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We spent most of our time since Kienen rode off strategizing what comes after this encounter, but there are still too many unknowns in front of us to make solid plans. All I do know is that I must put aside my plot to march on Cirilea and regain my throne. For the good of Islor, our focus must shift to the rift.
Suddenly, Jarek’s head jerks outward. “Do you hear that?” His ears have always been among the keenest.
Everyone freezes as we listen intently.
“I hear it too,” Elisaf says a second later, just as I catch the faint, familiar sound.
Romeria scowls, frustrated that her kind’s senses aren’t as strong. “What is it?”
“Hooves.” Many of them.
“Look!” She points to a single torch in the far distance. It’s joined by another, and then they multiply. “Is that them?”
“Telor would not ride his men through the night in these mountains.” They would camp with a tight perimeter against any unwanted beasts.
I sense Romeria’s heart racing, a palpable expectation radiating from it, combined with relief. I hope I never lose the ability to read her in that way.
She smiles. “Okay, this is good, then. They’re coming like we asked.”
“As you commanded,” Jarek reminds her and nods his approval.
“Right. I didn’t think they’d listen.”
“Why don’t you give them some added light for their approach to Ulysede’s gates, Romeria?” Gesine coaxes, the caster remaining in the corner. “As we practiced.”
Romeria nods and then steadies her gaze on the nearest woodpile the legionaries and mortals spent the day stacking. A dozen identical piles fan out across the arid plain, strategically placed for our defense as needed.
For several beats, nothing happens.
And then suddenly, it erupts in a burst of flame.
The smile of pride that stretches across Romeria’s beautiful face reminds me of the one she wore the morning I caught her teasing water into waves and chased the nearby ducks from their reed beds. I could spend all day admiring it, if given the opportunity. But now is not that time.
“Let me offer you help.” I pluck a spark from the lantern with my affinity and launch it outward. The barren space erupts in a chain reaction.
“Couldn’t help yourself, huh?” She cuts an annoyed glare my way, earning my chuckle.
“You must conserve your power, Romeria, in case we need it shortly. I suspect we will know quickly whether they come as friend or foe. Gesine?”
“I will be ready, Your Highness, though my shield will hold only so long against that many Ybarisans.”
“Our blades will do the rest,” Abarrane declares. As if the legionaries share one mind, they notch their arrows simultaneously.
There is nothing left to do now but wait and watch.
And hope we have not made a grave mistake.
The cavalry approaches in tight formation. The closer they come, the more it is clear this is not some rabble of warm bodies handed swords and sent across the rift to die. Their clothing is fine and fitted, their weapons gleam from a soldier’s polish, and they carry themselves without any hint of fear.
Someone barks an order, and the rows come to a sudden halt near the charred wagon and hag’s corpse.
“What now?” Romeria whispers, her eyes steady on the faces ahead.
“Now we wait for them to concede. And remember, you rule here. Remind them of that and give them nothing they can share with Neilina. There may be more of them, but we hold the power. And do not allow them inside Ulysede.” Some secrets must be guarded.
Her nod is subtle.
Long moments of staring across from one another in silence pass until, finally, the line parts and several horses move forward—one carries an extra rider, draped in a ratty wool cloak and struggling to sit up. The mangy red beard is unmistakable, even from here.
I sigh with a mixture of relief and dismay.
There is no hint of Iago.
“Open the gate,” Abarrane hisses.
“Commander,” I warn as the metal bars begin to rise. When she doesn’t answer, I step closer. “If you were Radomir and you did not think you’d walk away from this exchange, would you hand over both bargaining chips at once?” At least, I hope that’s the reason for only one returned legionary.
She inhales through her nostrils. “No.”
“Perhaps keep that in focus before you charge out there.”
Kienen breaks through the line of soldiers on his horse. “Help him to the gate!”
The rider with Drakon hops off the horse and attempts to guide him down, but the legionary is too big and too weak, and the Ybarisan struggles to keep him from crumbling.
With a curse, Jarek charges forward to help, passing the threshold without thought. A bad judgment call by Romeria’s commander, driven by loyalty for his friend. He drops to one knee immediately, the need for blood crippling him as it did me the first time I stepped through.
