Chapter 20A

Keeley gaped openly as she took in the sight of Siska and Geana kissing, though she regained some measure of composure before the two women parted lips. The taller of them, Siska, looked at Keeley with a slight expression of embarrassment and surprise. "I did not know, either, until last night," she said, the heat of a blush coming to her cheeks.

The queen apparent shrugged, trying to seem blasé about the matter. "It makes little difference, in truth," she said. "Though you should tell Mannis."

Geana stroked Siska's hair softly and gave Keeley something of a dubious looking over. "I do need to speak to you, though, Siska," said Keeley, struggling to not stare back at the pretty petite slave.

Siska nodded. "You may speak openly in front of Geana," she said. "I believe we are closer than friends, as it were." Her arm went around Geana's shoulders proprietarily and the smaller woman leaned into Siska, as if for support.

Who is shielding whom here? Wondered Keeley, though she said nothing beyond one last glance at the smaller woman.

"Very well," said Keeley, stiffening her back. "You are the Magister, or so they tell me." Her brown hair swung as she jerked her head toward the door and the others in the house. "As Magister, one of your duties is to advise and assist the crown."

Siska nodded soberly and then smiled. "What a perfect job for me, then, to be your advisor and aide," she said. "Especially since I'm already your friend."

Keeley felt a smile grow on her own features as she nodded in concurrence. "Exactly," she said. "Though it may mean some separation from your new - 'friend'." She gave the slightest of nods toward Geana.

"I don't think it's very safe to leave Geana here in the manor after that attack," said Siska. "She should come to town with the rest of us."

The sudden look of determination on Siska's features set Keeley aback. Could she really be so in love with Geana?

"I don't mean that, I mean once at the palace," said the soon-to-be queen. "Tornadin will surely emancipate her if you ask it. Court duties will prevent her being with you during much of the day, though."

Geana seemed to bristle under those words. "I'm standing right here, you know?" she asked in a peevish voice.

"I know that, Geana," said Keeley, smiling as warmly as she could, which happened to be not very. Something about matters bothered Keeley, though she would not have been able to say exactly what if asked. "However, these are matters that must be tended to."

"Keeley, she's older than either of us, don't talk down to her," snapped Siska, though her hand squeezed the smaller woman's shoulders in a motion of reassurance.

"I wasn't..." started Keeley.

"You were!" interrupted Siska, glaring at Keeley and taking a step forward. "I'll not have it. You would not speak to Mannis so, if he shared my bed."

"Mannis is a Defender, Siska," said Keeley, immediately put on the defensive and stepping back a pace in the face of Siska's sudden hostility. "It's hardly the same..."

"As what?" interrupted Siska again. "Because she's a slave. Just an insignificant slave?"

Keeley seemed to stagger as if from a physical blow. "Siska?" she asked. "What's wrong with you? I said nothing of the sort."

Siska blinked at her a couple of times. Her advancing upon Keeley had pulled her from Geana's touch and she looked at the petite slave, then at Keeley. "I don't know," she said. "I - I guess it's just all to much for me, all coming at one time."

"Everyone wants much from you Siska," said Geana, moving forward and stroking the golden hair of the young wizard. "I've not lessened your worries, as I wished, but increased them. Perhaps Lady Keeley is correct."

"No," said Siska, decisively, her eyes snapping back into focus. "It's not you, nor is it Keeley, or any one person." She turned to Keeley then and smiled, though it was a smile that only made her mouth change shape. "You know you can rely upon me. I shall stand beside you no matter what comes."

Unseen by any of them, Mannis had opened the door. "What comes is the Black Theocracy," he said. Siska spun to face him and her shoulders sagged under the hard look she saw turned upon her. "Those orcs were only a diversion. A runner just came from the city bearing a message that the Graysails are pulling back to the bay and that the Theocracy armada is on their heels."

"What do we do?" asked Keeley.

"We fight them, what else?" said Mannis, as if it were just that simple. "Or do you favor the idea of kneeling before a Templar to do his bidding?"

Keeley blanched and nodded. "Fight, then," she said. A change came over Keeley as she spoke, and Siska, for one moment, saw a queen, in fact if not in word of law.

"We've all the horses that could be found saddled and ready, and all others on wagons and afoot, we await you three only," said Mannis. His eyes moved over the small woman in the gray tunic of a slave, then to Siska. "We shall see you safe to the city - all of you. Tarmal's men will be with us, as many as he had here and survived the orc attack. It should not be hard to frighten off a few bands of orcs."

