunic that emphasized his powerful arm muscles and chest, the better to suggest fitness for work, then topped off his dark head with a straw hat, worn and stained from much use.

“Brencis, is it?” Carthalo asked.

Probably the others could not hear, owing to the clop of the hooves and the low mutter of conversation from some of the soldiers, but Carthalo liked leaving nothing to chance.

“That is my name,” Hanuvar answered coolly.

“I’m your guide, Silvio. I’m told you speak Turian.” Carthalo then switched to that language. Hanuvar had a good grasp of it, having spent years in the lands south of Derva, though it was haunted by an accent that wavered toward Dervan. Someone truly astute might have been able to detect the ring of Volani among certain words, but recognizing one accent in the speaking of a foreign language was likely beyond their companions. “Killian sent me to speak to you in Turian and gauge how much of a liar you are.”

“I am a grand liar, as you well know,” Hanuvar answered quietly.

Carthalo smiled tightly.

“What would you report?” Hanuvar asked.

“Two of our soldiers have served on the Irimacian border. They’ve been in a few skirmishes, but aren’t what you’d call truly seasoned, although they like to pretend it. The others are more recent hires, who’ve won various awards for horsemanship and target spearing, but haven’t ever seen combat. I think the esteemed legate evaluates the worth of these men by how much they brag.”

Hanuvar had encountered other commanders like that—usually men without much experience on the front line themselves. “There’s a kind of soldier that usually travels in threes.” Like Carthalo, Hanuvar did not use certain names or titles, the better to disguise their topics of conversation.

“I’ve been watching for that. None show the mage particular deference, and all of them are a little arrogant. But I’ve got my eye on one who’s more outspoken. He’s younger; his self-assurance could just stem from his upbringing.”

“But it might be from the order, and the company he keeps.”

“Yes.”

“What have you seen of the wizard?”

“He’s studious and dedicated. Ask him about his craft and he’ll spout a bunch of esoteric things he seems to believe.”

“Trying to impress?”

“A little, but he’s mostly a lonely enthusiast eager to talk shop.”

“And what of our leader?”

“I don’t think he wants to be here. I don’t think he likes the job, but he’s determined to see it done. He’s a professional.”

“What are they using to track the daughter of the dread general?”

Carthalo shot him a wary look. “We’re not supposed to know that, but the mage talked a little in my earshot.”

“And I’m not going to like it,” Hanuvar guessed.

“I don’t like it either. Part of the scalp of the general’s father.”

The general meaning him. Hanuvar stared into the distance, trying to keep the terrible detail remote from him and not quite managing it. He remembered his brother Melgar saying in his later years that the Cabera family line had only bad fortune, starting with their mother’s death, then their sister’s, but that their father had been the unluckiest of them all, dying with so many plans unfulfilled, most of his children half grown, and then having had his body lost for months before again being stolen.

“I haven’t seen it,” Carthalo added. “Is that even possible?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Himli Cabera’s body had been so badly treated by his murderers there had been almost nothing left to recover. Part of his scalp could well have been shorn free as a grisly memento and passed on to Dervan hands.

“What do you want to do about all of this?” Carthalo asked.

Tempting as it was to shut the entire expedition down, Hanuvar had already made his decision. “I’ve seen this mage at work. He actually can track people. He might well direct us to my daughter at last, and then we will improvise. If not, we will simply have spent some time in the Turian countryside.”

“A relaxing vacation amongst the men who hunt for your blood,” Carthalo said darkly.

He had confessed that when his agents had gotten wind of the revenant search he had hesitated to present Hanuvar with the information, fearing what he might do. In the end, Carthalo had agreed that this might be their best chance for finding Narisia, risky as it was, and that in any case the mission had to be disrupted. He had not liked the idea of Hanuvar being personally involved from the very start, and his warning look now was a reminder of it.

Hanuvar understood his worries, but he had made his choice. “Now we should briefly cover what you’ll tell our leader we spoke about, so our tales agree.”

“Of course.”

That they did, and then Carthalo bade him farewell, cantered up past the string of soldiers, and fell in beside Killian. Hanuvar was left alone to contemplate the existence of a final physical remnant of his father, dried and held like a prize by a Dervan sorcerer for the purposes of hunting Himli’s son and granddaughter and bringing them to their enemies for exhibition and execution. Hanuvar’s hands tightened on the reins even as his father’s words echoed in his ears. Emotions should be mastered, lest your foes use them against you. From an early age Hanuvar had been taught that those who let themselves be ruled by their reactions might as well turn control of their life’s path to a wild horse.

He had thought his father an old man, and it was strange to think Himli had been younger than Hanuvar was now on the night of his betrayal. He wondered how old he himself would be before his father no longer seemed more seasoned and wiser.

Never, he thought.

At midday they halted in the shade of some oaks. To judge by ashes and blackened ground and stones gathered about makeshift firepits, the stopover was put to frequent use and sometimes doubled as an overnight camping spot. It even came with a designated waste area about thirty paces beyond the oaks themselves, where flies and stink were thick.

Hanuvar sat apart from the others on a weathered log. He was halfway through his hard roll and dried meat when Publius sidled over.

Up close the mage’s thin face was dotted with freckles. His eyes were dark and strangely hopeful. “I’m Publius,” he said. His voice was mild, and betrayed the same eagerness visible in his gaze. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“As you like,” Hanuvar said coolly. He drank from his wineskin and the young man sat down, studying him.

“It’s Brencis, right?” the mage asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “A priest of Lutar.”

“Yes.”

“Killian says you’re a magical tracker yourself. Are you an astronomer? Or are you a sympathetic magic user? Or a talismanic one?”

“I have some knowledge of many different schools,” Hanuvar answered mildly. “I understand that you’re a talismanic practitioner.”

“Yes. Killian said that you had a talisman yourself, and that there were symbols upon it.”

“It is true.”

“I wondered if I might—”

“No.”

Publius’ expression fell, like a puppy denied a treat. And like a pup, he swiftly resumed his begging after a brief delay. “You mustn’t think I’m after your secrets. I wish to share—”

“You would be wise to share nothing,” Hanuvar said. “You may understand that when you’re older.”

“I’m more skilled than you think,” the young man said. His cheeks were flushed. “What symbol system do you use to draw your power?”

“I use a blend of them. But mostly I focus through my connection with blessed Lutar and the moon and stars.”

“Not the planets?”

“Only as they are conduits for the power of Lutar himself.”

“We should be allies.”

“I should trust revenants?” Hanuvar asked. “Who lure sorcerers in for advice, then try them for crimes once they steal their secrets?”

“I’m not like that.”

“I don’t intend to chance it. I know too well what your side is like. You think I’m foolish enough to court my own death by gifting you access to my life’s work? Begone.”

The boy opened his mouth to say more. He pushed angrily to his feet, hesitated as if debating saying something more, than stormed away.

Hanuvar understood he had not made a friend, but he knew his façade would almost surely crack if Publius were permitted to examine the alleged skull of Adruvar and its particular symbols. The browned bone was a tool for a single purpose, and its time had not yet come.



III


When the sentry came to wake him at the start of second watch, Killian was already upright and putting on his boots. Mazentius, the youngest and burliest of the soldiers, tried to make a joke of Killian’s readiness. “You have a date, sir?”

