I am nearer home today.
Than I have ever been before . . .
Phoebe Cary
“Nearer Home”
“The outlanders, your Grace.” The travelers entered the tent on cue.
When they’d arrived at the camp of the Trustee of Glyffa, spread over a high saddle of land above a broad river, Swan had been admitted immediately to the pavilion that was her Liege’s headquarters. Gil, beating dust off himself, saw many wounded around him and concluded that the Sisters of the Line had been mauled. There were about seven thousand of them, not counting however many were farther downslope in the camp of the ousted army of occupied Veganá.
The Trustee turned out to be a slender old woman with an oval face, green eyes, and gray hair shot through with white. She wore no armor, though the women clustered around her did. She was seated, dressed in flowing vestments of springtime colors, gathered at her waist by a broad yellow sash set with lapis lazuli. She held a tall shepherdess’ crook which, Swan had said, was her staff of office. It was inscribed with cursive spell-phrases and curlicued sigils.
She swept them with her gaze. It paused on Angorman and his cockaded hat, but when the Trustee rose, it was to Woodsinger she went, asking to see the baby. Her voice was reedy, but measured. After she’d looked at the child and heard her laugh, she addressed the others.
“Please pardon me. So much strife have I seen these last weeks that I had to take myself a moment to focus on life.” She looked around again. “But, did Swan not say you were five besides the infant?”
Andre wasn’t with them. He’d hung back, at the entrance. The Trustee’s glance found him, and her face lost animation. Swan was as mystified as anyone.
The wizard came slowly into the room and stood before the Trustee. “Greetings, Andre,” she said at last. There was emotional weight to it. “You could not be more desperately needed. You have my gratitude.”
His voice strained. “Phases end, lives converge. This reunion was due . . . Mother.”
She reached out, and he put his hand in hers. Gil saw now how closely the green of her eyes matched Gabrielle’s. He’d heard the deCourteneys’ mother was a famous enchantress, but it had never occurred to him she’d be Trustee. Chairs were brought, and Andre seated to her right. His plump, stubbled face was at peace for the first time in days.
The Trustee turned to her son’s companions. “Pardon us; we have not had one another’s company for—how long, Andre?” Her eyes fell away from his. “Since your Kasara was taken from you.” She sighed. “Foolish anger of the moment, and my fault, I acknowledge it.”
Gil was fitting in the pieces. So Andre had been Kasara’s lover, later her husband. When she’d been executed, when the Bright Lady had imposed her Mandate on Glyffa, Andre must have defied it, exempted himself. The falling-out with his mother had lasted nearly a century.
“And your sister, Andre? I have word from her only very infrequently. Is she well?”
“Quite. And happy, I believe.”
“Then I am content. I worried when she went with you from Glyffa, but knew you two would need one another.”
Angorman cleared his throat; they were all feeling uncomfortable. “The campaign has gone ill, madam?”
“Not well, say rather. Would you not all take somewhat to drink?” They accepted tots of brandy. Swan performed introductions as chairs were brought.
“Your bringing Blazetongue and the heiress is good hearing,” the Trustee declared. “The Veganán commander is due for council. I know he will find this more to his liking.”
Gil was worried about Salamá’s manpower. “How bad are you outnumbered?”
“Badly enough, though we have pruned down the odds a bit since the beginning. Many landings were made on Veganá’s southern coasts. They lost several ports, and the Masters poured in more men. They swept Veganá and hold most of it, if uneasily.”
“Which Southwastelanders are these?” Angorman inquired.
“They are of the Occhlon, once a peaceful race. The Five recruited them through Yardiff Bey; now they are truest fanatics, avid to lay down their lives for the Masters, foremost in the favor of Salamá.
“They took Veganá in four pitched battles. We have fought them twice within our borders, drawing them on. They are eager for us though; I suspect they would relish an opportunity to trounce us rowdy bitches who have emptied so many of their saddles, pour souls.” She shifted her shepherdess’ crook. “This war must be resolved; the Reconciliation is not far off, eh, Swan?”
The High Constable of Region Blue agreed. Hands clasped behind her back, she went to the pavilion’s entrance, her thoughts on her many ideas to improve life in Glyffa for all. “Your legacy will be human weal,” she said to the Trustee at length, “and fulfillment. Your name will live forever.”
