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Chapter 5:
Shroud of Feathers


I


Under the shade of a tall cypress, Antires knelt at the cook fire, stirring the sliced onions and cabbage as they sizzled on the black skillet. A woodlark, perched in the branches above, warbled cheerily. For all that it had been a long, warm day of travel, the young playwright looked content.

But Hanuvar glowered as he stomped up beside him.

“I don’t believe it,” Antires said, and with a wooden spoon almost as brown as the hand that gripped it, pushed a darkening slice of onion to the skillet’s edge. He reached for the flask of olive oil.

His gray horse, picketed beside Hanuvar’s bay roan, looked up from where he was busily nibbling grass and snorted, as if expressing his own disfavor.

“No?” Hanuvar straightened, casting off the illusion of anger and age like a cloak. “You asked me to look mad.”

Antires finished dribbling in more oil, then set the flask down and stirred the vegetables. “You were carrying yourself like a weak man, but when I asked you to show anger, it was the rage of someone confident. When you play a character, you have to remember what their story is.”

Hanuvar’s own folly amused him. Always be ready to learn, his father had said, no matter your teacher. He had too quickly equated the playwright’s youth with lack of knowledge.

Hanuvar sketched a bow. “Shape the clay, potter.”

“Stick out your lip so you look like you’re pouting. You’re resentful, not ready to kill.”

Hanuvar hunched his shoulders and imitated a lazy soldier turned out from bed for the watch.

“That’s better. Maybe too much pouting, though. Don’t aim for the back row. Small expressions. You don’t want to be challenging in your anger. Oh, yes. That’s—” Antires quieted as Hanuvar raised a palm.

The woodlark had gone silent and the horses lifted their heads and pricked their ears. Hanuvar turned, hand to the pommel of the gladius at his waist. He had rid himself of the Naratan blade, which was too distinctive. He heard the scuff of a sandal from the shaded dirt path to the road.

Hanuvar was waiting with bared sword when a trio of men advanced from the encircling trees. The two carrying hunting spears were stocky with middle age. The third was a lean youth with a bulbous nose, and he brandished a pitchfork.

Two more men crashed through the brush to the south, and three others stepped through a screen of cedars to the north.

Antires pulled his skillet off the coals and joined Hanuvar, blade unsheathed. He made a brave figure, and those approaching would be unlikely to guess he only mimicked a blademan’s stance.

A bald man with thick black eyebrows came to the forefront of the intruding band, brandishing his sword as he spoke with a snarl. “Drop the swords if you know what’s good for you.”

Hanuvar answered without lowering his weapon. “If you want them, come and take them.”

That didn’t seem to be the answer the bald man expected. He shifted uncomfortably.

“What have you done with Tura?” the boy with the pitchfork demanded. His fingers tightened on the weapon’s haft.

“We know nothing of a Tura,” Hanuvar replied.

“You must have us confused with someone else,” Antires suggested in a honeyed tone. “We’re just passing through.”

The strangers fidgeted and looked to the bald man. He scowled. “You’re lying. She came this way. You’ve killed her, and kept the bird for yourself.”

“We don’t have any birds,” Antires said. “Or women.”

From further down the trail the jingle of reins and the stamp of hooves grew louder. The intruders relaxed visibly and Hanuvar guessed their real leader was almost here.

He found a measure of solace in what the men had said so far, for this confrontation apparently had nothing to do with his hidden identity. Rumors about his return to Dervan lands would inevitably spread, but so far he and Antires seemed to have outsped them.

That didn’t mean there was no danger. The men who’d surrounded them had the wary, nervous manner of a potential lynch mob. One on one they were hesitant, even cowardly, but the right nudge might launch the group of them into murderous fury. Right now their intent wavered, and Hanuvar sensed their next action would be shaped by the approaching rider.

Only a few moments later a young soldier reined in a splendid gray at the clearing’s edge. He wore legionary mail and tunic with the white pteruges of an optio. A sword was girded at his waist, and in amongst his saddlebags was a clutch of javelins.

Hanuvar felt the brush of the optio’s eyes, steady and searching. They didn’t light with any particular concern or recognition, further reassurance that this intrusion had nothing to do with him personally. The officer considered Antires before addressing the mob in a mild voice. “What are you doing, Cerka?”

The bald man pointed to them with his free hand. “We found these men here, right in the path. They have to know!”

The optio’s mouth turned down in displeasure, and then he faced Hanuvar. “State your names, travelers. Tell me where you’re from and where you’re bound.”

Hanuvar lowered his sword but didn’t sheathe it. “I am Artus,” he answered, “late of the Third Cohort of the Mighty Sixth.”

The optio nodded as if Hanuvar’s words had confirmed a suspicion. “What rank did you muster out from, Artus?”

“Centurion.”

The optio nodded his head once, in respect. “I am Optio Lucian Silvi.” He almost sounded apologetic as he continued: “Do you have your discharge papers?”

“In my pack. I’d share them, if these men weren’t ready to skewer me when I lower my sword.”

“There’ll be no skewering. Your companion?”

Antires answered easily. “I’m Starik, his nephew. And we’re bound for Tonsta. We come from Iltri. And we don’t know anything about this Tura the boy was shouting about.”

“They’re lying!” the young man with the pitchfork cried.

One of the crowd muttered his agreement and Cerka began to talk. Their voices were drowned out by the optio. “They have horses,” the young officer said curtly. “Did any of you happen to notice horse tracks before this?”

