“You have to be kidding!” he said, straining.
“Let’s go,” Orholam said.
“One moment,” Gavin said. He nudged the biggest stone to test its weight.
It rolled easily under his foot.
Shit.
Chapter 50
“Lord Luíseach,” one of the new Mighty, Einin, said with a heavy accent as she entered Kip’s dusty command tent. “The Cwn y Wawr captured a man on the road. Claims to be a messenger.” Every one of the Mighty was extraordinary, but Einin stood out.
A huntress married to a farmer from some close-knit community far in the highlands, she was thirty years old (ancient compared to the rest of the Mighty), had borne ten children in her fourteen years of marriage, and had left her eight surviving children in her husband’s care to come fight as soon as she heard about the White King’s invasion. She’d found that her natural affinity for animals stemmed from a previously unknown ability to draft orange, red, and sub-red. Though she’d failed the requisite tests of strength four times, her speed, marksmanship, astonishingly keen intuition, and intellect had won her a place with the Mighty. Cruxer said the woman also had the pain tolerance of . . . well, a woman who’d borne ten children and claimed to enjoy the experience.
Kip had once idly asked her how she managed to go hunting when she’d had young children and her husband himself was out in the fields, before realizing that was how a close-knit community works. But she’d said instead, ‘Some women thrive when they can be with their brats all day. Me? I’m a better mom when I can get out regularly and kill something.’
Then she’d laughed.
“High Lady Tisis Guile requests the honor of your presence for the interrogation,” Einin said. Her mouth twisted. “Eh . . . milord.”
“Yes?” Kip asked, thinking she had something else to say. And what was it with the formality?
“Nothing?” she said. “Oh, shi—sorry. Ahem. I’m still sortin’ when I’m s’posed to add the ‘milord’s and all. Apologies. Er, my lord.”
Standing beside Kip, Cruxer was rubbing his temples. “Smart woman, I swear she is,” he mumbled.
“It’s simple enough,” Kip told Einin. He spoke quickly. “Every time you think you’re supposed to add a ‘milord,’ don’t. And every time you think you probably don’t need to, do. And enunciate it fully ‘my lord’ every third time. Any more than that and people will think you’re being sarcastic; any less and they’ll think you’re showing disrespect. Also make sure you pay attention to how often other people use name, surname, and full title—there’s some nuances to it that are hard to explain, but really important, and most lords interpret mistakes as insults. Got it? Then, lead on!”
Cruxer could barely contain his laughter as Einin preceded them out of the tent, looking bewildered. He said, “You know she scares the hell out of the rest of the Mighty, right?”
“She kind of scares the hell out of me,” Kip said.
“What do you think of Milard?” Cruxer said, pronouncing it just a bit off from how Einin’s accent rendered ‘milord.’
“As a Mighty name for her? Pretty much perfect. She’s gonna hate it!” he said happily.
“It’s a good kind of hate,” Cruxer said with a smile.
Kip thought maybe he’d already gone crazy. He’d checked Cruxer’s halos, but he couldn’t blame it on luxin.
All he knew was that the weeks of torturous riding through hard country was the most joyful time of his life. He was riding toward his death; he’d never felt more alive: Connected with his bride, even when she wept on his chest in the cool privacy of their tent as he stroked her hair. Unified with the Mighty, granted the respect of men he respected profoundly. Filled with a sense of purpose that the course that lay before them was true and right and worthy, and all of them working at the very limit of their abilities.
Kip felt that all the disparate strands of his life were coming together. This was to be the final test. He was at the peak of his skills and strength and power, and either it would prove to be enough or he would fail utterly.
There was something to be said for moments of crisis that announce their coming beforehand, rather than leap at you from the shadows.
His use of the Great Mirror for signal-casting would help the army he was leaving behind enormously. Few of the old minor mirrors were still functional, and fewer still had acknowledged messages (meaning the locals were afraid to answer, had fled, or were ignorant of the mirrors’ use), but two mirrors in the south and southeast parts of the Forest had answered, and were passing messages to the Night Mares in their areas. Those were the fastest of Kip’s forces, and they’d be able to reach many other will-casters and rush to join the siege at Green Haven.
They would be no help to his own forces. No matter how he’d love to have them in any battle, he couldn’t exactly bring will-cast bears and jaguars and tygre wolves and giant elk into a city. The Jaspers had cats but few dogs, and those required an exorbitant license fee. Kip had only recently realized that what he’d thought was a weird cultural idiosyncrasy was instead purposeful. There were few domestic animals on the Jaspers by design: the ancient Chromeria had feared being infiltrated and attacked by will-casters.
Still, two hundred of the Cwn y Wawr war dogs and their handlers had joined his sprint for the coast, and where the Chromeria would have barred wild animals from landing on their islands (or been forced to accept heretical will-casting), everyone on both sides could pretend the war dogs were simply highly trained dogs.
They found the grubby man bound and guarded. An equally grubby messenger bag lay before him, open and empty.
The rest of the Mighty—the old original crew—was already gathered.
“Where is it?” Kip asked.
“There isn’t any scroll,” Tisis said. “He claims he memorized it, and when he started, I stopped him so you could hear it first.”
“Who’s it from?” Kip asked.
The messenger spoke up. “My mistress says the name you would recognize as being hers is Aliviana Danavis, though it referred to one so utterly changed as to be unrecognizable.”
Liv?!
“Where is she?” Kip asked.
“When I left her, she was in Azuria Bay. She directed me to give my message before answering any other questions, though, your pardon. With your permission, my lord?”
Kip waved the room clear of everyone but the Mighty, then nodded.
The messenger took a deep breath, then spoke, obviously recalling words verbatim: “ ‘Kip, Lord Guile. Who I used to be felt something for you. I am not she anymore. I’m not secretly on your side. I’m not going to save the day for you and stab Koios in the back. You’re my hedged bet. Should you fight us where I think you will, I ask you fight me last. Should you win, I ask exile rather than death. Should we win, though, I’ll be unable to give you the same.
“ ‘It’s no fair trade. Therefore, without obligation that you give me anything back, I tender to you something first: The White King plans to attack the Jaspers directly. He’s already constructed barges to carry all his men, and will float all the bane with them, paralyzing the Chromeria’s drafters. You’ll need to attack before he leaves Ruthgar to have a chance against him.’ ”