Killian grunted. “I’m going to check the perimeter. Keep an eye on things while I’m gone.”

The younger man didn’t know what to make of that, and retreated to the fire, moving a little stiffly, as if irritated Killian hadn’t smiled at his jest.

Killian stood, shifting shoulders and neck. He buckled on the sword belt, listening to the chirrup of crickets in the cool night air and the snuffle of one of the horses, hobbled with the others in a dark group.

The rest of his men lay twisted over their blankets about the fireside. Some were bundled against the night like children, and others slept without covers, pillowed on their rolled up cloaks. He wished some men from his own unit were with him. If this lot had to rouse in the middle of the night to fight, could they even find their swords?

He shook his head in disgust. His eyes strayed over to where Brencis lay, curled far to one side of the camp, then he looked up to where the stars shown brilliantly through the clear heavens, including the great shining bridge of them in a band above the moon, halfway to full.

There was no sign of the guide, but that didn’t surprise him.

Mazentius frowned at Killian as he headed out. Probably he wondered who would bother walking their perimeter in peacetime, in friendly territory, when they had an armed and good-sized party. Killian didn’t care enough about the man’s good will to explain.

He strode away from the hill and into the rolling fields and brush surrounding them. After a quarter mile a figure slid out of a copse and lifted a hand. Killian grasped his sword hilt until he was certain it was Silvio.

“Anything?”

“Not so far. Did you expect anyone in particular?”

“No.”

The guide had claimed to have scouted for the legions in Herrenia, and watching him at work as they explored the surrounds reassured Killian that he’d spoken the truth. The man knew how to move, what to be alert for, and how to approach hilltops. After a half hour circling, Killian stopped the guide by the little stand of trees where they’d rendezvoused. “You talked with the priest for a while. What was your take on him?”

“He knows Turian fairly well, though he speaks it with an accent. Like me,” Silvio added. Killian appreciated that he was an honest broker, and not a man trying to impress. The guide seemed to think out loud. “What to make of him . . . well, he’s a priest who doesn’t like to talk much about magics. He’s protective of what he knows. He doesn’t want to share it.”

“Did he say where he got the skull?” The head of Adruvar Cabera had been tossed into Hanuvar’s camp, and then his body recovered by another of the Cabera brothers. Killian had assumed the body parts would be interred in the Cabera family crypt, or buried in the lands they were occupying in Tyvol at the time.

“It didn’t come up. I can ask him directly, if you want.”

“I may.” It didn’t really matter. “If he didn’t talk about the skull or his magics or his past, what did he talk about?”

“Phases of the moon and signs from Lutar. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of thing. I’d rather not know about the lands beyond death. He also talked about his brothers, and how they’d been killed by the Volani. I’ve never heard a priest so obsessed with vengeance before. Is that common?”

“They’re as human as the rest of us, I guess,” Killian said. “To me they always seemed most interested in the quality of the meat they can get off the sacrifices.”

“Or arguing among themselves about signs and scriptures,” Silvio suggested.

“Exactly. But priests of Lutar tend to be kind of loners anyway. Especially country ones.”

“Loners are good at nursing grievances,” Silvio observed.

He had a good point, but Killian wasn’t worried about it. “So you think he can do what he says?”

Silvio fell silent.

“What, you don’t want to say?”

“I’m just trying to decide if you want a real answer, or if you’ve already decided, and you’re testing me.”

Killian frowned at that.

Silvio looked sidelong at him. “I think he’s a lot more interested in finding Caberas than your mage.”

“You doubt the mage? The revenant legate himself sent him. We’re lucky the boy’s not in charge.”

“I just think that one’s like a young tribune in love with his own armor. Publius doesn’t give a damn about the battle, he just wants to look good.”

Killian nodded to himself. He knew the type.

Silvio asked a question of his own. “Do you really think this magical stuff is going to turn up Hanuvar or his daughter?”

“You were in the legion,” Killian answered, saying nothing more.

“I’ve spent most of my life not getting paid to think,” Silvio said. “I guess I can do it a little longer.”

“Oh, I want you to think. I count on it. But that part’s above our pay grade. If the magic works and hunts us up some fugitives, we get covered in glory.” He felt his mouth twist. “It’s overrated.”

“So you’re just here for the coins. But you want to see the job done right.”

“Habit. Come on, I’ve seen enough. Let’s get some sleep.”

Silvio nodded, and they headed in together. Killian fell silent, thinking about his little troop. He didn’t like them very much, but if they found a Cabera he’d have to count on them to watch his flanks. Probably he could stand to work harder to win them over.

At least he knew he could count on Silvio.



IV


Hanuvar woke before the dawn, though he did not rise until the camp stirred. By this, the third morning of travel with Killian in command, he was used to the man’s routines, so he was surprised when the taciturn leader stood before his team at breakfast.

“We’ll reach Turian lands before midday, and not long after that we’ll close on the last reported point anyone saw Narisia Cabera. That’s when our mage is going to throw his spell. If we find a living Cabera, do you realize how famous you’re going to be? No door will be closed to you. You’ll be getting free drinks in taverns for the rest of your lives.”

The soldiers had been talking about varied permutations on an idyllic future where they were showered with money and affection, and their eyes shone to hear an aspect of it specified by their leader. His discussion of their potential prestige seemed to have made it more real for them. Killian thumped his chest. “I know you all long for the kind of glory I’ve had in my career. Well, you lot are lucky. Most people don’t get a chance at the kind of prize we’re after.”

One of the soldiers muttered a fervent yes, and the others nodded vigorously.

“I don’t know what we’re going to find, but if there really are Caberas out here, it’s not going to be simple. They’ll have had months to prepare. You can’t count the men who thought they were better than Hanuvar. They overflow the graveyards. And he may be old, but you ought to know there’re some centurions old as him still in service, and they’re hard as nails. You can bet he’ll be just like them.”

“Hanuvar’s really alive?” The voice of one of the legionaries came close to trembling. “I thought we were just after his daughter.”

“The revenant legate says he is. And even if he isn’t, the daughter’s probably no pushover. She’s an Eltyr. They’re fast, and deadly, and they go down hard. Some of the worst fighting of the war was at the Volani River Gate. The water foamed red with the blood of our men.” Killian surveyed them. “So you scared yet?”

“No, sir,” Mazentius said.

“I can’t hear you!” Killian growled.

The men got it then, and answered as one, a crisp shout. “No sir!”

“That’s better. You’re Dervans. And you’re tough, and you’re trained, and you’ve got me. But take off your dresses, boys, and get your eyes and your swords sharp. Vacation time’s over. If we’re going to stay alive, we need to stay alert.” He sucked in a breath and gave them a final once-over. “All right. That’s all I’ve got. Let’s get packed and get hunting.”

After their leader’s speech, the men’s spirits were high, and they were eager to be on. The horses sensed the excitement and even they moved with more energy.

Shortly before midday they reached the little river Elathri and crossed a worn stone bridge over the ancient border into Turian lands. Roadside villages here looked little different from those to the north, save that occasionally ancient walls were incorporated into buildings, and the tired old hills that rose beyond the towns were studded with old white stone mausoleums and cliffside tomb doors.