The men traded uncertain glances.

Cerka frowned, his heavy brows drooping. “They could be hiding her.”

“Or,” the optio said, “they were traveling the main road on their horses, and stopped off at a campsite to eat, at supper time. Like normal men who have nothing to do with Tura.”

Hanuvar was privately impressed; Lucian Silvi had delivered just the right note of dry exasperation. Now the optio put a snap in his voice as he looked to the villagers. “Lower your weapons.”

The crowd objected, the pitchfork-laden boy expostulating loudest.

“Now,” Lucian said, steel in his voice.

When all eight of the men complied, the optio looked wordlessly to Hanuvar, who sheathed his own blade. Antires did the same.

The optio nudged his horse forward. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see your papers.”

Hanuvar stepped to his pack and pulled them from an inside pocket. If necessary, he could have produced different identity records, courtesy of stamps he’d liberated from the Dervan officer’s compound on the Isles of the Dead, but these, complete with an appropriate imprint, showed that he’d mustered out three months before with the rank of centurion, after twenty-five years of service. Lucian scanned them, surely noting the detailed duty record, including two demerits and three commendations for valor.

He returned the papers. “Thank you, Centurion. I serve with the Indomitable Seventh, Fourth Cohort.”

Much of the Seventh, Hanuvar knew, was scattered along the coast, its individual cohorts enforcing law in the smaller settlements. “Where’s the rest of your unit?”

“My second’s in town nursing a twisted ankle. The rest of my men are hunting sheep rustlers. I’ve had to lean on these men for aid. We’re tracking a missing young woman and we’re short on qualified help.”

Hanuvar knew what that final statement meant. In moments, Lucian could order him and Antires to assist. But the legionary was being polite to someone he had accepted not only as a fellow soldier, but a seasoned veteran.

“We’ll be glad to help, if you’ll have us,” Hanuvar said. Any other reply would have provoked suspicion. And no matter how much he chafed at delay, suspicion was something he could not afford.

“The legion thanks you for your aid,” the optio said formally to them both. One of the members of the mob handed his spear to Cerka and wandered away into the brush beyond the campsite.

Antires watched the bearded man’s departure, then spoke to the young soldier. “What’s happened to the woman? And what’s this about a bird?”

“She was abducted,” the young man said bitterly. He leaned against his pitchfork, driven into the ground beside him. “And she had our lucky bird with her.”

Hanuvar had never before heard of a village with a lucky bird but said nothing as Lucian explained further.

“That’s what some of them think. But there’s no sign of a struggle.”

“She’s lost her mind with grief so was an easy target,” Cerka asserted, still scowling.

“What do you think, Optio?” Hanuvar asked.

The legionary hesitated before offering his own interpretation. “Her mother, the village priestess, died suddenly this morning and Tura didn’t take it well.”

The bearded man spoke to them from the campsite edge. “It looks as though she passed through here, but she pressed on south. Toward the fens.”

The campsite was clearly a frequent stopover point for travelers, but Hanuvar had seen no recent footprints when they’d arrived a half hour ago. While he supposed it was just possible a skilled tracker could have seen something he’d missed, he was troubled by a significant look passed between the bearded man and Cerka because he couldn’t tell what it meant.

The optio seemed oblivious to the interplay. His heavy lips turned down. “Surely she’d have the sense to keep away from there.”

“Not if she’s gone mad with grief,” Cerka said.

“Let’s pray she’s not that mad.” Lucian turned to Hanuvar with a rueful smile. “This may be soggy work, Centurion.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” Hanuvar answered. “Let’s go find her.”



II


As the dark of evening gathered in the trees, they advanced into the muddy fens, and at Hanuvar’s suggestion, Antires returned with the horses, their own three and the optio’s gray, to camp on firmer ground. Twilight was near, but neither the optio nor the men he led seemed inclined to abandon their quarry. The bearded Tibron advanced into the long grasses, the earth squishing beneath his sandaled feet. Beautiful violet flowers drooped on shoulder high stalks.

The fens were both lovely and deceptive, for solid ground was almost indistinguishable from deep sink holes, especially in the twilight. The grasses grew to the same height regardless of the earth’s solidity. Biting insects swarmed and heavily thorned vegetation tore at exposed flesh. Fanged reptiles, disease-bearing rodents, and larger hunters likely frequented these environs. Hanuvar thought survival chances were thin for anyone unprepared to traverse such a place alone. They might find their quarry retreated to some dry piece of land to starve or collapse in fever, or she could be lost forever, drowned, or thoroughly consumed by the region’s carnivores.

The optio ordered them to advance in two lines just in sight of each other. As the gloom deepened, they reached a region thick with bramble and cedar, rising above channels of knee-deep water. The optio, leading Hanuvar’s group, carried a lantern, as did Cerka, behind Tibron, the tracker leading the other line. Their lights slashed through the building darkness and glittered on the dark water.

Tibron occasionally peered at the rare patch of muddy high ground or the way the marsh grass bent. More often he touched something hidden in the fold of his tunic. Once, Hanuvar heard a faint crackling as Tibron clasped his garment, the noise just audible above the incessant drone of the fen’s countless, unseen amphibians. Twice he’d spotted small broken feathers left in the tracker’s wake. He couldn’t identify the kind of feather, or, more importantly, explain Tibron’s actions, and he decided not to inquire. Not yet.