Swan stepped back from the entrance, seeing someone coming. A man marched into the tent, the Cornmander of Veganá, Lord Blacktarget. He was barrel-chested, with eyes ringed with proclamations of fatigue. He doffed his helmet, holding it in his left arm. His head was shaved smooth, gleaming in the light. His hand went up to touch back his long mustachios, which were waxed stiff. He wore an unusual blazonry, a red circle with a heart done in jet, like a fencing mark. His broadsword hilt was set with a carnelian-eyed basilisk, and his cloak was stained and muddy from the campaign.
The Trustee rose. “Please welcome new friends, my Lord Blacktarget. They bear best tidings to us all.” The travelers were quickly named.
“What tidings are they?” Blacktarget asked curtly. Andre took the wrappings from Blazetongue. He handed it to the astonished general.
“But—the Sword of Kings. This is past belief! I know it from old songs, but I never thought I—” His gaze caressed the blade, then suspicion showed on his face. “From whence comes it?”
“Sword and owner found their way to one another,” Andre said, “in a time of convergences.”
“Yes, but how?” Andre’s words suddenly penetrated. “Owner, did you say? The Princess has been found?”
Woodsinger came forward. In the middle of the drama the baby had fallen asleep. Blacktarget’s shock was visible. “Stolen the night her parents were killed,” he recalled, “but I have held the Princess Cynosure myself, and I know her. Note the shape of her ear. It is indisputably Cynosure. How many prayers entreated for our sovereign and our symbol of fortune at war?”
He took a seat, unsettled, even while he exulted. “These are the things I need, at the moment I need them. Now will Veganá triumph.” He jumped up again, his arms wide over Cynosure, so the shadow of Blazetongue fell across her. “Blacktarget the fool! The fates have thrown back the night, just when I despaired most!” He swung around, laughing, impetuous enough in that moment to catch up the Trustee and give her a hug; they’d had their share of disagreements during the campaign. She stopped him with a little ahem!, and he sobered.
“Stories are to be told, I think,” she said.
There was jubilation in the camp of Veganá. Lord Blacktarget had gone before them holding the baby and Blazetongue, basking in their hurrahs. But the Southwastelanders were moving up, and the next day would bring battle.
While the Veganáns were cheering Blacktarget, the Trustee was telling Swan and the company. “They shall need all their fervor tomorrow. The enemy has more horse than we, some of it heavily armored warriors like knights of Coramonde. I pray we will see Sword and Princess in their appointed place. Andre is right; there are vast forces moving those two toward Veganá, for reasons that we do not fully understand.”
Angorman averred, “The Order of the Axe will work to that, and you may rely upon my help tomorrow.” Andre and Ferrian seconded him.
Gil was smoothing up a diplomatic way to steer clear of the impending battle. “What if it’s a decoy? Bey’s used sorcery trying to get at the baby and sword. Why not again?”
Andre, Swan and the Trustee became grave. The High Constable beckoned him, saying, “Come, I shall show you the disposition of the camp, and where you may shelter.”
She led him to the northern face of the hill. He waited, knowing he’d committed a gaffe, but not seeing how. She began, “You know of Gabrielle, Andre’s sister? Good, and you are familiar with the details of her parentage?”
“Springbuck told me something about it, the Ku-Mor-Mai, that is. Her father was Yardiff Bey, right?”
“Before the Mandate, long before she was Trustee, the deCourteneys’ mother was an enchantress, an aristocrat of Glyffa. She took for husband the man whose name Gabrielle and Andre bear, the first deCourteney, who came from Outside, a different place and time, as you did. He had some talent in magic. To make the tale quick, he grew jealous; he was the lesser magician and she the enchantress paramount.
“Dissatisfied, he closed an infernal contract. He was deluded, and his forfeiture was to be his soul. But an alternative was granted, that he could escape if he yielded his wife and her favors for a night. Her love must have been strong; she agreed. Gabrielle was begat. As you say, it was discovered later that the succubus who fathered Gabrielle was Yardiff Bey in a borrowed shape, furthering his plans.
“Gabrielle has been in communication with her mother. The Trustee is aware now that it was the Hand of Salamá who ill-used her.”
Gil interrupted, “I got all that. I’m sorry I brought it up to her, but the question remains. How do we know Bey’s not moving around Glyffa already?”