Long centuries had passed since the Turians had been the dominant culture of the region. Many nationalities walked their lands now. Despite the introduction of people from across the peninsula and beyond, many the travelers saw still possessed the distinctive black eyes and wavy dark hair and clear, pale olive skin so often seen in ancient Turian mosaics. The people looked out from their shops or up from their plows, observing Killian’s expedition with little warmth, as though the Dervans were interlopers even after all this time.

Despite their antipathy for the Dervans, Turian support for Hanuvar’s invasion had never been as overt as those from southernmost Tyvol. But many Turians had joined his ranks as informers and scouts and even infantrymen. Some walled towns had opened their gates to his forces. Hanuvar doubted any of his former allies would have survived a Dervan purge, but he kept his head bowed as if in weariness whenever passing through settlements here, hoping no one would look close at a dirty old priest.

Two hours after midday they arrived at faded green hills scattered with abandoned walls built from the gray volcanic stones common to this area. Decrepit archways that must once have led to garden paths or mansions now fronted only dark forests. The wind was light, but often thick with the scents of lavender and rosemary.

The road wound in and out of ruins for another hour until Killian led them to a hilltop overlooking a valley. Here, he said, a patrol had followed Narisia Cabera and her two companions before the three disappeared into morning fog more than a year ago. A rainstorm had swept up and obscured their tracks and no Dervans had seen the women since. Nor, so far as Hanuvar had learned, had anyone else.

With some eagerness, Publius went to the goods secured on one of the pack horses, carefully unwrapped the contents, and began to assemble them. Hanuvar pretended to perform his own spell preparations, and drew a circle of charcoal that he filled with moon phases and images of eyes and open hands. He then lit a nub of a candle and placed it within the brown skull, festooned with images the more artistically gifted Izivar had drawn upon it. Carthalo had recovered it from a big revenant that they’d had to make disappear.

Hanuvar sat down within his circle, put his hand upon the skull and began to mutter, his gaze mimicking inward absorption. In truth he carefully watched Publius. Carthalo lingered near the mage, as if curious, though he was ready to strike. If Hanuvar’s preparations failed, then they would be outnumbered by enemies very quickly.

Nearby, Publius finished assembling a small portable table, an improved design over the last one Hanuvar had seen him with. It had been crafted not only with high ridged sides, but walled compartments for a variety of dark powders that Publius arranged before carefully covering them with squares of finely cut glass he removed from leather holders. Some symbols he drew upon the wood in dark charcoal; others had been burned into the platform’s surface.

Even with some of the work prepared beforehand, it took the scholar almost half an hour to arrange all of it to his liking. When finished at last he mumbled over Killian’s sword for a time, then opened another leather container and reverently removed what looked like a small dark-brown wig.

Hanuvar’s chest tightened at sight of his father’s hair, and he continued to observe through slitted eyes.

Publius placed the scalp in the center of his legless table, sprinkling it with red powders and dried green herbs he had to lift one of his glass panes to procure.

Finally he slid the table about on the ground with great care, eying the angle of the sun, reached within a pocket of his robe that lay just over his heart, and produced what Hanuvar first took to be a gnarled stick suspended by a black thread.

Most of the soldiers were watching, though they were supposed to be standing guard, and three of them gasped. Their proximity enabled them to understand more swiftly than Hanuvar that Publius had produced a mummified human finger. Once, twice, three times Publius dipped it against the scrap of Himli Cabera’s scalp, then he whispered to it, sprinkled it with blue powder, and held it just above the table’s middle.

Hanuvar rose to a kneeling position, the skull facing him in his left hand, as though he were engaged with it in silent dialogue. If he had to move fast, he could spring and strike in a single blow.

For a long moment the finger was still. It swung a little to the left, though Publius seemed not to have touched it at all. And then, of its own volition, it turned half its circumference and pointed unwaveringly at Hanuvar.

“It works!” Killian cried.

“I shall have to adjust the spell to ignore the nearest Cabera,” Publius said, his smile revealing that he was not irritated but pleased. Hanuvar then understood the mage himself had doubted whether the spell would work. Possibly he’d been hoping that he would detect the nearby skull purported to be Adruvar’s.

And then Publius said something that tensed Hanuvar once more. “There is a pull beyond the close one. A Cabera is somewhere along the road, beyond Adruvar’s skull.”

Hanuvar’s own pulse leapt at this news, though he betrayed no outward sign of his excitement. He lifted the skull to his ear and narrowed his eyes in concentration.

Killian grinned. “Then get your finger more certain, mage. What does your skull tell you, Brencis?”

“He whispers that it is not Hanuvar who lies ahead.”

“No?” Killian’s hard eyes were alight with interest. “Does he say who’s up there?”

“He taunts me,” Hanuvar said. “He does not want to aid me.”

Carthalo still waited near the mage, hand on sword hilt.

But Publius either couldn’t perceive their trickery or wasn’t wary enough of him to probe more closely. He bent and whispered to the finger. Once more it swung and pointed left, down the road.

“So a Cabera is here? A living one?” Killian prompted. He sounded excited in spite of himself.

“I can’t tell if she’s living or dead,” the boy admitted. “But I can tell she’s within an hour or two of us.”

Killian frowned and turned to Hanuvar. “What about you, priest?”

Hanuvar set aside worries for his daughter, and freely improvised. “Adruvar worries, though it is the sleepy, wormy worry of someone who thought themselves beyond cares. And I think then that a Cabera must live.”

“All right. You two—help Publius get that conjuring table up on his saddle like we talked about. Stop staring, boys! Glory’s coming your way!”

Hanuvar rose and wiped away his circle before the mage could pay its pictures any mind. He then put the candle flame out with his fingers, and pressed the smoking wax to his head and his heart. All the while he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the powerful emotions roiling within. Could his daughter truly be so close?

The soldiers proved so cautious with the table that Carthalo stepped forward to assist, helping Publius bear the thing with the tender care employed by a wounded nobleman’s servants. As was his inclination, Publius overexplained the steps, and how the straps had to attach to the specially constructed saddle in just this way to keep it steady.

One of the older soldiers, Nelius, spoke to Hanuvar as he placed the skull in his pouch.

His voice bore a hint of awe. “That’s really the skull of Adruvar Cabera?”

“It is.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I bought it from a Herrene, who said he had it from a tomb robber. It didn’t take long for me to confirm it was genuine.”

The platform holding Publius’ sorcery was firmly affixed to the mage’s saddle, between the horn and the horse’s neck, but even so the mage could not ride at any great speed for fear of disrupting the spell, and Killian chafed at the plodding progress. As the afternoon wore on he rode up and down the line, twice demanding from Publius and Hanuvar if they had more to say. Hanuvar told him Adruvar was silent but brooding, and Publius simply said south, along the road, but that he thought the Cabera was close.

And so they traveled, on and on. So slow was their progress that they were passed by a wagon convoy bearing horse fodder and a whole pack of farmers and farm boys as well as two buxom young women in old-fashioned Turian farm dresses. They raised their heads and coolly ignored the whistles and invitations, as remote and removed from the soldiers as the stone doors built into the distant cliffs.

Just before evening they passed another low line of hills and looked down on a little town. Publius straightened in his high-backed saddle. “Here!” he cried. “The Cabera is up ahead. Very close! Probably in the village!”

“Keep your voice down.” Killian rode closer. “What do you need to do to find her?”

“I just need to hold steady for a moment,” Publius answered. “I’ll adjust the spell a bit.”