Hanuvar’s doubt over the tracker’s skill flowered fully when they crossed a spur of dry land and Tibron walked blindly past a distinctive mark. Hanuvar bent to confirm his suspicion, grimly noting the print of claws at the end of a heavy foot pressing down sodden leaves. Something had passed through the mud, dragging a long tail behind it.

The optio doubled back through the cool, calf-deep water to check on him. “What is it?” he asked. Lucian had shed his helmet, and without it his youth was more evident. Surely he wasn’t much older than twenty-two.

“Saathra,” Hanuvar answered. “And the marks are fresh.” He stood. “If there are saathra here, it’s suicide to continue. It’s hard enough to spot them in daylight. Your Tura may already be done for.”

The optio ran a hand through short, thick hair, his heavy chin outthrust. “She’s a smart young woman. She’ll keep to the high ground.” He sounded as if he spoke more from hope than conviction.

“Then we seek her in the morning,” Hanuvar suggested.

The tracker called back to them. “Hurry up! We’re gaining on her!”

“Just a little longer,” the optio said, almost as if begging permission.

“Have these men gone this deep into the fens before?” Hanuvar asked.

The optio’s frown showed he thought he understood Hanuvar’s concern. “We’ll be careful,” he promised.

They pressed on, and Hanuvar went unhappily with them. He instructed the villagers to watch for movement in the water, though in the failing light that would be a challenge.

As they splashed away from one small hillock and on for another, they startled a herd of long-legged deer, whose eyes glowed redly with reflected lantern light. The creatures took stock of the oncoming humans then fled, their hooves pulling up phosphorescent muck as they splashed off, so that a green trail pointed the way after them.

Hanuvar and the men advanced into waist-deep water. Something heavy slapped into his leg and only his training kept him from panic. A large animal surged past him and he called warning as he turned to seek it. A heartbeat later the boy with the pitchfork, struggling through the dark water, stiffened and screamed.

The water foamed as the youth tottered, and Hanuvar glimpsed a muscular blackish form writhing beneath the surface. The boy stabbed wildly with his pitchfork, and the weapon lodged in the muck, standing at a slant. He opened his mouth in another scream, then was jerked under.

One man struck the water with his sword. Heart racing, Hanuvar seized the pitchfork and searched the churning water, but could neither see nor feel a target. He stepped back, scanning for the boy and the saathra, and for others of its ilk.

The rest of the band scrambled up a muddy bank, save for the optio, wading forward with a spear.

The water behind the soldier erupted, and Hanuvar lunged past him to jam the pitchfork at a shovel-shaped reptilian head. The tines bit deep, and the water darkened. The wounded monster flailed in agony, tearing the weapon from Hanuvar’s grasp.

“Go!” Hanuvar cried. For where there was one saathra, and blood, more were likely.

He and the optio lurched toward dry ground, and Hanuvar heard the splash of something following even as the figures on the bank pointed past them and shouted in alarm.

Neither he nor the young soldier turned to look. Three of the men leaned out from tree trunks along the slope, hands outthrust. Hanuvar floundered forward, certain now all his plans would come to naught and he’d be torn to pieces in the water. But somehow he scrambled up the muddy slope, over a tangling tree root and into the hands of Tibron, who helped him up the slope. The optio, panting, stood beside Hanuvar. They exchanged a glance, then looked down at the frothing water surging with serpentine forms.

Hanuvar pointed to a little rise at the center of the high ground. “That’s where we’ll make camp. Let’s hope it stays dry, because we’ll need a fire through the night. And watchmen who’ll stay alert. Those things might crawl up for dessert.”



III


Once the fire blazed, they shared a meal that was an odd mix of flattened, mushy meat and half-pulped fruit. The bread had to be discarded. The two men in charge of carrying supplies had stumbled, soaking and squashing the food.

The night was haunted with the calls of fen creatures. Not only did the men hear the whine of insects and the croak of frogs, there were stranger sounds, low and mournful, high and chittering, even one that sounded like a cross between a mad dog and a laughing child.

After sharing a few words about the dead young man, they had fallen silent, warming their feet and footgear at the fireside.

After a time, the optio spoke quietly to Hanuvar. “The Mighty Sixth. You must have seen action in the war against Hanuvar, then.”

“I did,” Hanuvar said, in a tone that he hoped would discourage further questions. He had chosen the sixth for his cover because he’d interacted so often with its men. Spies and informants and occasional parleys had given him a fair knowledge of the names and the behaviors, as well as the appearance, of many of its officers and most prominent soldiers.

“Hanuvar,” Cerka repeated, and Hanuvar fought from starting at the sound of his own name. He slowly looked over to Cerka, noting a splatter of mud along his bald pate. “I guess he wasn’t nearly as much of a tough bastard as they said, huh?” Cerka asked. “I hear he screamed like a little girl when they killed him.”

That confirmed what he’d earlier guessed: these men knew only about his supposed death, not his survival. Good.

“Did you ever see him?” one of the other men asked.

“A few times,” Hanuvar answered.

“What did he look like?” This question came from Tibron. The bearded tracker sat on a stone beside Cerka.

“He was tall with jet black hair and a beard.” Hanuvar traced a finger along the side of his face. “He had a wicked scar down one cheek, and an eye patch. I knew the man that tossed the spear that did that to him.”

