Alliances

She thanked them both, telling Samar to prepare the troops and sending her chamberlain with him. She needed solitude, time to think.

She rode in the direction of the ruined cemetery but didn’t go far. Samar would be frantic if she went out of sight. Reining up, she pushed back her hood and untied the scarf that concealed her upswept ears and bound up her hair. The night-black sheaf fell to the middle of her back. She looked up at the starry sky.

Was it truly possible Porthios lived, or was she endlessly deceiving herself? More than a mask and courtly diction were needed to bring her husband back to life, but his body had never been found. If anyone could survive dragonfire, it would be Porthios. There was another, much harder question she did not like to contemplate: If he had survived, why had he left her to grieve his death and their son’s death all alone?

Her solitude ended too soon. Samar and Chathendor rode up to report their people were ready to move. However much he might protest her course, Samar was the truest friend she’d ever had. Chathendor, with the bluntness granted by extreme age, was both wise and inventive. He saw angles others did not. More than once he’d saved her from ruin, just by his wits. Armed with her two champions, and her own resolve, Alhana was not afraid to enter Qualinesti.

* * * * *

Breetan Everride shivered. The sun was not yet up, but the sky, clear as a mountain lake, shaded from indigo in the west to azure in the east. A south wind carried the cold breath of Icewall, and she pulled her mantle close around her neck. She stood in a long, narrow courtyard hard by the outer wall of the Black Hall. The Hall was the seat of Lord Egil Liveskill, who was responsible for the peace and security in the Southward, as the Dark Knights designated the former elf kingdom of Qualinesti.

She had reached the Hall the evening before. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was escorted directly to Lord Liveskill’s audience chamber. Liveskill sat at a great oval table, its obsidian surface covered with books, parchments, and sheaves of reports. The master of the Black Hall worked late nearly every night.

Liveskill’s blond hair was still trimmed close, but since she’d last seen him he’d grown a short beard, confined to his square chin. He seemed paler than she remembered, but perhaps that was due to the combination of candlelight and the contrast of his dark blue tunic. Liveskill had once received a prophecy that he was in danger from fire, so no modern lamps were permitted within the Hall. How numerous racks of candles were safer than oil lamps, Breetan couldn’t imagine, but they were certainly warmer. Breetan was sweating heavily in her armor.

“I hear strange tidings,” he said before even looking at the document she held out to him. “You bring word of an insurrection in the Southward.”

She wasn’t surprised the news had preceded her; the Black Hail had spies in every town and village. Liveskill took her reports. Documents that had taken her a day and a half to write, he read through in moments, then sat back in his chair. His expression was unreadable.

“Why?” he finally said. “Why would this masked rebel leave you alive to send word of his deeds to the Order? Why deliberately attract our attention?”

Before she could reply, he answered his own question. “This is a diversion. He wants us to scour the Alderhelm forest for him while he strikes at his true target. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

His quick insight left her struggling to catch up. “My lord, I cannot believe he commands more than a few dozen foresters. It’s one thing to harry a small outpost, quite another to think he could threaten the Order. The difficulties of counting the Kagonesti are well known, but our census estimates the total number in the Southward at three to four thousand. Even if he could command them all, that’s hardly sufficient to bring down our fortresses.”

He did not reply. Breetan sweated harder. Her failure against the masked rebel was galling, and the Order seldom forgave failure. She decided a bit of boldness was required.

“My lord, allow me to redeem myself. Give me a company and I will—”

“No.”

His flat denial sent a shiver of doubt through her. Liveskill’s distant gaze focused on her, and she steeled herself for whatever would come.

“The failure was yours alone. Alone you will redeem it.”

Faint hope stirred. Perhaps her only choices were not disgrace or death.

Unfortunately he told her nothing more, only dismissed her, saying he would call for her at sunrise. His majordomo, Denius Dukayne, escorted her to a sumptuous bedchamber, where a fine repast awaited. Was this a last meal for the condemned or simple courtesy for a fellow knight and member of the Black Hall?

She fortified herself with food, wine, and the uncommon luxury of a comfortable bed.