Killian was visibly irritated, then nodded tightly and pointed off the road. “Let’s move over there. How long will this take?”

“Less than a quarter hour.”

Killian waved everyone to where a brook ran along the road and the men dismounted and led their horses to drink while Publius hunched over his table and shifted powders around.

Hanuvar dismounted with the soldiers. He tucked the skull back into his satchel and let his own animal drink.

Killian frowned at him. “Adruvar’s not saying anything?”

“I will have to pray again. And I will not waste my own spells until we’re closer.”

Mazentius lowered his waterskin. “Centurion, what was it like? To kill Adruvar Cabera?”

Clearly all of the soldiers had been wondering that, because all eight fell silent, listening keenly.

Killian’s frown deepened, and Hanuvar felt certain he would tell them to mind their own business. But he held to the friendlier demeanor he’d settled on this morning. “He knew he was going to die,” the centurion said finally. “We’d hit both flanks, and the center had crumbled, so it was only a matter of time.”

This matched what Hanuvar had been told of the battle. Flaminian Marcius’ scouts had intercepted a letter from Adruvar and he had marched his legion double-time through the night to link up with the legion that had been following Adruvar’s army. When Adruvar woke he faced a force twice as large as the one he’d prepared to fight.

“Adruvar didn’t want to be captured alive, or maybe he just wanted to take as many legionaries as he could with him when he went down. So he charged into a line of us. We cut his horse out from under him, but when he hit the ground he just kept coming.” Killian mimed rolling his shoulders and standing upright. The men listened, spellbound, and Hanuvar realized he was doing the same. He wondered if the priest he pretended to be would look as fascinated, and he supposed he would.

“He was already bleeding and his helm was off, and in we came.” Killian swung an imaginary sword. “Zip, zip. He cut them down. He was a big man, and he had one of those curved Volani swords heavy on the business end—falcata they call them. They can take a man’s head off in a single blow if you’ve any strength. And Adruvar Cabera was strong. Seven men he brought down, and a couple of others he crippled. And then I was up in front of him. He’d just lopped off my optio’s arm, and it was up to me.”

Hanuvar could not have turned away now had he been told his daughter waited just behind him.

“Adruvar’s left arm was hanging useless and his armor was rent and he bled from a dozen places. Probably those wounds would have finished him pretty soon anyway, but he was still up and killing and I had to stop him. So I did.”

“How?” Mazentius asked, guileless and enraptured as a boy listening to a bedtime fable.

Killian shrugged, seeming embarrassed to add details. “I ducked his swing. It took off my crest and pushed the helmet up so the strap was over my chin. But you know what it’s like in the middle of a battle. I didn’t even feel that it had gouged my forehead.”

Probably most of them didn’t know what it was like in the middle of a battle, but they listened silently.

“I drove the sword up through a big tear in his armor and then I found his heart. I heard the breath leave him and he sagged. I kept hold of my sword and so when he dropped I fell with him, trying not to land on his blade or into a sharp gash in his armor.” He looked at his audience as if measuring them. “You ever kill a man?”

None of them wanted to say that they hadn’t, and Killian had the grace not to wait too long for them to admit it. “It’s true, what they say about how a man’s eyes glaze when they die. But first you see the strength of their life in their vision. How much they want to hold onto it.” Killian’s jaw had firmed. Hanuvar imagined the scene then, the centurion on the ground, suspended on one hand over Adruvar, eyes locked, close as lovers. Such a moment was always disturbingly intimate. If you stared too long, you saw too much.

“Their fear, you mean?” Mazentius asked. “Was he afraid of dying?”

Killian shook his head, his disappointment in the question manifest. “It wasn’t like that.”

This man had met Adruvar’s gaze in his final moments and experienced the death lock prior to that glazed loss of focus. Some men reveled in it, or claimed they did. Killian, though, had clearly been affected by it. And it came to Hanuvar that his brother had fully planned to die, and that in a strange way his death by this centurion had been a mercy. Adruvar had fallen to a man who respected him.

Publius called from where he sat hunched in his saddle over the table. “I’ve got her! She’s really close. I think I can find the way!”

With that news, Killian ordered them back into the saddle, riding at the mage’s side as they headed down the brick road and into the little farm town.

Hanuvar knew the place. Melgar had fought a skirmish here against a Dervan scouting party, and Hanuvar had looked down on it from the south while listening to his brother’s report.14 Once, he had stood on that very ridge two miles beyond the other side of the town, standing not just with Melgar, but with their brother Harnil and the commander of cavalry, Maharaval.

That friend and all three of his brothers were dead, but the town still lived. It appeared much the same, with its wide fields spreading out across the hills to east and west, and the tidy square houses with their green tile roofs standing along winding streets, built to follow the roll of the land.

More than ever, it came to him that this was a mission of the dead. Why would Narisia shelter here, so close to where she had last been seen? Who was to say she had not already taken her final breath? Perhaps she’d been wounded during her escape and she and her friends had tried to nurse her to health in these hills.

Might it be that she had succumbed and had long since been buried along some lonely ridge? That would certainly explain why no one had been able to find her.

There was a fine line between anticipating outcomes and worry. Hanuvar had schooled himself toward the former, so that he might be ready for the vicissitudes of fortune. He knew that a man who had considered outcomes and determined reactions slept more soundly than a man who merely fretted. He wondered how well a man would sleep once he had stood before his daughter’s grave.



V


Only the central street ran relatively straight through the village, and those who worked or purchased at the shops and tavern counters turned to stare at Killian and his troop as they passed through. They were keenly aware of Publius and the narrow wooden platform stretching from his saddle horn to his horse’s mane. They pointed at the dried finger he dangled on its string and whispered among themselves.

Killian didn’t care. For the first time since they’d begun this journey that old, keen sense of excitement burned in his blood. He was on a hunt, and his hounds had scented quarry. The men had felt it too, and paid no mind to taverns or women they passed. Even the priest seemed keyed up, though his mien remained grim.

They passed into the village’s outskirts, where wider spans of ground separated tidy old villas set down shady lanes lined with ancient Turian stone pines. Publius seemed untroubled by their course, and focused ever more hungrily upon the terrible finger he held over his board with right hand while his left held the reins stretched beneath the platform. “The villa ahead, on the right. We’re very close!”

A trio of children roamed the villa’s grounds. The youngest, a little girl in a long, blue double tunic, jogged along its lane at the side of a large metal hoop, which she rolled with a stick. Another girl of ten or twelve brushed the mane of a bored gray pony while a teenaged boy bent low to cinch its saddle. Once it was clear that the troop of soldiers was riding toward their home, the boy called to the smallest, shouting her name, Drusilla, twice, before she ran to him. He pointed her to the house, handed the pony’s reins to the elder girl and pointed her on as well, then stepped into the road.

Peeping constantly over their shoulders in curiosity, the girls walked for the white two-story villa four hundred feet further back, the pony clopping after.

Killian rode at the mage’s side and did not miss the anticipation manifest on his face. The mummified finger continued to point straight ahead. “We’re very close now,” Publius said tensely. “Practically on top of her.”

The boy waited in an ordinary tunic and sandals, but he carried himself like someone who expected obedience. Tall, slender, his arms and legs were gently muscled. He had a Turian’s dark wavy hair, and a narrow, pleasant face with a nose slightly hooked. His eyes were dark, and alight with intelligence.