Sooner or later word of his survival would reach every corner of the empire, and if he could sow confusion about his actual appearance, so much the better. But he wasn’t interested in talking about either real or imagined versions of himself. “I think it’s time you men were honest about how you’re tracking Tura.”

Cerka’s eyes hardened. “What makes you think we’re not being honest?”

Tibron tensed, and the rest of the villagers stilled, watching closely.

“Because he’s not an idiot,” the optio answered, then faced Hanuvar. “You’ve seen him breaking the feathers, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

Cerka scowled. “He shouldn’t be sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“The centurion’s here of his own free will,” the optio reminded them. “He’s helping us find Tura, and he risked his life holding off the saathra while you heroes climbed to safety. So I think you owe him the truth.”

Cerka’s scowl deepened, but he fell silent. The other men looked shamefacedly away.

Tibron turned over a hand. “Life in our village has been tough for years. A lot of men died in the war, so we haven’t had enough hands to work the farms.”

A long-faced man nodded his agreement. “We got hit by a drought. All spring long. It would rain on villages a half day away, but not us. Things just kept getting worse as our priestess grew sicker and sicker. It felt like we were cursed.”

The optio got to the point. “Cerka found a blue egret at the edge of the fens.”

Hanuvar couldn’t hold back his surprise. He’d heard legends of the azure birds and the mystical powers associated with their plumage, but he’d never seen one. “I thought those were a myth,” he said.

“It was the real thing.” For once, Cerka was animated and almost smiling. “I couldn’t believe it. Its wing was injured, so I took it back to the village to get it healed. Things turned around on the instant. It started raining that afternoon. In two days our crops were growing.”

“I swear, even the sheep grew fluffier coats.” Tibron solemnly lifted his hand. “That’s why some rustlers nabbed them. All it took was one week. Everything got better.”

“Except for the priestess,” the optio reminded them.

Tibron sagged. “It seemed like she was going to rally. She’d been sick for weeks.”

“She died,” Cerka said. “And when she did, her daughter ran off.”

“I thought there were kidnappers,” Hanuvar said.

“I saw some shifty strangers around the village last night,” Cerka explained. “And I thought some might be after the egret.”

Lucian turned to Hanuvar. “I told them from the start I thought she’d just run off. But your camp was in the way, and Cerka here was afraid someone wanted the egret for themselves.”

“Not just me,” Cerka objected.

Hanuvar cut him off. “Why would she run off?”

Tibron answered. “The egret wasn’t getting better. It kept losing feathers. And that upset the priestess, who declared before her death it must be returned to the wild.”

Cerka scoffed. “We were taking good care of it.”

“Maybe you were and maybe you weren’t,” Lucian said. “Tura didn’t think so. I’m pretty certain at this point she just decided to take the bird away herself.”

“Why didn’t you just use the magic feathers to heal the bird and the priestess?” Hanuvar asked.

Tibron opened his hands. “We tried that. The wishes aren’t all powerful. It’s as if you can only win one roll of the dice, not an entire game, if you know what I mean. I can tell which way Tura’s going, but the feather doesn’t keep leading me to her. I have to keep checking to find her.”

“And you break them to make them work?”

“Yes. I kind of found that out by accident. I tripped and stepped on one when I made a wish.” Tibron chuckled. Some of the others laughed.

“We’re short on feathers,” Cerka said. “But if we keep the egret, we’ll still have general blessings. The rain, the sheep—that happened before we had to break any feathers. Just having it around makes things better. And we can collect any feathers it drops and keep them for emergencies.”

“So are you here to bring back the woman, or the bird?” Hanuvar asked.

Scanning their faces, he thought he saw an obvious dividing line. Many, like Cerka, were desperate for the egret. Others, like Tibron, were concerned about both. Perhaps only Lucian was more worried for Tura.

After an uncomfortable silence, they spoke over one another about how much they loved the young lady, whom they’d known since she was an infant, but they knew their lie was exposed, and the conversation was forced and awkward until the optio assigned them shifts and ordered those not on sentry duty to grab sleep.

Late that night Hanuvar finished his watch and lay down, one of the men’s spare shirts rolled under his head for a pillow. He’d wakened Lucian after him. By agreement they’d taken the watches in the night depths, trusting their abilities more than those of the other men.

The legionary walked the perimeter, then sat on a boulder near the camp’s edge. The rest lay close to the low burning campfire, each stretched out in the sound sleep of the exhausted. A few of them snored. All was dark beyond them, the deep black of the hidden places of the world, where trees crowded heavily upon one another and lifted leaf- and vine-heavy limbs toward the heavens. The night creatures still chirruped. Moonlight streamed down through breaks in the canopy, silvering the odd branch.

“I can see the moonlight on your eye, Artus,” Lucian said quietly to Hanuvar. “You’re still awake.”

“Yes,” Hanuvar admitted. He turned his head to the dark figure seated near him.

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t call out Cerka sooner,” the optio said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think he made up that story about kidnappers because he wanted more of us to go in with him. Maybe he’s eager to hold onto that lucky bird, but a lot of us do care about Tura.”

“I was thinking about my daughter,” Hanuvar said, surprised by his own admission.

“Oh,” Lucian remarked with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Where is she?”

Hanuvar didn’t know what the Dervan legions had done with Narisia, and whether she was alive or dead. He didn’t say that, but he kept his answer truthful. “I’m on my way to find her. Really, I’m heading for a kind of reunion, and I hope she’ll be there.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“I’m not sure she’s still alive,” Hanuvar said. “My family’s scattered. Because of the war.”

