Unscathed, Sheltatha stared at Sagander too, expressionless, watching as the man choked, and then drowned in a welter of red.
The carriage had rocked to a halt moments after the flare of magic, the horses screaming in shrill fear. Now the battered door was yanked from its weakened hinges, and Infayen Menand leaned in. Her flat eyes scanned the wreckage within, and then, as Sagander sagged down in his seat, she reached out and dragged the historian outside.
Syntara saw the woman drop the old man’s body to the cobbled road, glance down at it briefly as others quickly gathered round, and then lean back into the carriage, her gaze fixing on the High Priestess.
‘Not blinded? Lucky you. But really, unleashing magic inside a carriage? What possessed you to display such stupidity, High Priestess?’
When Syntara struggled for an answer – still shocked by the blood on her hands, the wet trickles upon her cheeks – Sheltatha Lore said, ‘Captain, I think I’d prefer to ride my horse, painful as that might be.’
Infayen blinked at the young woman. ‘While you are untouched. Curious.’
‘Her temper missed its mark. Now, will you lend me an arm, captain?’
With another glance at Syntara, and then a shrug, Infayen reached up to help Sheltatha climb out of the carriage.
Leaving Syntara alone with her wounds, and the soaked cushion seat opposite her, which still dripped.
In near hysteria, the High Priestess screamed for her servants.
* * *
Renarr remained on her horse while Lord Urusander dismounted to crouch down beside the dead historian. From her vantage point, she could see Hunn Raal riding back from the vanguard.
A half-dozen priestesses had crowded into the carriage, from which Syntara’s harsh voice still rang out its shock and fury. Captain Infayen Menand was helping Sheltatha Lore to a waiting horse, but the limping woman seemed otherwise unharmed and free of blood-spatter, and nothing of her comportment evinced the horror of what had just happened within the carriage.
Renarr’s eyes narrowed on her student for a moment longer, and then Hunn Raal reined in alongside Infayen. Low words were exchanged, before the Mortal Sword dismounted and moved to where Urusander was now straightening above Sagander’s corpse.
‘Commander, the High Priestess?’
Urusander frowned. ‘A few cuts, I am told. Nothing more.’
‘To her face, one presumes,’ Hunn Raal said, something in his tone hinting at amusement. ‘I have sent for a Denul healer – it wouldn’t do to have such beauty permanently marred, would it now? Especially on this auspicious day.’
Urusander seemed to study Hunn Raal before saying, ‘Auspicious, captain? Poor Sagander here marks the first tragic, meaningless death on this day, but not, unfortunately, the last.’
‘Blood is always the price,’ Hunn Raal said, shrugging. ‘For anything worthwhile, that is. Come now, commander, are we not soldiers? And who better would know the truth of what I say?’
‘Sorcery claims its first victim,’ Urusander said, ‘but, presumably, not the intended one. Heed the lesson, captain. Control is but an illusion – sorcery is indifferent to how it is used.’
‘An expert now, commander?’ Hunn Raal asked with a smile.
‘No, just clear-eyed. Not eager to surrender my reason, my ability to think. Of course, Raal, you’ve had decades of practice in dulling your wits.’ Dismissing the man, Urusander swung round and returned to his horse. With his back to Hunn Raal, he saw nothing of the Mortal Sword’s momentary glare, before the easy smile reappeared.
Renarr’s attention now fixed upon Sagander. The blood looked black in the weak gloom, like a strange beard covering the man’s chin and neck. His eyes were still open, but now only partly so, the lids settling halfway down. She thought of all the fires that had burned behind those eyes only moments ago. Defiant in every surrender, as befits an ageing man. For the right ones, a laudable resolve
, sufficient to earn respect and dignity. For one such as Sagander, alas, far too infused with envy and self-pity. No matter – all is dull now, every flame quenched.
A man of accidents, was Sagander. Our historian is dead, but make of that no ill omen. He just failed at luck. And that is a failure awaiting us all, sooner or later.
Urusander mounted his horse and settled into the saddle. ‘Blood in the temple,’ he said. ‘Inauspicious.’
She glanced at him. ‘The High Priestess wields a dull knife.’
‘Your meaning?’
‘Expect nothing subtle. Not in this magic so harshly blessed by Light.’
‘Abyss take us,’ Urusander said in a low voice, ‘I will stop this battle.’