Killian drew to a stop before him. The boy’s brow furrowed when he noticed the strange contraption affixed to the front of Publius’ saddle, but he addressed Killian.

“Greetings,” he said. “You are on the land of Senator Clemens Horatius Marcellus. Do you seek him?”

Marcellus was more than a senator. He had been a general in the Second Volani War, and one of the few to survive successive engagements against Hanuvar himself. Killian knew he’d been forced from active service after taking a wound that should have killed him. It had instead left Marcellus in recuperation for more than a year. By reputation he was a soldier’s soldier. He held senatorial rank but was almost never to be found in Derva itself.

Killian eyed the boy, debating how exactly he should answer.

“It’s him,” Publius said in a low voice. Perhaps he thought it would not be heard by the boy, whose brow wrinkled further.

“What are you talking about?” Killian asked.

Publius had lowered the finger so that it was not visible over the rim of the platform. He raised it now and it pointed directly at the youth.

“It’s him!”

The boy proved to be remarkably well possessed. “Gentlemen?” His voice was firm, but polite. “What brings you here?”

Killian bowed his head. “I am Killian Pullio Vicentius. We are on an errand for the state. Are you . . . the son of Marcellus?”

The youth answered without hesitation. “I am. Tiberius Paulus Marcellus, sir.”

Far behind him, the front door of the villa opened and a white-haired patrician emerged, closely followed by a sturdy retainer. Both strode in haste. Drusilla had vanished, but the older girl looked anxiously back from beside the door, the pony at her side.

“How old are you?” Publius asked.

The boy’s gaze drifted to the mage and a flicker of disgust briefly touched his features. He had noticed the mummified finger. “I am fifteen.”

This wasn’t going at all as Killian had expected. He searched for the priest, but didn’t spot Brencis at first. The older man had dismounted to lead his horse up one side of the lane. He stared at the boy’s face with such intensity Tiberius sensed it and returned the scrutiny.

A hoarse voice with the echo of the parade ground reached them. “What are you doing here on my land?”

Marcellus had shouted as he drew closer. He would arrive in only a few moments. Killian motioned Publius to move the finger, but the mage only stared blankly. “Break your charms,” he snapped, then turned to the priest. “Well?” he said, then added, “Does your . . . advisor say anything? Is this boy one of them?”

“Adruvar does not know him,” Brencis answered.

Killian cursed under his breath, reflecting then that the priest had earlier said only that the person they traced was not Hanuvar. It was Publius who had promised Narisia.

Marcellus halted before them, a dour, broad-shouldered manservant at his side. The senator was a hawk-nosed older man, vigorous, though his face was florid from his swift-paced walk, and he carried a layer of fat.

“Senator Marcellus,” Killian said, then introduced himself. “You must pardon us. I was . . . hoping we might have the chance for . . . a conversation.” He was stumbling, badly, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he should say or do. He needed time to consider the best course of action. “Your son is a fine young man. Is he . . . yours by blood?”

The senator’s brows had ticked up at mention of Killian’s name, though he did not acknowledge recognizing it further, and his reply was coolly formal. “I adopted him when he was an infant, upon marrying his mother.”

“Ah.” Killian did not follow politics; he had little to no interest about the lives of the famous, and was aware of Marcellus only because he had met soldiers who spoke well of him. “Who is your wife?”

This was clearly the wrong question to ask, for Marcellus’ heavy brows drew closer. His retainer stiffened. “What is this really about?” The old soldier practically growled, “Who sent you?”

Killian cleared his throat. “Perhaps . . . perhaps this might all be cleared away if we could speak privately.”

“I am in the midst of other duties at this time.” The old man’s voice was steely.

“Your pardon. This evening, then?”

“If that is your wish.” Marcellus’ glance passed darkly over the rest of them. “Leave your entourage behind.”

“Of course.” Killian bowed his head.

The senator motioned his son to follow then about-faced. Tiberius glanced back at them, dubiously, and followed. The retainer stared warning for a moment, then fell in after.

Killian spoke quietly to Publius. “So it was him. Definitely him, the youth?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Mazentius spoke to him from behind. “You saw Adruvar’s face. Does this kid look like him? Maybe it’s his son.”

The soldier didn’t have the years right. Killian shook his head. “He’s too young. Adruvar’s been dead eighteen years. And this doesn’t help us at all anyway. The boy’s too young to have been at war against Derva, and he’s been raised by a Dervan senator.” He licked his lips, and spoke to the priest. “What of you? Anything to report?”

Brencis’ eyes were a peculiar gray as they caught the light, and the sad, determined expression was so similar to that upon Adruvar’s face as he died that it was momentarily startling. Killian’s impression of the priest’s power had increased, but only now did he understand how truly magical the man must be. “Could that boy be Hanuvar’s son?”

“He is no child of Hanuvar’s,” the priest answered. “But for answers I must speak with the spirits and coax more from them.”

“Is there another possible Cabera around here?” Killian demanded.

“Only the skull and the boy,” Publius said, looking as though he expected a dressing down.

Killian turned their column, moving through the others to lead them back into the village. He supposed they’d have to find room at one of the inns. What could he even say to Senator Marcellus? Was there a point left in talking with him?



VI


There was no mistaking the young man for anyone other than a child of Harnil Cabera. It wasn’t just the shape of his face, it was the way he tilted his head to one side while questioning, and the burning intellect in his gaze, not to mention the incredible self-possession.

Another Cabera lived. Hanuvar had thought himself only an uncle once, to Edonia, wherever she might be, for Adruvar had sired no children and Harnil had never married. But this boy, no matter darker coloration, was unquestionably his brother’s child. What he was doing here, in the family of a Dervan general driven from this very village by Melgar himself, was the least of the mysteries before him. The greatest of them was what he was to do with the knowledge. The young man had been raised as a Dervan. How might Hanuvar even approach him?

He wasn’t the only one befuddled by their discovery. Apart from selecting an inn for them and delegating Carthalo to arrange for rooms, Killian had nothing to say, and headed off for his inn chamber with a bottle of wine and an order for a meal.

Hanuvar retreated to a room of his own. He opened the shutters and leaned out to face south, where it was just possible to see a tree on the edge of that distant property. An oak his nephew might have looked upon every day of his life. The tree and this village were more familiar to the young man than his own bloodline. What did he know of Volanus?

Someone rapped at his door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Carthalo answered.

“Enter.”

Carthalo opened the door. He bore a wash basin and pitcher. He was followed by a plump Turian woman and her wiry son, both carrying platters they sat on a scarred table near the window. Carthalo thanked them and sent them away.

“Why are you here?” Hanuvar asked.

“Killian is sulking in his room and most of his men have wandered off.” Carthalo poured water into the basin. “I thought you might want to freshen up.”

“Harnil preferred the company of men,” Hanuvar said, moving over.

“But not exclusively,” Carthalo pointed out. He dipped his hands into the water and scrubbed his face. He stepped back and pointed to the basin, but Hanuvar demurred. The role Hanuvar played was uninterested in cleanliness.

“At least wash your hands.”

He looked down at the foods—some dark bread with nuts and seeds baked in, some smoked trout and some particularly pungent garum, a Dervan fish sauce rendered more fragrant owing to the Turian preference for strong flavors. He dipped his hands into the basin, scrubbed the worst of the dirt from them, and then broke off some of the flesh from the fish. “You wish to speculate,” Hanuvar said.