“I’m sorry,” the optio said with sincerity. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I’ll pray you find her,” the optio said.

Hanuvar wondered what the young man would say if he knew he would be offering prayers for one of the Cabera family, long feared by the empire’s leaders. Regardless of who made religious appeals, they were probably in vain, for his family had almost certainly been exterminated with most of his people.

At the faint whisper of movement through the grass to the south, Hanuvar sat up, turning his head at the same time Lucian shifted.

A figure advanced from the gloom and on through the grass, uncannily passing without disrupting the din of the fen. She stopped just short of them, a thin barefoot woman. Her stola was hitched high, revealing muscular calves. She possessed a receding chin and a long, small-nostriled nose with an upward tilt. Her neck was long and graceful, her almond-shaped eyes luminous and large, her carriage self-assured. Hanuvar could not decide if she were homely or strangely beautiful. Perhaps she was somehow both, and as he witnessed the optio’s silent regard, he understood that here was a face the right person might never tire of gazing upon.

“Don’t wake the others,” she said in a hushed voice.

“Thank the gods you’re safe, Tura,” the optio said, his sincerity suggesting a regard greater than any dutiful servant of the empire held for an ordinary citizen.

Hanuvar thought he detected an answering light in Tura’s own eyes, but her expression grew somber. “You must lead them away,” she said. “It won’t be safe for them if they follow much longer.”

“It’s not safe out here for anyone, including you.” Lucian started forward. He halted when the young woman immediately retreated.

“I’ll come back,” she promised, “but not until I’ve returned the egret to his home.”

“Can’t you just release him here and now?”

Her brow wrinkled in consternation. “I’m taking him to sacred land. He’s in bad condition and I’m not sure even the spirit stone will save him. Cerka’s been plucking him.”

Lucian scowled. “I should have realized that.”

“The egret’s part of the spirit world,” Tura said. “And if you abuse a spirit, you invoke nature’s wrath. I’m returning him to his home since he cannot fly there himself. It’s the right thing to do. And I’ll pray the spirits will be merciful to our village.”

“I’ve met my share of spirits,” Hanuvar said. The two faced him in puzzlement, as if they’d forgotten he was standing to one side. “Do you know what you’re walking into? They may demand a price.”

“A wrong was done by my people,” Tura stated with quiet dignity. “I am my mother’s daughter, and she was their shepherd. First I shall return the egret. Then I will learn what the gods would have of me.”

Cerka lunged up in a crouch from Tura’s left, hands outstretched. A vine tripped him, and he landed flat on his stomach. His breath left him in an explosive grunt.

The woman gasped and back stepped.

“Stop her!” Cerka cried. “You can’t let her take the bird back!” He struggled to rise.

Lucian reached out too late, for Tura was running at full speed and quickly vanished into the darkness. Hanuvar was reminded of the grace of the fen deer.

Cerka pushed to his feet. Others of their expedition rose groggily.

The bald leader shook his finger at the optio. “Why didn’t you do something to stop her?”

Lucian glowered. “I’m trying to think of a good reason I shouldn’t beat you to a pulp. And all I can come up with is I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty.”

“But she’s going to take the beast back!” Cerka’s outrage rose in a whine “You heard her! You’re the village officer! It’s your job to protect us!”

“That’s what she’s trying to do.” Hanuvar stepped up beside the legionary. “How many feathers have you plucked?

Cerka looked startled. “The bird was losing feathers. We didn’t pluck any.”

“You’re a bad liar, Cerka,” Lucian told him. “Which did you want more—fame for being savior of the village, or the power the feathers give you?”

“Go easy on him,” Tibron said. “You know how it was.”

“I know how it is now,” Lucian said. “Tura’s off there alone in the darkness. The spirits are angry, and she may have to give herself up to save us. Even if they don’t kill her, she’s got to find her way back through the fens by herself. I’m going after her.”

“We’re coming with you,” Cerka said.

“You’re going back.” Lucian drew his gladius.

Cerka puffed out his chest. “We’ll report you to your general!”

“Go right ahead.”

“I’m going with you,” Hanuvar told Lucian.

“You’ve got your own woman to find.”

“I’d rather walk the marsh with you than keep watch on them.”

After only a brief hesitation, the optio agreed. “I’ll be glad to have you.”

While the villagers watched sullenly, Hanuvar and the optio grabbed their gear and headed forth. Tura’s wake had dredged up the phosphorescent glow, leaving a faint trail stretching out through the water.

“It won’t last long,” Lucian said.

“Then we’ll move fast.” Hanuvar glanced over his shoulder. “They can follow us, though.”

“They’ll be fools if they do,” the optio replied tightly.



IV


Tura’s path stayed to shallow water and dry land. She proved easy to track, both by the glow left in her wake and the tread of her narrow feet over the muddy banks, almost visible even without the optio’s lantern.

They struggled up and over a muddy rise and then confronted a wide gap of black water, a ribbon of fading green light showing the way across. The optio called to her. “Tura, it’s me, Lucian. Just me and the centurion,” he added, with a look to Hanuvar. “We don’t want you to go on alone. We’ll help you return the egret, and help you find your way back! You don’t need to keep running!”

His shouted words stilled the call of the nearby night creatures, and both men strained to hear a reply. There was none. After only a moment, the cacophony resumed.

