Rachel Lee - Shadows of Destiny

“But now you do,” Archer said, nodding. “This will call for leaders who can meld their actions with those of their Anari brethren.”

Tuzza drew a breath. Long had Bozandari command been rooted in bloodlines and patronage. He himself was a minor noble, and a beneficiary of the very system he was now compelled to overhaul. “There are some among my officers and men who will resist and resent any change that does not recognize their heritage. They may resent even more those whose positions remain unchallenged.”

“Such as your own?” Archer asked.

“Precisely,” Tuzza said. “It is not enough for me to direct my men, and then stand above them, testing them. I must put myself to the test as well.”

“Then do so,” Archer said. “For I have no doubt that you will pass this test, and perhaps in the passing of it, restore your own confidence.”

Tuzza shook his head. “No mere test can erase the stain I bear, Lord Archer. Still, there is no other way to prove myself to them. And prove myself I must.”

As Archer left Tuzza’s tent, the problems of the coming war weighed heavily. In its own way, this would be a far more challenging task than those they had faced thus far. Not only must Tuzza find officers who could work with the Anari, but Archer must find Anari officers who could work with the Bozandari. And this promised to be no mean task, especially when one of his chief lieutenants—his longtime companion, Ratha Monabi—was still dark with fury and grief over the death of his brother Giri. Worse, Ratha had watched Giri die, at Tuzza’s own hand.

It was to Ratha’s home that Archer was now going, and he found himself turning over the question of how to broach the topic of Tuzza’s force serving alongside Ratha’s. Ratha was certain to have heard of the events Tess set in motion this morning with her visit to the Bozandari camp. The entire city of Anahar seemed to be abuzz with the news, and the reactions were not wholly positive. Too many Anari had seen their kin enslaved or killed by the Bozandari to forgive easily.

Ratha’s decisions would sway many, Archer knew. And he could not count on a shocking dawn visit by Tess to sway Ratha’s heart, as she had done for the Bozandari. He would have to do this himself, man to man, friend to friend.

“You cannot ask this of me!” Ratha thundered the words at Archer, his usual deference to the man totally gone. “He killed my brother!”

Archer listened, unmoving, offering no response. Ratha had withdrawn for the telzehten—the ritual grieving period—and had come to the wedding only because custom demanded it. Otherwise he remained in a small tent in the foothills at the edge of the Monabi Tel section of Anahar, alone, staring at the scarred and dented armor that had been Giri’s. Such was not unusual among the Anari. They were a long-lived people for whom death had not been an everyday companion, and a period of communion with the soul of the departed was not only accepted but honorable.

It was in Giri’s tent—pitched on a craggy, windswept hilltop—that the two of them stood now, faced off as if they were enemies, rather than friends of many years. The cold of the unnatural winter beat about them as if it would hammer them to the ground. Neither man yielded an inch, and only Archer spared a fleeting thought for how pleasant Anahar should be at this time of year…except for the machinations of Ardred, he who was called Lord of Chaos.

Ratha was clearly past remembering such things. Grief had rent his spirit and soul, had blinded him to the evil they faced, and had left him a husk filled with nothing but pain and fury.

Before Archer’s unwavering, expressionless stare, however, Ratha’s rage could not stand its ground. Muttering an oath, the Anari stormed out of the tent, not stopping until he stood at the edge of a ravine. Ratha kicked a rock over the edge. The wind soon swallowed the clatter of its fall.

Archer had followed Ratha, and now he spoke. “Your brother was my friend, too, Ratha. And if he died by the sword of Tuzza, he died at the hand of the Enemy that stalks us all, the Enemy that brought this war upon us. Will you forget your people and misdirect your rage?”

“Misdirect?” Ratha swung around and glared at him. “My people have been enslaved by the Bozandari for generations. Would you have me forget all that?”

“You cannot forget. I will never ask that of you.”

“What then? Unlike you, I am a mere mortal, and I have lost the other half of myself to the man you now ask me to trust, to march beside with an army of my kinsmen, into battle with other Bozandari.”

“Aye, ’tis true. If blame you need, then blame me. I and my race created yours, and in that act of hubris sowed the seeds for your enslavement. Blame me, Ratha, for I bear more the stain of Giri’s death than Tuzza ever could.”

Ratha’s head jerked back, almost as if he had been slapped. When at last he spoke, his voice was rough, almost hoarse. “You saved Giri and me from slavery. You made us your friends and companions. Am I to forget that?”

“You may as well, as you are determined to forget the Enemy still before us. As you seem determined to forget that we cannot win this war alone.”

Ratha groaned, a sound of anguish and anger that bounced off the nearby rocks. He appeared about to kick another stone over the edge, but his foot paused midswing, as if he were recollecting the bond between his people and the rock. The Anari, and the Anari alone, could hear the voices in the stone. Because they could hear those voices, they appreciated rock as the truly living thing it was. Kicking that stone as he had earlier was a sin among his kind, and he was not about to repeat it.

Instead, he fell to his knees and picked up one of the larger stones that lay scattered about the ledge, having fallen from higher up. He raised it to his cheek, near his ear, and closed his eyes. Tears ran down his dark face, glistening like ice, and one fell upon the rock he held.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

The rock he held responded, glowing faintly.

Archer squatted before him. “You see, Ratha? One must grieve, but one must never forget who he is and the duty he owes to those still living.”

Ratha’s black eyes opened slowly, wet with tears. “You would know, my lord,” he said slowly.

“I have had many years to learn. You have had only a handful. Stay for your telzehten. I would not deny you that, and would expect no less from a brother whose bond I shared. But then you must return to us, for our days of calm are short. Rescuers for Tuzza’s army must already be on the way. Tuzza will send out scouts to find out how long we have. But it will not be very long.”

Ratha nodded slowly as he gently set the rock down. It still glowed, as if his touch had brightened its life. He stroked it with one finger, then looked at Archer.

“I will come,” he said. “Soon.”

“That is all I can ask.”

“Stay with me, my lord. As you said, you shared my bond with Giri. Anari share telzehten only with family, and I have none save you.”

Archer shook his head. “I would that I could, my brother. But the Enemy gives me no time to grieve. There is much to be done, and much that only I can do.”

“I understand,” Ratha said quietly.

“But you do have family apart from me,” Archer said. “Your cousin, Cilla, also grieves for Giri, and for you. I have not asked her, but I am certain she would be honored, and heartened, to share telzehten with you.”

“She has other designs,” Ratha said. “Designs for my heart.”

“Aye,” Archer said. “I will not deny that. And I have designs for you as well, for your mind and your skill as a commander. Yet you would share with me and not with her. Whose designs threaten you more?”