Visyna rode her horse into the tree line along the western edge of the encampment. The noise and smell of so many soldiers in one place was overwhelming, and the bitter tang of metal filled the air. She took the first opportunity she could to get away. After her disappearance of last week, her father's men were not at all inclined to let her go anywhere unescorted, which is why four cavalry troopers rode a few hundred yards behind her.
"Stay in the open, please, my lady," one of the troopers shouted.
Visyna turned on her horse and cast a withering glare back at him. "A lady sometimes needs privacy, especially after morning tea."
The soldier reined in his horse as if he'd come to the edge of a cliff. "Yes, of course, my lady. My apologies."
Visyna turned away to hide her smile from the blushing trooper. She clicked her tongue and her horse edged farther into the trees until they were hidden from view. She figured she had ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most before they would come looking for her. It would have to be enough.
She continued deeper into the woods for another minute, then halted her horse, lightly jumping from its back to the forest floor. The horse whinnied, and she ran a hand along its neck, enjoying the trembling wave of muscle that greeted her touch.
"Stay," she whispered, and walked deeper into the woods.
The smells here were wonderful. She took a deep breath and luxuriated in the beauty and freshness of new growth. Birds chirped and sang gaily, while beneath it was the steady hum of insects. How, she wondered, could he not love this?
Konowa. He excited her and frustrated her as no other had, and suitors had always been as plentiful as the leaves on a tree. So why did she find this elf so intriguing? He was Jarahta Mysor, a tainted one. And even though she knew it couldn't be true, she swore she could smell metal in his blood when he was near her. He was loud, quick to anger, obstinate, and worst of all…apparently not the least bit interested in her. Not once had he come to visit her since they arrived in camp, instead spending all his time drinking with the Duke. Sergeant Lorian, on the other hand, was most certainly interested-the four troopers with her today had been hand-picked by him to guard her. Lorian was considering buying a commission and becoming an officer, a fact that would raise his prospects with her father, and, she realized, impressed her, too.
But he wasn't Konowa.
Enough, she chided herself, there would be time later for that. Looking around once to make sure she was alone, Visyna walked a little farther until she found a small bare patch of dirt under a large soap nut tree. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her senses explore the area, questing for a sign, but as usual, she detected nothing.
Opening her eyes, she sat down cross-legged on the earth and began the breathing ritual. The birdsong faded, followed by the hum of insects, and soon not even the leaves rustled. With each intake of breath, her hands wove intricate designs in the air in front of her. With each exhalation, she drew her hands across an imaginary plane, erasing the designs suspended before her. She coaxed her senses to delve deeper into the fabric of the forest and felt herself stretched and pulled as if great wings bore her aloft, her ethereal being soaring ever higher. Time was running out.
As her breathing slowed, the designs became more detailed, her fingers stitching brilliant patterns that no seamstress could hope to match. Filigrees of silver light began to flow from them and she smiled and closed her eyes. The earth fell away beneath her as her body quivered and swayed, its very essence being shifted and rearranged like water within water.
When she opened her eyes again, the forest was filled with light. A glowing Star floated in front of her wreathed in silver light. The air bent and shattered around it in refractions of brilliant emptiness. Visyna trembled and wondered again at the feelings that flooded through her. She felt at peace, and in awe, but something else that she could never quite place.
The Star spoke. Its voice, unlike the brilliance of the light around it, was thick and slow, each word tumbling forth like a mountain crashing to the ground:
"Save me, my child, and I will set your people free."
"…the sawbones puts a cream on it, see, and it clears right up," Yimt said, scratching himself in contradiction.
"Sssh," Alwyn said out of the corner of his mouth, "the corporal will nick you for talking in ranks. I want to hear what they're saying."
Alwyn kept his stare on the temporary dais placed in the middle of camp. The sun boiled high above the assembled troops, rolling down wave after wave of furnace heat to create a fetid stew of sweat and funk that simmered among the gathered ranks and kept the medical orderlies busy picking up fainters. Royal banners hung limp from lances held by equally wilted troops of the palace horse guard decked out in gleaming white fur shakos and high-collared jackets of a deep silver-green. Their struggle with heatstroke signified the presence of no less a personage than the heir to the throne: Prince Tykkin.
"That one there, all puffed up like, that's the prince," Yimt said, peering between the ranks of troops in front.
Alwyn squinted through the drops of sweat swimming across his specs at the man Yimt was nodding toward. Short and a little doughy, Alwyn thought, recognizing Prince Tykkin from a painted miniature he'd once seen of the Royal family. Like the painting, the Prince was wearing a staggeringly tall shako with a jeweled band around its base, so that his brow sparkled. Several other officers lined the dais, but none shone as brightly as the Prince. Alwyn shifted his musket and tried to hear what was being said.