Lucian looked to Hanuvar, as if gauging his companion’s interest in crossing the dark water, and then shapes rushed at them from the night. Hanuvar raised his sword as something splashed up glimmering foam that ultimately revealed them as fen deer, their upper bodies shrouded in darkness beyond the reach of their paltry lantern, apart from eyes reflecting the light, and the glistening gleam of wet antlers.

The deer stopped a javelin’s throw out and then all fifteen stood in a long line, eerily still.

“I think we’re supposed to go with them,” Hanuvar said, and started forward through the cool water. Lucian joined him.

The deer turned, one by one, and plodded ahead, seven of them to the left, eight to the right.

Hanuvar had been a part of many processions in his time, but never one such as this, bounded on either side by animals that under normal circumstances would either have fled, or charged with lowered antlers. Never had he so closely observed deer, alive, and he studied the sleek muscles moving under their furred flanks, and the lift of their proud heads. He, who had seen so many marvels, marveled a little.

Guided by their stately escort, Hanuvar and Lucian sloshed as quietly as they could through shallow water and across little rises topped with gnarled trees and reaching scrub. If there were saathra near, they kept well away.

Finally, as the dark bulk of another hill rose in the gloom, the deer stopped and faced the center of their column. They lifted their heads high, as an honor guard might raise spears to a ruler. Hanuvar and Lucian passed through them and reached the foot of the hill. There they discovered the crumbled remnant of a stone pier, and moss-covered steps leading up from the water. Hanuvar turned and bowed formally to their escort. Lucian must have thought it a good idea, for he imitated the gesture.

The deer were already darting off, as if remembering they had some important engagement.

Turning, Hanuvar noted a faint green radiance upon the stairs that climbed from the ancient pier. Tura had been here before them.

As he and Lucian started up the crumbling stone, a cry of fear rose through the night somewhere behind, followed by frantic shouting.

The optio looked at him. “I guess Cerka and some of his friends were trying to follow.”

“And the marsh spirits weren’t as kind to them,” Hanuvar said.

“They were warned.”

“Some people won’t act with good sense even when you order it.”

Beyond the last stair they found a circle of grand cedars filling the air with their sharp, clean scent. They entered to find an inner ring of mossy, vine-wrapped standing stones. The moon shone into their center upon a sloped hillock rising a man’s height above the clearing floor. It tapered to a narrower circle at its apex, wide enough to support a rough stone table and a few feet of ground around it. Upon the table sat a little bundle, and the woman knelt in supplication before it, head low.

Tura must have heard them as they drew close, but she did not turn. Neither spoke to her, for this seemed a place unused to men, and it felt sacrilege to introduce their voices without invitation.

As Hanuvar climbed the short steps built into the hillock’s side, he spotted a little wooden cage beside the table, and then, drawing near the young woman, he saw the bundle on the table shift fitfully. The moonlight showed him the tips of feathers.

Hanuvar looked down at the little bird. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it was a creature that looked little larger than a half-grown rooster. The bird resembled an ibis, though its beak was long and straight. It tipped its head to consider him with one dull eye. A ruff of feathers crowned it and spread down the back of its neck, lighter on the ends than the base. Probably it would have looked larger if it retained more feathers, but much of the little bird’s skin was exposed, so that its back resembled that of the lowest hen in a flock’s pecking order.

Tura roused and turned her head to speak to Lucian, who’d drawn up on her right. “I’m too late,” she said, so softly that her voice barely reached Hanuvar. “It was weakening as we went. It can barely stand now. And my prayers have done nothing.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner when you discovered the bird had been plucked?” Lucian asked.

The young woman climbed to her feet, back stiffening. “You blame me? I walked in to see Cerka lifting a pillow from my mother’s face. He came after me! I was lucky to get away with my life, let alone the egret’s!”

“That’s a lie,” said a voice behind them.

Hanuvar pivoted. Too late he saw that the villagers had crept up from below. He felt honest bewilderment that the untrained men could be so stealthy when they hadn’t evidenced such capability earlier. Six remained, advancing in two arcs from left and right.

“How did they surprise us?” Hanuvar asked Lucian.

“The feathers,” the priestess said softly. “I can feel the power on them.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Tibron said. He was leading the group on the left. “We just want the bird.”

“The egret’s nearly dead.” Tura threw back her shoulders. “You’ve done enough already, and the spirits of the fen will take their vengeance.”

The men on the left paused. Cerka, though, pressed in from the right, daring to place a foot on the first stone step. “We’ve got to get the rest of its feathers while it’s still alive,” he said.

Hanuvar and Lucian drew their weapons at the same moment.

“Choose well,” Hanuvar said. “You have magic, but we have the higher ground. And the training to counter your numbers.”

“But you might lose your balance.” Cerka pulled a small feather from his sleeve, and broke it.

Hanuvar’s left foot slid out from beneath him. He thrust out a hand as he dropped, catching himself on his palm.

Once, he had been forced to keep a handful of sorcerers on his staff, to better guard against the magic of his enemies. Though dire spells had sometimes been used against him and his forces, he’d never faced such sudden disabling magic. Spells powerful enough to disrupt the natural order required days of preparation, and exhausting ritual. The sorcery’s sudden effectiveness impressed and alarmed him.

He hadn’t fully regained his feet when the first spearman charged. Against some other man, the advantage his opponent held might have been fatal.