“Harnil sometimes served with Cordelia. She was sly, witty, and capable. Tall, and dark eyed. Turian.”

Hanuvar had not known everyone in the intelligence network. “Go on.”

“She was pregnant before the end of the war. After Harnil’s death. She returned to my service, but gave the child over to a sister in Turia.”

“A sister married to Marcellus?”

“Not that she mentioned.” Carthalo broke off a slice of bread. “Cordelia didn’t survive long after the war. So we can’t ask her. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” Hanuvar was seldom at a loss for a course of action, but so far he had not developed one, and the halting course of his speech betrayed his confusion. “I want to speak with the boy—find out what he knows. About his family, and his past.”

“Cordelia was smart, so he probably knows nothing. For his own good. He seems happy here.”

“Happy among people who killed his own.” Hanuvar chewed the fish, though he was not hungry. He barely registered its taste, despite the spices.

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

He lifted his other hand, showing an empty palm.

“You know Dervans can be fine people. And Marcellus was one of the better commanders. Melgar thought him honorable.”

Melgar had arranged a prisoner exchange with the general, and had even briefly spoken to him in person.

“I don’t understand why Cordelia didn’t pass her son along to you. To us.”

“She probably intended to raise him as her own. I doubt she meant to die.”

“No,” Hanuvar agreed. He realized the fish he clutched was disintegrating in his fist. He relaxed his grip. He was reacting with the emotional equilibrium of a teenager in love. “No,” he agreed, with a deep exhalation. He thought then of the young woman, leaving perhaps on some scouting foray or courier mission when the Dervans were overrunning the countryside, turning the care of her son to her sister and wondering if she would see him again. “I doubt she intended that.”

They heard the unmistakable sound of hobnailed boots in the corridor. Someone delivered a hard rap against their door.

Hanuvar shot Carthalo a warning look but the spy shrugged, as if to ask what did it matter now if they were together?

“Who is it?” Hanuvar asked. He did not have to feign the priest’s irritation this time.

“Killian. Is there anyone in there with you, priest?”

“I am,” Carthalo answered.

The officer pushed open the door and stepped in, his expression somber.

“What’s this about?” Carthalo asked.

“All the men have left. Even Publius.”

That the reclusive scholar was involved told Hanuvar all he needed to know.

Carthalo swung his feet off the bench and reached for his weapon belt. “They’re going after the boy, aren’t they?”

“They think they’re due some glory.”

“What are you going to do?” Carthalo asked.

Killian breathed out in resignation. “Marcellus has pull. If these jackasses upset him, it could make trouble all the way to the emperor, and Legate Aquilius. And I don’t want the revenant legate mad at me.”

“Not if he’s the one paying us.” Carthalo buckled on his weapons belt.

“That too.” Kilian’s gaze shifted to Hanuvar. “I need every man I can get, Brencis. I could use the help.”

And Hanuvar wanted to protect his nephew. He just wasn’t sure how the character he played should act, and so he was a moment answering.

“I know you want a Cabera,” Killian continued. “But the boy’s as Dervan as me, raised by a senator and general.”

The soldier had bluntly stated the same truths Hanuvar had been wrestling over. Killian misunderstood the furrowing of Hanuvar’s brow. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you,” Hanuvar said finally. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll get you the pay due an officer for a month and a bonus to boot, same as these bastards were getting.”

Hanuvar pretended he was weighing it over, although he was aware of the press of time. His brother’s son might be facing eight angry soldiers and a mage this very moment. He drawled out his answer, as though reluctant. “All right.”

Kilian must have sent word for the stableboys, and been hoping both men would help, for all three horses were saddled. The trio were soon mounted and moving out at a canter.

Evening was nearly come, and the light through the trees was muted. This time, no children were visible in the villa’s yard. This time a string of horses cropped grass in front of the open villa door.

They left their mounts with the others. There was no question about which way they should go. Shouting echoed through the halls and led them to a wide courtyard with a central rectangular pool. Harnil’s son stood with Marcellus and his man; they were all but ringed by legionaries, with the heavyset Mazentius at their center point. The young soldier pointed to Killian. “Are you here to help?”

Killian put a centurion’s snap in his answer. “Our investigation’s over. We were hunting fugitives. There are none here.”

Mazentius shook his head. “We were hunting Cabera. And we found one.”

Marcellus turned to Killian, hand thrust angrily to Mazentius. “This man has invaded my home and pawed over my private papers. He has no business here. Will you please remove him?”

“You want to remove me?” Mazentius’ voice rose mockingly. “You’re harboring a Cabera!” The soldier shook the scroll, then addressed Killian. “First thing I found in his document chest—adoption papers. Then this!”

“You have no right!” Marcellus roared.

“But I do!” Mazentius said, almost crowing. He smiled as he returned his attention to Killian. “When the senator’s wife fell ill, she left this letter for her husband, to be opened on the boy’s sixteenth birthday.” He waved the scroll at the boy. “He is the son of Harnil Cabera, brother to Hanuvar!”

“None of that matters,” Marcellus snapped. “He’s my son now.”

Mazentius laughed and his companions looked smug. “Cabera blood matters a great deal.”

Hanuvar checked the boy for reaction, but Tiberius’ grave expression had not changed.

“And it’s a curious coincidence, isn’t it, that Marcellus spoke out against the Third Volani War?” Mazentius asked. “Just like Ciprion. Makes you wonder what little secret Ciprion might be hiding, doesn’t it?”

“Are you aiming for a job in the Revenant Corps?” Killian asked. “You don’t want to make trouble for a senatorial war hero.”

“He is a revenant,” Publius spoke up. “Did you think they’d send one of their best mages out without a guard?”

Hanuvar put his hand to his hilt. Violence was imminent.

“This is enough!” Marcellus declared. “No one has authority in my villa but me!” He pointed at Mazentius’ group. “I’ll report your conduct to the emperor himself! Now give me back my property!” Marcellus strode forward, hand outstretched for the scroll. As Mazentius backstepped one of the others raised a palm as if to stop the old general, who swept it aside. The soldier grabbed his arm and the two tussled.

Marcellus still knew how to fight. He slammed his elbow into the legionary’s nose. Blood sprayed. Marcellus’ attendant shouldered in, to be immediately opposed by a pair of soldiers, drawing swords.

And then the senator stumbled back. The opposing soldier held a bloodied knife, and a crimson stain splattered the old man’s side.

For the briefest of moments the only sound within the courtyard was the sigh of the breeze through the decorative trees. And then Marcellus gasped. The boy cried out, and the soldiers moved on him and his father both.

“Protect the boy,” Hanuvar ordered Carthalo, and started in, one of his secreted blades in hand. Killian moved at the same time. One soldier came at him with bared blade but dropped after a savage hack drove through his jaw spattered a mass of teeth. Killian cut off the howl of pain by slashing deep through his opponent’s forehead.

Tiberius bared a knife and shielded his adopted father. A slim legionary advanced on him, sword raised. Hanuvar’s throwing knife embedded deep from such close range, and the soldier crumpled with the hilt protruding from his eye socket. The boy spun in surprise, staring briefly at Hanuvar before another man advanced on Marcellus’ retainer and crossed blades with him.