“Do you not see? During that poisoned union the Trustee listened and observed the inner workings of his sorcery. She heard his oaths, the Powers he invoked. She learned the concealed lines of promise and commitment. In a contest of spell and counterspell, she would have a weighty advantage by that, for she has penetrated her enemy’s most guarded activities. Bey would not much care to face her here, I am certain, or even come nigh in Cloud Ruler. This is Glyffa, where all hearts and minds serve the Bright Lady, and his might is less here.”
Gil digested that. “What about someplace else? Could she beat him outside Glyffa?”
“That is moot. They would be close-matched, but the Trustee is old, old beyond anyone’s reckoning, and weary. In Glyffa no foe could stand against her, but outside—well, I pray it is not tested.”
“Swan, d’you think Bey is with the Southwastelanders?”
“It might be so. There is such a stench of the Masters hanging over them that the Hand could be among them and not be detected even by the Trustee. It may be that he directs them, to retake the sword and the child and break asunder the focal point of the Bright Lady’s influence, at once.”
The former sergeant saw he’d have to hang on with the Glyffans. Cynosure and Blazetongue were important to Bey, and now the Southwastelanders had suddenly driven deep into the Crescent Lands. What could that mean, except that Yardiff Bey was out to recover them? Could that mean Dunstan the Berserker was being held somewhere close by?
Staring, thinking, Gil spied a motley collection of shabby tents to the north. A constant trickle of people was coming up from the plain below the camp, adding to the makeshift village. He asked who they were.
“Displaced persons, flying before the Occhlon,” Swan explained.
“Have they been checked out?”
“Lord Blacktarget has men posted on the plain, and in the mountains. He says no Southwastelander could masquerade and fool Crescent Landers; their accents are too barbarous and their stink too conspicuous.”
“Do you feel like betting on it?”
“We cannot leave them on the plain; when the sun rises it will be a battleground. See, there is even a troupe of wandering entertainers among them.”
There was a ludicrous clown, a red-clad acrobat, and a fire-eater. A fat brown bear danced, and a tall, skeletally lean juggler kept a fountain of knives and apples going.
“Worry not, they will be watched tonight. By tomorrow they will have decamped. None of them want to be near the encounter that will come with the sun.”
Yeah, he told himself, resigned that he had to stick around, neither do I.
Since the army was short on horses, Gil was requested to serve as a courier. He was no expert rider, but it suited him better than direct involvement. Angorman and Woodsinger yielded their horses to others, she to remain under guard with little Cynosure in the Veganán camp, he to command a company of infantry from Veganá whose captain had been killed. Ferrian, for reasons of his own, declined to follow any banner, but would serve with the orderlies whose job was to drag the wounded from battle and get them to medical stations at the rear. It was risky work; orderlies were themselves often cut down in the heat of the struggle.
Andre was another question, the only living Glyffan male who’d seen combat. He was a seasoned leader, aside from talents of magic. Reconsidering the Mandate, the Trustee admitted Andre had always been exempt from its bans. He was placed over a squadron of heavy cavalry, to ride before a Glyffan flag for the first time in nearly a century.
Dawn came chilly and hazy. Gil reported to the Trustee’s pavilion after a restless night. It was swarming with officers and functionaries, and High Constables with capes colored for their Regions in red, yellow, brown and gray.
The Trustee sat across a little table from Swan, both of them ignoring the hubbub, playing chess as if they were alone, and this an idle day. The chesspieces were large and topped by little lighted candles. The game was going rapidly, moves coming with unusual haste, with little or no lag between. Swan’s hair was pinned up, to fit her bascinet; her armor glinted from diligent polishing.
An aide stepped in Gil’s way, demanding his business. The Trustee looked up, saying he could be admitted. She asked if Woodsinger and Cynosure were guarded; he said they were, in the tent of Blacktarget himself. “What are the candles for?”
Sunrise wasn’t far off. The two women began snuffing out the flames. Swan explained. “It is a variation developed by the Trustee. When a candle goes out, its piece is eliminated from the game. Wicks are of assorted duration, and we pick which pieces get which lifespans at random, except that the king goes untimed.”
“Sounds like a fast game.”
“Verily,” she replied, moving her chair back, “and a martial one. It has the merciless pressure of time, an uncaring randomness and rude unpredictability.”
The Trustee was on her feet now. “I enjoyed that, my dear; it is helpful to put one’s concerns aside. You are becoming good at this wildcard game. How much do you owe me?”
“More than I can pay. But this time I shall win.”