Hanuvar knocked the spear haft out of line with his sword and rolled through a half somersault to close with his assailant and swing a fist into his groin. The younger man wailed and fell backward into one of the two coming up behind him. They tumbled into a heap at the foot of the mound.

On his feet now, Hanuvar leaned away from a vicious club blow to his head. He stepped sideways, then lashed out with his sword and cut deep through his attacker’s neck. His blade was keenly sharp, and pierced skin, muscle, and larynx. The club wielder dropped like a stone, twitching and gurgling. Hanuvar pivoted. His only remaining opponent watched hesitantly from below.

He’d lost sight of Cerka.

“Drop your blade, Centurion,” the leader called.

Hanuvar whirled. Lucian lay groaning beside the table. Cerka clasped Tura, sword blade pressed to her side.

“No one else has to die,” he said. “The feathers can right any damage that’s been done.”

“You’ve assaulted an officer of the legion,” Hanuvar said.

“Lucian? He’ll be fine. He just hit his head on the table when he lost his balance. Now drop your sword.”

Hanuvar had backed to the far side of the table, the better to see his opponents across it, and the assailants at the foot of the hill. The bearded tracker was there at the other end, eyeing Hanuvar, spear pointed loosely even as he reached with his free hand for the blue egret.

The bird’s head moved only a little to observe the tracker’s descending hand.

One moment there was a flutter of large wings behind Hanuvar. In the next a brilliant white light filled the little area. Hanuvar, facing away from the source of the glare, saw Tibron throw up his free arm to shield his eyes. Though alarmed by what was happening behind him, Hanuvar took advantage of his foe’s distraction. He vaulted the table, grabbed Tibron’s spear, and brought his sword into the side of the tracker’s head. At the last moment he decided against a mortal wound and clouted him with the blade’s flat.

Tibron moaned and doubled over, dropping the spear to put both hands to his head.

Only then did Hanuvar turn and see the mother of all birds.

It hung in the air, a great horse-sized avian of iridescent feathers. Its wings beat far too slowly to suspend it so gracefully above the earth. A golden aura shone around it, seemingly generated by the stir of its wings, and its eyes burned with the brilliance of suns.

This creature was a strange and beautiful mix of eagle and peacock, with a long swan neck, and a body from which two black claws depended from powerful legs. Black, too, was its beak, and as it opened, a warm sound, like the dawn given voice, reached them, though the beak did not rise and fall in time with its speech.

“You have brought pain to my hatchling,” the great beast announced. It was not an accusation, but a statement of fact devoid of anger.

Cerka’s hand tightened around Tura. “You don’t want me to harm her too. All we want is some of the magic you’re hoarding.”

The mother bird did not answer.

“You keep it for yourself,” Cerka cried. “You could share it with any of us! Do you know how grateful we’d be? We would bring you anything you desired. We just want a little help now and then. A gift.”

“Here is my gift to you,” the avian spirit declared.

Cerka looked down at his arm. He laughed, happily, and loosed Tura to turn to the others in wonder. His entire body began to shimmer with white and gold.

“It’s, it’s amazing,” he said with a gleeful smile. “I’ve never felt so glorious!” He was still smiling as he and his clothes and his weapon fell away into golden ashes that trailed down across the stone table before being swept into the night.

The priestess sank to one knee. Hanuvar scanned the faces of his enemies. Two genuflected. One at the base of the hill was already running for the stairs to the pier. Hanuvar knelt as well, but pressed his fingers to the neck of a prostrate Lucian before he saw the young man’s blinking eyes. He helped the legionary sit, and the optio groaned as he put a hand to his head.

The mother bird warbled a hauntingly sweet string of notes and her child stood on wobbling legs. He spread his sparse wings, and then floated, to his mother’s side. He perched upon her shoulder, and she leaned her head gently against his body.

Bathed now in his mother’s glow, the glorious, vibrant colors of his own blue feathers were obvious, even if they were bedraggled. In five short breaths the rest of his feathers shimmered into existence and he was fully restored. His head turned to the mother and Hanuvar felt certain the egret’s eye met his own while the bird twittered a sad little melody.

The mother’s head turned to regard them again, staring with its pupilless, glowing eyes.

“The preservers may stay. The rest of you—begone!”

That was enough for Tibron, who rose, backed away, and then fled with his fellows for the stairs. They left their weapons, and the lone dead man, behind.

The younger bird sang to the mother, who swung her head from side to side. Finally, she let out a single clack, and the egret silenced.

“To you three I will grant blessings,” she declared, her beak open and unmoving once more. “First, the priestess; to the gift of your wisdom and bravery I will add long health and vitality. You shall lead your people well, if they’ve the intelligence to heed you.”

“Thank you,” Tura said gravely, and bowed her head.

The bird’s attention shifted. “To the young man, I grant restored health, and the right to safely walk my lands. Ward them and prosper.” Finally her gaze settled upon Hanuvar, who met those eyes unflinching. “For the old soldier, a warning. Your enemies will find you on the sea road. Keep to your old trail, and by it you will find your people.”

Hanuvar’s brows rose at this information, but the great bird had yet more to say. “Lend aid to the priestess in Erapna. She will tell you what you most wish to know.”

Hanuvar started and bowed his head. The spirit must be referring to his daughter’s fate. Erapna lay further along the mainland to the northwest, toward the Ardenines.