In one hand Hanuvar carried the gladius he’d hidden in his robe, in the other he drew another knife. Carthalo advanced to protect Killian’s flank. Hanuvar winged his second throwing knife for Publius, who chanted and sprinkled black powder. His spellwork stopped abruptly as the knife planted firmly just above his collarbone. He choked, flailed his arms spasmodically, and ripped the weapon out. He patted feebly at the spurting blood, tripped backward, and then Hanuvar could spare him no more attention, for Mazentius had left his last three soldiers to run interference against Carthalo.

The disguised revenant turned on Hanuvar, his bared sword streaming black goo. From previous encounters with the black order, Hanuvar knew poison had coated the blade the moment it was ripped from its sheath. Hanuvar ducked the high strike; poison droplets spattered the floor. Hanuvar parried the back swing and slashed down into Mazentius’ sword arm. The younger man screamed in pain, freezing with head raised and mouth parted. Hanuvar had plenty of time to slice through his face, but then had to let go of the blade jammed into his adversary’s skull to duck a swipe from the brown-haired soldier on his left.

He slid on blood slick pavement. Mazentius’ body thumped to the ground beside him and Hanuvar snatched the still steaming sword from limp fingers. He swayed his head from the thrust of brown hair and felt the legionary’s fist, clenched about the hilt, punch past his cheek. Hanuvar drove the smoking revenant sword up through his loins and the legionary stumbled past Harnil’s son, teeth parted in a silent scream. He splashed into the pool.

Hanuvar scanned the area. A paling Marcellus had balled up his tunic to protect his side. The retainer warded the old man and his adopted son, but no other opponents advanced against them. Killian and Carthalo dueled a final pair. Hanuvar was readying to assist when the centurion dropped his man. Carthalo finished his own opponent with a jugular slice. The soldier put hands to the blood gushing from his neck, accidentally gashing his own face with his sword, then folded. Killian stepped back to watch, his blade dripping blood. He swayed, glassy eyed, and Carthalo reached out to steady him. He was too late—the veteran sagged, and Carthalo helped guide him to the ground.

“Brencis,” he called weakly.

Hanuvar would rather have joined his nephew, watching with wide eyes. But he still hadn’t decided what he would say to him. And so Hanuvar walked through the carnage to reach Killian, realizing when he saw the white face and the blood pooling on the stone beneath him that the soldier didn’t have long. Carthalo’s glance showed agreement.

“Cut by a revenant blade,” the spy said. “There were three in all. The tall quiet soldier,” he added.

The dying man’s eyes held the sharpness of the healthy man suddenly facing death. His gaze seemed to probe deep, touching Hanuvar’s soul. There was recognition there. Seemingly far away a voice called for bandages and aid, and a little girl cried out for her father.

Killian’s mouth moved, and Hanuvar had to strain to make out his words. “I thought you were just a Volani hater. When we met the boy, I saw you were staring at him. Intensity.” He paused to try for a breath he couldn’t catch, then pushed on. “I get it now. Recognition. The way you moved . . .” Almost he laughed. “Just like Adruvar.” He smiled weakly and let out a cough. “Clever. Looking for . . . daughter?”

Hanuvar nodded once.

“Your brother died bravely,” Killian whispered.

“So have you,” Hanuvar assured him.

Had someone ever told him he would speak kindly to the slayer of Adruvar, or grip his forearm as he passed, Hanuvar would never have believed it, but this he did, and when Killian stilled he closed the man’s eyes himself. He then wiped clean the soldier’s jeweled blade and passed it on to Carthalo.

Only then did he turn to see what had befallen Marcellus.

The old general sat on a bench, his tunic torn open along the left. A pair of slaves had arrived with a pungent cask of vinegar and bandages and must already have cleaned the wound, for the retainer was sewing up a short gash along the senator’s sturdy side. Marcellus held his lips clamped shut while Tiberius looked on. A matronly older slave had hands about the shoulders of both of Marcellus’ daughters, watching open mouthed from a doorway to the courtyard.

There was no scent of digestive fluids from Marcellus’ wounds, so the slice had probably missed organs. The old soldier watched their approach from under drawn, heavy eyebrows, then nodded to Hanuvar and Carthalo, waiting to speak until the final stitch was pulled taut. A deep white scar puckered his abdomen a little lower down.

“I don’t think this one will kill me if that one didn’t,” Marcellus said, having seen the direction of Hanuvar’s gaze. “I am indebted to you men for your help. I can recognize a legion man when I see one. You handled yourselves like seasoned skirmishers, not line men. Who did you serve under?”

“Ciprion,” Hanuvar answered.

“And now you’re a priest of Lutar,” Marcellus said. “Well, I’ll need no rites performed for me today. The revenants hire you?”

“The revenants hired Killian,” Hanuvar explained. He could not help his eyes tracking to Tiberius. It was almost like looking on Harnil again. The boy returned his careful scrutiny without understanding it. There was gratitude there, and curiosity, and shock. He had seen brutal death this day, and his father wounded, and maybe feared he’d be hauled away by revenants.

“And he hired us,” Carthalo finished. “But two of the ‘normal soldiers’ they sent with him were revenants.”

“He should have seen that coming,” Marcellus said. “I always hated those bastards.”

The manservant finished tying the threads and turned, breathing heavily, to consider Hanuvar and Carthalo.

Marcellus’ gaze grew hard. “What the revenants were saying about my son . . . Am I going to get trouble from you?”

Hanuvar had a hard time answering, but not for the reason the old man probably thought. Finally, he shook his head. “No, General.”

“We’re very good at keeping secrets,” Carthalo promised.

“I’ve a question for your boy, though,” Hanuvar said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“You risked your life to keep him free,” Marcellus said. “I think you’ve the right. But it’s up to Tiberius. What’s your name?”

“Brencis,” said Hanuvar. “This is Silvio.”

“Well, the least we can do is host you this night, but I’ll see you’re both rewarded.”

“We didn’t help in hope for a reward,” Carthalo said.

“Any man could see that,” Marcellus replied gruffly. “You fought for the right of things, like we’re told good Dervans do. Precious few of them. All right, priest, what’s your question?”

Once again Hanuvar studied the slim young man before him, remembering Harnil at a similar age. Perhaps he’d been a little taller. His hair hadn’t been quite as curly. But they were close enough in appearance it was like peering back through time. The boy’s expression grew more and more perplexed, and Hanuvar realized he’d stared too long. “When the revenant told you your origin, you didn’t act surprised at all. Did you already know?”

“I’ve known for years my blood father must have been a Volani officer. They occupied nearby lands during a lot of the war.” Tiberius looked to the old general, watching closely. “Father told me one day I might learn I wasn’t who I thought, but that I should be proud of my heritage. He said I came from a line of warriors.”

“I was supposed to wait to read the letter,” Marcellus explained. “But I didn’t want any mysteries about my son to turn up and surprise me. If she’d lived, my wife would have told me. Three wives I’ve lost now,” he added. “Each one young and vital. And look at me. I keep collecting scars and somehow I keep going. Life’s just not fair sometimes.”

“No,” Hanuvar agreed. “But I suppose we have to thank the gods for the blessings we receive, and find a way forward when their reasons leave us in darkness.”

“Just like a priest,” Marcellus said, although not unkindly. “I’ll have my people tend you. I should have a word with my daughters now. They’ve just witnessed things I never wanted them to see.” He groaned as he pushed to his feet.