Siska moved toward the window and peered down where a crowd milled on the front lawn. Guilt wracked her heart and she felt as if a fist clenched around that organ, making her breath short. "I'm sorry, Mannis," she said, though she did not look toward the young Defender.

"Be sorry when there is time for it," he said, a coolness in his voice. "For now, be alert. I need your abilities more than your regrets."

The words stung at her. He was dismissing her and she well knew it. He turned about and Siska saw the small face of Siskana in the doorway, peering back from nearly three feet. She looked like an oddly slender child, and wore the clothes of a young girl, though they were baggy on her. Her face had a look of disapproval upon it as well and she turned to follow Mannis when he walked by her.

She nodded, though, a reassuring touch from Geana brushing the base of her neck and her resolve became clearer. "I'll be alert, you just keep them back far enough for me to destroy them," she said, turning her look of worry into a malicious grin in an instant. "I plan to make them pay for every person they slew on this island."

Salira hurled a second deadly rain of razor-edged shards of ice at the orcs in the doorway and they fell back, several twitching on the ground and crying out in agony until Skeen stabbed them with a boar spear, silencing them forever.

"How many orcs can be on one island?" asked Garel, lifting his head to peer out a narrow window of the farm cottage they had taken shelter within. An arrow ricocheted off the stonework frame of the window and pelted him with bits of chalky stone before he ducked back down.

"Enough," muttered Salira, looking over her charges with worried eyes.

Garel nursed a wound to one leg and arm, neither serious except that they slowed him running and fighting. Mist was uninjured, but terribly frightened. Luckily, Marek seemed to have a soothing way with her, and he cradled the young woman's head in his lap as he petted her hair with his one good arm. His other was badly mauled and Salira worried that without a healer, it would have to come off.

She had magics that could deaden the pain for the lad, even to the point of him dying, but she could not heal one tatter of the flesh. He did not feel the wound, just then, but his eyes spoke of a certainty that it would, but he did not let that into his soothing voice as he murmured to Mist.

Skeen remained, thus far, uninjured. Salira grinned at the lad as he ducked back behind the doorframe. The door itself lay as broken bits of wood upon the floor. The boy seemed to have the reflexes of a ferret, which animal he resembled slightly. He moved quickly and surely in combat and Salira had it in mind, if they survived this, to recommend him for Defender training, though he would normally be considered too old to begin. Given the losses to their ranks, they would surely bend the rules for someone so obviously capable of learning.

The farmstead they were sheltering within was made up of only a single large, open room with a loft where the beds had been. Blood coated two walls of the room splattered randomly as if laid down by wild swings of a brush. It bore silent testimony to the fate of the last people who believed this building to be shelter from the storm outside.

No one had any desire to go up to the loft and see what might lie up there.

A guttural voice came from outside the house, jeering at them in some foul language that left Salira's ears in need of a washing. She murmured an incantation and the air shifted subtly about the little hovel.

"... you come out and we don't hurt you too bad," said the voice, suddenly comprehensible. "We'll only take fun with the women and let you go after."

Salira stiffened at that and growled in her throat. Mist whimpered from her place on the floor, burrowing her face into Marek's belly as she wept.

Garel peeked over the sill again and said, "It's that big one what got Marek's arm," he said, his face stiffening as he sat back down.

The wizard nodded. "Yes, I remember him - just a bit of fun, indeed," she hissed and moved to stand beside the window. As she walked, her hands were moving in an intricate and seemingly random pattern and she muttered to herself.

No sooner did she reach the window than a silvery orb coalesced in her hands from the air about her. "Fun, indeed," she barked, hurling the orb out the window.

Voices outside cried out and a muffled explosion sounded in the distance causing dust to settle from the rafters of the little house. Bits of hay from the thatch drifted down behind the dust.

Skeen peered out the door. "They're running," he said, almost laughing. "Why didn't you do that earlier?" He turned about to look at Salira and gasped.

The wizard slumped against the wall, blood running from her ears and eyes. She slid slowly down the rough plaster and crumpled into a heap at the bottom.

Garel reached her first, rolling her over and cradling her head. "Salira?" he asked.

She looked up at him with ghastly bloody eyes. "I can't see," she said in a child-like voice. "The backlash was too great to buffer."

The young man did not understand what she spoke of beyond that it regarded magic. "You drove them off. We're safe for now," said Garel, using his tunic to wipe the blood from her cheeks.