The Trustee patted her arm. “I shall checkmate you in three moves when we return, you have my promise. If not, consider us even.”
“Done.”
The old woman took up the crook of her office. People in the tent became totally attentive. “Each of you has her particular instructions,” she saidt “and if you but keep them in mind, all will be well.” She lifted the crook. Everybody but Gil bowed to receive her benediction. As she recited the blessing her eye caught the American’s. He dipped his head to her once, politely. Gravely, she winked in return.
Then everyone was moving. Swan went past, bidding him good fortune hastily. Someone shoved an armload of hardware into his hands. He found himself holding a lance of polished ebony and a shield of brightly painted leather, rimmed and studded with iron, bearing the Trustee’s device of a green unicorn. There was also a pair of greaves, rusty ones whose dark stains suggested their previous owner hadn’t been very lucky.
He was about to protest; he’d be no match for an experienced opponent. Then he saw that he could throw the stuff away if he wanted, and—who knew?—he might need it. Outside, he buckled the greaves on clumsily, took the lance and tested its balance. His muscles tensed unconsciously, ready for impact. He felt a twinge of the ferocity that had filled him in Dulcet’s hall.
The conjoined armies were drawn up, waiting. There was movement far out across the plain, the Occhlon leaving their camp and taking up positions.
Lord Blacktarget and the men of Veganá were to take the right flank, stretching down to the river’s side. The general could be seen haranguing his men, waving Blazetongue, though he intended to leave the sword behind.
The left flank, to be anchored at the foot of the slopes, was under Swan. She had two thousand troops, mostly light cavalry and archers, backed by four companies of pikewomen.
Gil watched the Occhlon assembly writhing its way into order. He couldn’t see much, except that there seemed to be an awful lot of them. The Trustee called for her horse; she would command the center herself. The women closest to her repeated the call. They were all veteran commanders, wily fighters.
He mounted Jeb Stuart and trailed the Trustee and her knot of advisors and aides to her position at the center. They passed through ranks of waiting soldiers of both sexes, who resembled those he’d known in his own world, in a way. Young, worried, they were examining their feelings, thinking ten thousand thoughts of how the day would go. He caught snatches of conversation. “What should I do if—”; “Suppose my enemy comes at me so—”; “The grip of the lance is the thing, remember it and you will be—”
He passed squatting pike-bearers and straight-backed lancers, and ranks of nervous sword-and-buckler infantry anticipating the order to shield-lock. The Trustee was greeted with some cheers, but more silence. This army had lost before and might again today, portents or no portents. These were all people who would die if it did.
The Trustee took her place on slightly higher ground, her green unicorn banner nearby. She took one last look right, left and behind, then raised her crook. Trumpets blared around him, and Gil’s belly twisted. The entire army began a slow walking pace across the plain. Early-morning stillness left battle pennons limp on staffs and spears. He wiggled the lance to seat it in its rest. His hands were damp; his heart banged in his chest. He hated the idea of a large-scale clash, where he could get himself wasted from any direction.
The enemy stepped off with crashing cymbals and thundering drums. Gil noticed that the point of his lance was bobbing around and realized he’d crouched in the saddle and clamped it to his side in anticioation. If he actually had to use it, a rigid grip would spoil his aim. He sat erect again. His fingers flexed at the enarmes of his shield.
The enemy stopped when their right flank, facing Swan and her Sisters of the Line along the slope, came to high ground of its own. Then the Occhlon center advanced to stand and form a salient point. The men at the river bank, fronting Lord Blacktarget, stayed put. The river ran swiftly, deeply at this point, offering no fording place for miles, and that was one of the reasons for which the Trustee had chosen this spot.
Both sides halted. They exchanged challenges of a sort, soaring horn blasts of the Crescent Lands and cymbals and drums of the Southwastelanders. Then there was silence, and for the next ten minutes nothing happened at all.
Gil knew this was common in the Crescent Lands; these were people who trusted in defense, fortification, armor, shields. They preferred to let their opponents make the first move. He fidgeted as sweat ran down from the padded brim of his cap.
The Trustee conferred with her privy councilors. Finally, she ordered: “Archers forward.” There was no need for riders to carry the word this early, when trumpets could be heard and movements clearly seen. All along the lines of the North, bowmen and bowwomen stepped out, limbering strings, drawing shafts. The battle’s first phase had started.