Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

Valyn nodded. “Long Fist was massing for something,” he agreed. “That was clear as rain.”

“Which means,” the flier observed acidly, “that our dear friend the shaman has fucked us.”

Valyn revolved the idea as he considered the army once more. At the center of the camp flew a massive banner emblazoned with the Annurian sun. Beneath the banner, a dozen soldiers were hard at work erecting a huge pavilion. Something that large could only belong to il Tornja, and Valyn panned back and forth with the lens, searching in vain for some sign of the man.

When he and his Wing rode out from the Urghul camp ten days earlier, Valyn had expected to travel all the way to Annur, to have to find the kenarang in his own palace and kill him; even for the Kettral, it had seemed a nearly impossible task. Something, however, had flushed il Tornja into the open. It made for an opportunity, but put Valyn on his guard at the same time. It also meant delaying even further his reunion with Kaden, but Kaden would have to fend for himself awhile. Clearly, events had outpaced Valyn since he quit the Islands. There were new stones on the board, and sticking obstinately to an outdated plan was a quick way to get dead.

“An Annurian army on the move could mean one of several things,” he said slowly, passing the long lens to Talal. “It certainly doesn’t exonerate il Tornja for my father’s death. For any of the deaths. In fact, it squares with what Balendin told us.”

Laith stared at him. “An Annurian army headed north means that someone to the north is misbehaving, and unless you think the actual thousand lakes have sloshed out of their beds to march south, that means the Urghul.”

“But according to Long Fist,” Talal observed quietly, “this is all a part of il Tornja’s strategy. It’s easier to justify a transition to military command if there’s a war that needs fighting. He could have murdered Sanlitun and provoked the Urghul, all with the ultimate goal of consolidating his own position.”

“Which means there’ll be more than just one death to lay at his feet,” Valyn added. “If the kenarang ’s forcing a major battle just to keep his seat on the throne, he’ll be killing thousands. Tens of thousands, Urghul and Annurian alike.”

“I’m not sure I want to start laying deaths at feet,” Laith replied. “Not given what we’ve been up to recently.”

“Valyn,” Talal began, long lens fixed on one of the gates in the palisade ringing the town, where a dirt road spilled out into the fields beyond. Valyn had studied it earlier. It was an obvious attack point, and though the loggers had built squat towers to either side, an experienced siege team would force it easily. Valyn squinted. Figures on horseback were emerging from between the wooden walls.

“Who is it?” he asked, turning to Talal.

“What does your sister look like?” the leach asked.

Valyn shook his head. “I don’t know. Tall. Thin. I haven’t seen her in ten years. I was hoping to find a way to talk to her in Annur.…”

“You might get the chance a little early,” Talal said, passing the lens back to Valyn and gesturing toward the valley. “I can’t be certain, but that sure looks like a woman with burning eyes.”

Valyn stared at the leach, then reached over for the lens. There were half a dozen riders, followed by a dozen or so men on foot. It took him a moment to find the range and focus, but when he finally managed it, a figure on horseback leapt into view. She sat her horse proudly, back straight as a spear, but it was clear within heartbeats that she wasn’t really comfortable on her mount; she rode the poor creature as though it were a palanquin, not swaying at all to accommodate the beast’s gait, sitting hard and low in her saddle, as though her legs could no longer hold her up.

Adare .

Despite the long years, he recognized his sister at a glance. Even without Intarra’s eyes, he would have known her. She was older, of course, a woman instead of a girl, but she had the same lean build, the same angularity to her features, the same honey-pale skin-shades lighter than either Valyn’s or Kaden’s, except … He squinted through the lens. It was hard to be certain at the distance, but it looked as though a delicate tattoo ran down one side of her face, a few graceful lines that seemed to glow in the sunlight, starting beneath her hair and swirling down her neck into her robes.

He shifted the lens to consider those robes more fully. His sister finally seemed to have shed the dresses she spent her childhood cursing. The golden cloth of her clothing was rich enough for any princess’s gown, but cut in the austere style of an imperial minister, trimmed at the collars and shoulders with black. The shifting fashions of the Dawn Palace, the subtle social signaling of wardrobe, had never much interested Valyn, but Adare’s clothes spoke of authority, even command. That, and the armed men escorting her.

“What in Ananshael’s sweet name,” he muttered, lowering the long lens, “is Adare doing with an army on the march?”

“Does it matter?” Laith asked. “This is what we wanted, right? She can tell us what’s going on. Forget the old plan. We go to her first, see if Long Fist’s been selling us shit and calling it fruit. Then, if it still comes to taking down the regent, it might help to have a little royalty on our side.”

“Valyn is royalty as well,” Talal pointed out.

Laith snorted. “Valyn’s a traitor, same as the two of us.”

* * *

Watching Adare from the tree line through a long lens was one thing; getting close enough to her to talk quite another. A young soldier on horseback met Valyn’s sister on the road, bowed, face pressed against the pommel of his saddle, straightened up when she waved a hand, talked with her a moment, then bowed again before leading her forward.

Valyn glanced over at the other riders. Just behind his sister rode two soldiers, one, a young warrior with a bronze helm and a stern face that might have been chipped from marble, the other a grizzled Aedolian, hand on the pommel of his broadblade, eyes scanning the surrounding terrain. At Adare’s side rode an old woman and an even older man, both gray-haired and stooped in the shoulders. Valyn didn’t recognize any of them, but they were making straight for the tents of the army encampment.

“Bunking with the troops,” Talal observed. “Good for morale.”

“Not exactly ‘with the troops,’” Laith noted after a pause.

Adare was threading her way through the tents, aiming for the large pavilion at the very center. Her pavilion, Valyn realized, an uneasiness settling in his gut. Not the kenarang ’s.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It would have been easier to get at her in town.”

“We’re not going to be fighting our way into the middle of an encamped Annurian field army,” Talal agreed.

Valyn chewed on the problem as Adare approached her pavilion, pointed at something, then kicked her horse into motion once more. The soldiers bowed as she passed, and Adare nodded back, dismounting before a different tent, one half the size of her own, but still large compared with all the rest. Even in the gathering dark, Valyn could see just fine, but seeing the camp didn’t make it any easier to penetrate. He could watch Adare all he wanted; what he needed was to get close enough to talk.

“Who wants to play dress-up?” Laith asked. “I figure a cook could get into her tent. Or a cleaning slave. Or a whore.”

Valyn shook his head. “You don’t know the Aedolians,” he replied. “They won’t just wave through anyone with a porcelain platter. Those bastards check everyone who enters. Even if I ditch my swords, I’m not sure I’ll pass as a cook. Or a whore.”