Salira's infirmity seemed to have awakened Mist, who knelt beside her mentor. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked, taking up the part of daubing at the plump wizard's blood-streaked cheeks.

"You and Skeen go find help - soldiers, farmers, anyone," said Salira, staring blankly with eyes that shone as redly as the orcs' had, though hers were dark. "Be cautious and don't be seen."

Mist looked toward the wiry young man as he rose from his predatory crouch just inside the doorway. His face twitched into what might have meant to be a reassuring smile, though Mist took little comfort from it. He clutched a long spear in both hands, stained for more than half its length with blood. He, himself, was splattered liberally with blood, the blood of orcs, though, not his own.

Marek stood. "I'll go with Skeen," he said. "I don't need my arm if I'm running and sneaking."

Salira shook her head. "You've lost a lot of blood, Marek, you're in no shape to be skulking. Besides, the spell holding back your pain will fail eventually."

A pained look crossed the young man's broad features, but he nodded. He looked at the arm, bandaged crudely and hanging limp at his side.

"The orcs won't stay cowed long - Go, you two," snapped Salira.

With only a moment's more hesitation, Mist followed Skeen out the door, both crouching low and running for nearby scrub.

"Do you really think they'll find help?" asked Garel.

Salira chuckled hollowly. "Perhaps," she said. "But if not, maybe they shall at least find safety."

Garel's head drooped slightly at those words and he nodded slowly. "I understand, mentor."

The round-faced woman smiled again. "Don't be so glum, young Garel," she said. "You've many a day ahead of you, yet."

He looked around the tiny farm cottage and grimaced. "It rather looks like we don't," he said.

"I didn't say 'we', I said 'you'," said Salira with a beatific smile. She slowly sat up, her face twisting in pain as she did so. "I didn't have enough ability for four, but I may manage two." Though her red eyes could not see where her gaze rested, Garel knew they were fixed on him.

Garel blinked at her, but said nothing as she began chanting.

The island formed a low, green line on the horizon as the fleet approached. Templar Moghran stood on the deck of the Righteous Fury and looked toward Deacon Kalhurz. The small, pinched-looking man bore a set of long slashes across his cheek, hastily and poorly healed. That the Deacon used sorceresses was widely known, yet he did not trust them with his person.

"Without him we must rely upon numbers," muttered the Deacon, though he seemed not terribly put out by that.

The night prior, in the wee hours, assassins had struck at the heart of the fleet, nearly succeeding in eliminating the Deacon.

There had been a half a hundred slaves slaughtered in the morning, those who knew too much of what had happened. Even Tarasha, with her wiles, had been unable to ferret out more of the events of the night before.

It annoyed Moghran not to know the truth of a matter, but he bided his time. "I place ultimate command under you, Templar Moghran," proclaimed the Deacon, waving a ringed and bejeweled hand toward the half a hundred templars on the deck around him. "You others shall take your command from him."

Tarasha beamed at him from beyond the circle of armor-clad knights and the Templar felt his chest swell despite himself and the humility that befitted such an honor.

The other Templars, glittering in a multitude of stained hues on their dark armors, bowed and moved toward the skiffs that would take them back to their own ships. Moghran, finally alone, bowed to the Deacon. "You honor me greatly, Deacon Kalhurz," he said.

"I also hold you responsible for failure, Templar Moghran," said the Deacon in that oddly high-pitched voice he reserved for chastisement. "You have been given every opportunity for success in this. See that you do not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."

Moghran chuckled. From the reports returning from their spies on the island, there seemed no chance of that. The Tressenites were in disarray from more than the Theocracy's efforts. It seemed that a state of near civil war had formented among the various noble factions.

Talk of a queen disquieted the Templar, however.

Legend told of a crown, worn by the nobles of Tressen, which could influence the outcome of battles. There were no details as to how it did so, but ample proof of its validity. Some hundred and fifty years ago, Tressen's tiny navy had driven the entirety of the Theocracy fleet from the Crystern Islands. Such a feat spoke of some sort of infernal aid.

People said that the crown was broken. Yet, people also said the royal line was dead, too. If one fact were in error, then why not both?

Those thoughts scurried through Moghran's mind to his distraction and he did not notice the Deacon's departure from his company and Tarasha moving up to him until her warm lips pressed against skin cooled by the icy winds. He had not even noted the cold until her heat dissipated a patch of it.