"…and by decree of Her Majesty on this date, the eighth month in the sixty-fourth year of her reign, the Hynta Light Infantry, the Iron Elves, are once again added to the rolls of the Imperial Army. His Royal Highness, The Prince of Calahr, will speak to you all shortly. The regimental colors will now be consecrated, Father NuKol…"
"What he say?" Yimt asked, elbowing Alwyn in the hip.
"They've reformed the Iron Elves," Alwyn hissed back. He was beginning to feel trapped and took in a deep breath to calm his nerves. He started gagging.
"Reform the Steel Faeries, eh? Won't be the same this time around," Yimt said, but there was respect in his voice. He spat out a stream of crute juice from the clump jammed in his right cheek. The grayish liquid started steaming as soon as it hit the ground. "They've gone and stripped all the battle honors from them, I'll wager. Poor buggers, they deserved better. Just 'cause that officer of theirs went off his rocker don't mean they had to pay for it, you know? Officers, you can't trust a one of them."
"But why disband them when it was just the officer who killed the Viceroy?" Alwyn asked.
"Miniature politics, Ally," Yimt said.
This was new. "Miniature politics?"
Yimt nodded. "See, you got your largority, that's you humans, and then us smallority, elves and dwarves, that make up the Empire, not counting the extra-miniature races. Well, the largority never trust the smallority on account the smallority are always wanting to be in the largority, if you follow. When that Iron Elf officer killed the Viceroy, they figured it was a power play for control of all the elves in the Empire…you know, revolt from within kind of thing to take over the largority. All that business with that elf-witch of theirs, but that's more insidinal politics between the elves."
Alwyn's stomach started to roil. "Wait, so if the Iron Elves were disbanded because they can't be trusted, why are they reforming them now?"
Yimt crunched some crute between his teeth while he considered that. "Well, to understand that you have to reckon with diplomatic new-aunt-says. Sort of the doily to the political table if you get my meaning. No doubt a whole lot of teat-a-teat and mashinations went on behind the scenes. I expect they needed some time to go by after they got rid of that officer, you know, to let bygones go by."
"But isn't that the officer up there beside the Prince?"
"That tall, dark-looking elf?" Yimt asked, placing a hand on Alwyn's arm and using his shatterbow as a small ladder to climb higher to see over the shoulder of the rank in front of him. "Kind of the same look as our Corp, come to think on it, bit swarthy and earthy like." Another stream of crute splashed to the ground. "In fact, if my memory hasn't melted in this heat, I'd say he was the spittin' image of that savage we saw the other day when we was about near ate by that beast."
Alwyn squinted even harder. "You sure? He looked more like a rakke to me. And the smell."
"Like I was telling you," Yimt replied, spitting another stream. "You wait till we get in the field proper and see if those officers don't start looking and smelling like the rest of us. Even the Prince there would wilt." He let go of Alwyn's arm and jumped down from his shatterbow, the weapon none the worse for wear, although he did have to heave to pull the butt out of the ground.
"The Prince? I can't imagine him getting dirty, but that elf is easy enough to see." Alwyn lowered his voice and scrunched down to be a few inches closer to the dwarf. "I heard tell that animal that almost ate us is really his lady, turned into beast form by a sorcerer. Hrem in B Company swears he saw a woman come into camp with him, but she ain't been seen since, then that bengar thing showed up. Makes you think."
"Can't imagine what the kids'll look like," Yimt said, shaking his head slightly.
Alwyn licked his lips, the skin dry and easily flaked into strips. "Hrem also said it was a sign of some kind, like that rakke we killed. He said they're bringing back the Iron Elves to fight the Shadow Monarch."
"Did he now?" Yimt asked. "You know, I always thought Hrem had a good head on his shoulders, bit large, but good. Might be something to that."
"So where are they anyway? The only elves I've seen are the corporal and that officer up there."
"Guess their boat hasn't put in yet. Long way to come back from the southern wastes only to send them off again. Say, where did they say they're sending them? Back to the Hynta?"
"North to Luuguth Jor, where the Viceroy was killed," Alwyn said.
"Odd. The Thirty-fifth Foot Guard garrisons that fort," Yimt said. "Had to make sure the elfkynan didn't take the place over and turn it into some kind of shrine to celebrate the death of the Viceroy."
"Well, that's what I heard," Alwyn said. How bloody appropriate-he'd known more about what the army did listening to news criers back home than he did now that he was in it. "Maybe they're going to show the flag, give the elfkynan something to think about."
Yimt spat another stream of crute and laughed. "Something to think about all right. The elfkynan will be thinkin', if that boat don't show up where are they gonna get troops dumb enough to fill the ranks?"
"From volunteers," came the silky voice of Corporal Kritton standing behind them, "and you two just did."