“We left much of our gear at the inn,” Hanuvar said. “We’ll best go gather that.”

“Well, don’t be too long about it. We’ll pull down some fine wine and you can tell me about your campaigns.” He took in the mass of bodies and he shook his head in disgust. “My poor slaves are going to have to clear all this up. And I’m going to have to report this. I don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Tell them an agent of the revenants foiled an assassination attempt,” Carthalo suggested.

Marcellus’ chuckle at his cleverness died as he felt his side and groaned. He then walked toward his daughters. “No, don’t come in here, girls. No need to come any closer. Your father’s fine. It’s just my clothes that need to be thrown out, not me.” His retainer walked with him, watching as if he expected the old man to faint.

Tiberius remained.

“Gather our weapons,” Hanuvar suggested to Carthalo.

His friend absented himself.

Hanuvar knew he did not have long, so he spoke quickly, with quiet confidentiality. “I met your blood father. You resemble him strongly.”

“Do I? What was he like?”

“He was a brilliant man, and a brave one, but what I remember most is what a fine laugh he had. He was one of the funniest men I ever met, and very charming. He was a natural storyteller. He loved plays.” Probably he was saying too much, but the boy listened raptly. “Do you like plays?”

“I always have,” he answered eagerly. “And books.”

Hanuvar nodded. “He was always reading.”

“Did you know him well?”

Hanuvar knew now that he had said too much, but he could not help himself. And he wanted the moment to last, for he knew there would likely never be another. But what more could he say? Should he ask the boy about his favorite books, the foods he liked, the places he’d been? What had his childhood been like, and when had he learned to ride? Was a marriage arranged for him already, and did he like the girl? What did he hope to accomplish?

How might he squeeze a life’s worth of encounters and connections into the course of a single conversation?

Sadly, he knew it could not be done.

“In coming years,” Hanuvar said, “this evening may be a blur, in which only a few terrible scenes stand starkly. Hold to the brighter ones. Recall how bravely your adopted father faced the men who wanted to take you away. Know that the dead man there killed your uncle Adruvar, but that he died defending you. He acted with honor in both instances. A man’s life can take strange directions, but if he models himself after people of character, and acts accordingly, he can lift his head high even in the bleakest of circumstances.”

The boy seemed to be listening, but who could ever really tell how much the young took from the old?

Carthalo drew up beside him, waiting at his shoulder. Marcellus, leaning now against the older daughter while the younger clung to his good side, was directing slaves into the room, apologizing to them for what was going to be a terrible effort, even as they affectionately chided him and told him he should get to a bed. He was apparently one of those like Ciprion who treated his slaves as valued employees, a Dervan ideal more exception than reality.

Hanuvar extended his hand to Tiberius, who took his arm a little questioningly.

“I’ll remember your counsel, priest Brencis.”

“Don’t think of me as a priest of Lutar. I’m just a gray-eyed man who’s lost a lot of the people he loved. I’m glad you didn’t lose your father this day. May you live long and well.”

“Thank you. I hope the same for you. Are you not coming back?”

“I don’t think that will be possible. Some day I hope you’ll understand.”

The young man looked at him strangely, then bowed his head. “Thank you, again.”

Because he had trouble letting go, Hanuvar held the clasp a moment longer than he should have, and then he and Carthalo walked past the rectangular pool with the floating body and its billowing blood and on out to the road where they collected their horses. Hanuvar delayed briefly to scatter Publius’ powders and retrieve the small bag with his father’s scalp.

Carthalo did not speak until they were in the saddle once more, riding side by side down the roadway. “You didn’t tell him about yourself or our people.”

“No.” They had left no gear at the inn; it was time to start the long way back to Apicius.

“I heard a lot of what you said. He seems a smart lad. He’ll probably figure out who you are, someday.”

That had been Hanuvar’s intent, although what he would really liked to have done was sweep Tiberius into his embrace—to take him with them to Apicius and raise him the rest of the way as a proud Volani. He could hear of his uncles and his aunts, and his ancestors. He could sit at Hanuvar’s right hand and help to build New Volanus.

Maybe, in some better world, Hanuvar had ridden off with Harnil’s son to shape the future. As long as he was dreaming, though, why not imagine a world where the child had grown up in Harnil’s company, and where father and son might have joined Hanuvar at the table for dinner every week, where his cousin Narisia could have taken him riding along the shore, and when he might have grown up playing board games with little Edonia?

These seemed simple wishes, and he hoped, somewhere, that they were true.

“If I live long enough,” Hanuvar said, just before they reached the end of the lane, “maybe I’ll send him a letter and tell him more about his father.”

“Maybe?”

A long moment passed before he found the strength to answer in a normal voice. “It might be best to leave him to this life. It could be he’s ended up the luckiest Cabera of them all.”

decorative stars

Hanuvar had grown to be forthcoming about his experiences, but upon his return to Izivar’s villa it was long days before he was willing to relay many details about what had happened. Even if Carthalo had been inclined to speak with me—and he usually wasn’t—the spymaster stayed only long enough to write his daughter, in command at their complex of shops in Derva, before returning to the far south, a region too well travelled by Hanuvar for him to risk personal appearances.

Killian’s sword he eventually arranged to be melted down, though not before the gem in its hilt was added to our stores.

Before that could be arranged, though, we were quite busy with other matters, for the emperor had sent word that he planned a visit. He and Izivar were regular correspondents. Although the young man had seemingly been convinced that there was no romantic future for him and Izivar, he still thought of her as a friend and of himself as her protector, for he had sworn to her brother that he would care for her. And thus they wrote several times a week. On one memorable occasion two letters sent the same day arrived for her via different ships.

Officially, Enarius was coming to assess an old property he had purchased overlooking the harbor, and while he did indeed mean to give the villa a onceover, he was really making a stop after personally travelling to the west to obtain scrolls of rare provenance.

According to legend, shortly after Derva’s founding, a prophetess, Sidyl, had come to old King Tarqus with scrolls she’d written foretelling the city’s future. For the nine fat scrolls she demanded an exorbitant price. He’d refused, and she’d burned them, one by one, still asking that same price each day for those that remained. The king finally relented when there were but three left, and from that day forward the three scrolls had been consulted by priests whenever dire events were in motion, so that the rulers of Derva might see a way clear.

Only the month before, Enarius had been contacted by a temple in Greater Herrenia, in one of the colonies the Herrenes founded on Tyvol’s western shore. The priests claimed that they had located copies of the lost six books.

Enarius hadn’t wanted to dicker or in any way delay as that king had done, nor had he wished to entrust something so valuable to intermediaries. He’d retrieved them himself and was now on his way back. The public was not supposed to have known about the reason behind his journey, but there are few true secrets in a palace, so word had naturally gotten out about his destination, perhaps further than even he could have anticipated.

And of course he had said something about the matter to Izivar, which is what inspired our frenzy of activity. She agreed to host some architects Enarius had sent for, and she readied for a celebratory feast despite the emperor’s stated desire for a simple repast. And, for the safety of the Volani people, we devised a means to get our own look at those scrolls.

—Sosilos, Book Fourteen




14. Antires does not name the town, but from this description it must be Mertosa, close by where both the first and second battles of the same name were fought.—Silenus



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