He had planned to head west to the port town of Tonsta and sail for Derva itself. The changed route would add months to his journey. Each day’s delay was one more his surviving people lived in slavery and privation, under threat of death. His hands tightened into fists even as he recognized he should feel only gratitude. For he would be no help to his people if he were caught and executed by Dervan authorities. While certain that would someday be his fate, he meant to free as many of the Volani survivors as possible before he died.

“Now go,” the mother bird declared. “Give thanks to the bounties my land provides, on the high days of every year. Honor the old ways and take only what you need. Do not fail me.” She finished with a rending shriek, then rose with a beating of great wings, her child still perched upon her shoulder, and she sped shining into the sky. They watched her climb until she was simply one more bright star in the firmament, rising toward the moon.

They slept under the cypress beside the temple, then, come morning, started back.

There was only a little talk during the long trip, but at some point, the priestess’s hand found its way into the legionary’s, and sometimes his hand slipped about her waist. They only relinquished their hold upon one another when they stepped into the clearing where Antires sat near the horses.

“What,” Hanuvar said, “no breakfast?”

“And well met to you too,” the playwright answered, rising with a glad smile. “I saved you some pan biscuits. I didn’t know we’d be having guests.”

“Break out the pan and let’s make some more,” Hanuvar said. “Tura here hasn’t eaten for the last day.”

Antires bowed to her. “I’m at your service then, young woman. I’ll set straight to work. I don’t suppose any of you are going to tell me what happened?”

“Maybe in a little while.” Hanuvar accepted the wineskin offered by his friend then turned to offer it to Tura and Lucian, but they sat beside one another on a rock, facing away, her head against his shoulder.

“What did I miss?” Antires asked. “Tibron came past earlier but wouldn’t talk much. He told me he’d seen a spirit in the fens. He refused, even at sword point, to lead me to you, and swore you’d be unharmed.”

“We were.”

“And there was a spirit?”

“Yes.”

Antires sighed in frustration. “By the gods, man. Do I have to drag it out of you? Was this another monster tale?”

Hanuvar answered after a moment’s thought. “The only real monsters were human ones.”

I had spent long days with Hanuvar before I noted something that struck me as strange. Apart from his morning and evening stretches, his habits were those of a Dervan traveler, even to stopping at roadside shrines to pay respect. I was no great authority on Volani practices, but one sun-dappled afternoon on an empty stretch of road, with rolling grassland stretching before and behind us and the occasional grove of stone pines throwing shade, I asked if his people’s traditions were so similar to those of the Dervans, or if he’d simply adopted them while campaigning in their territories.

He favored me with an amused, sidelong glance that was far warmer than you might expect from such a great warrior.

“So I’ve guessed wrong,” I said to him. My horse snorted, as if he had found my words absurd.

“I must always play a part,” he said, and while I guessed at his meaning, I was determined to better know the man, and so I sought clarity.

“No actor needs to play his part beyond the stage,” I said.

He objected with a small shake of his head. “There are things I must not permit myself to do.”

“Such as?”

“Take this moment as an example. It’s a lovely day, under clear skies. An excellent traveling day. Were I not in disguise, I would break a meal cake and lift tribute to Hanis, father of wind and horses.”

“And you can’t do that?”

“I have no idea when I’ll be watched. And what if I slip one day when I’m tired, and use a Volani phrase? I have broken myself of these habits so I don’t make mistakes.”

“That must be a challenge,” I said, feeling empathy for his position. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Sometimes, small as those customs are, I miss them, very much.”6

His words had inspired another line of thought, and I asked again for clarity. “I thought you didn’t believe in your gods.”

His look grew somber. “I’m not sure they help me. But that’s not what’s important.”

“You’re talking about small, personal things you miss, that your people do. Things that define you.”

“They don’t define me,” he said, “but they’re familiar. And a source of comfort.”

There were few enough of those sources in the places we travelled. I thought another lay only a little further down the road, for my uncle and my cousin lived in one of the roadside towns, and I promised Hanuvar a cozy sleeping space and an exceptional meal, both of which had become rare, for we tried to avoid staying the night in villages over concern some veteran might think he looked familiar, even beardless and arrayed like a Dervan, complete to hair style.

We were to find instead that my uncle had died under strange circumstances, and that his friend and my cousin were certain the rich man who’d hired him, and a crew, to repair a section of sewer was behind his death. Naturally I was honor bound to look into the matter, and I was touched when Hanuvar said he would assist, even if it meant a journey into the dark beneath the town, in the dead of night.

—Sosilos, Book Two




6 The original text of Antires’ history contains additional lines excised from the final. My ancestor Antires possessed a remarkable memory, and when coupled with his habit of keeping notes of his conversations with Hanuvar it seems likely that he accurately presented the general’s words, even though he imagined the actions and dialogue of others with whom he never interacted. Why, then, would he record words in his original, then trim them for the version intended for publication, especially when they are revealing of his subject’s character but do not malign him? It is difficult to know, but I think that since Hanuvar was so often direct in speech, Antires wished to maintain that tone, even though a reserved man may sometimes wax more eloquently.

I have preserved these words because I think that they provide a deeper look into Hanuvar’s regrets. After saying that he missed these small customs very much, Antires originally had Hanuvar say: “For instance, on those rare occasions when we eat well, I long to raise a proper toast in the Volani style. And before I eat each evening, I would like to offer a little prayer to the gods of sea and air. And I would eat some kind of sauce that isn’t a variation on the accursed garum with which the Dervans drench everything.”

—Andronikos Sosilos


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