“The army!” someone shouted, and the call was taken up by several voices. Tessia tried to see past the apprentices to the road, but there was no hope of seeing anything with a crowd of horses milling before her. She turned away and swung into the saddle, then looked back.
A dark shadow filled the road ahead, and it was advancing rapidly.
For a moment an eerie quietness descended, through which she could hear the distant shouts of the cart drivers and bellows of gorin somewhere behind the sea of tents, and the thunder of galloping hoofs. Tent walls snapped in a lively breeze. She realised that the sun had come up and she hadn’t noticed it.
“Where’s your father’s bag?” a familiar voice asked.
Turning, Tessia found Jayan beside her, Mikken on his other side.
“Back in the tent. I had no time to go back for it.”
Jayan gazed at her intently, then turned to look at the advancing army. “There might be.”
“No,” she told him firmly. “There’s nothing in it I can’t replace.”
He looked at her again and opened his mouth to speak, but another apprentice drew near.
“What are we going to do?” he said. “Start galloping ahead of them? Or move aside and let them pass?”
“They’re slowing down,” Mikken said.
He was right. The lead horses had slowed to a canter. She watched as they dropped into a trot and then a walk. Lord Sabin and the king rode at the head. She scanned the faces, sighing with relief when she saw Lord Dakon. He was riding a different horse, she noticed.
But something wasn’t right. Where was the rest of the army? With sinking heart, she began a new search – of her memory. For the names of those who must have fallen. The names of the dead.
As the magicians stopped they turned to regard each other, heads swivelling as they took stock of their number. Tessia read the same shocked realisation in their faces. Some even blinked back tears.
A third, she found herself thinking. We’ve lost a third. And where is Lord Werrin?
She saw the king lean towards Sabin and gesture back down the road. Sabin nodded and stood in his stirrups.
“Apprentices, join your masters,” he shouted. “We ride to Imardin.”
As he urged his horse forward Tessia heard Jayan curse. He had risen in his stirrups to peer over the heads of the magicians.
“What?” she asked.
“They’re coming,” he said, dropping back into the saddle. “The Sachakans are coming. We should have evacuated Coldbridge. Too late now.”
Together they hauled on the reins and slapped their heels, and their mounts raced forward with the army.
The slave had said Stara was to appear in the master’s room in an hour, well dressed, to help her husband entertain their guest, Chavori. Vora had been amused, since it was the same length of time she had made Stara take to prepare for the trip to Motara’s house. “He’s a fast learner,” she said as she laid two elaborately embroidered wraps on the bed. “The blue or the orange?”
“Blue,” Stara said.
“I wasn’t asking you, mistress,” Vora said, chuckling. “Though I agree. The orange is more suited to larger gatherings, where you might want to draw attention to yourself. The blue is a calmer colour, better for quiet evenings with single visitors.”
Stara wondered briefly if “single” meant unmarried, or merely that Chavori would be arriving on his own. She decided not to voice the question. It might lead to another unnecessary lecture on the perils of following her husband’s possible hint she take Chavori as a lover.
When Stara was dressed and laden down with jewellery, Vora pronounced her ready. “Don’t forget my advice, mistress,” the slave said, shaking a finger at her.
Stara chuckled. “How could I? He’s handsome, but he’s not that handsome. Have you heard anything from Nachira?”
“Not since her last message.” Vora sighed. “The slaves say she is sick, but they are reluctant to say anything more.”
“Not surprising, if Father might read their mind and kill them for betraying his plans. I still can’t believe he and Ikaro left for Kyralia without telling me.” She shook her head. “They must have left right after my wedding, but Father didn’t say anything.”
“According to the slaves, Nachira fell ill the day after your wedding, too.”
Stara looked at Vora. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not give up hope?” Vora sighed, then gestured to the door. “Your husband and his guest await.”
Though Stara knew the way now, the slave still led her through corridors to the master’s room. Reaching the doorway, they stepped inside and Vora prostrated herself. Within the room, Kachiro and Chavori were looking at one of the pieces of furniture Motara had designed. Stara moved an arm so that her bracelets chimed against one another. The two men looked up.
“Ah,” Kachiro said. “My wife has finally arrived.”
Smiling, he extended his arms towards her and beckoned. She walked forward and took his hands. He kissed her knuckles, then let one hand go and turned so they faced Chavori. The young man smiled, a little nervously.
“A pleasure to see you again, Stara,” he said.
“And for me to meet you once more,” she replied, lowering her eyes.
“Let’s sit down and talk,” Kachiro said, leading Stara to the furthest of the three stools in the room. A small table stood in front of them, bowls of nuts gleaming in the light of Kachiro’s magical globe light. He stepped back and indicated that Chavori should sit in the middle, then sat on the other side of the young man. “Tell us about your journey to the mountains. Stara knows nothing of your skills and adventures, Chavori, and I’m sure she would like to hear something of them.”
The young man glanced at Stara and actually blushed. “I . . . we...I guess I should explain what I do, first. I make charts and maps, but instead of copying what others have done I travel through the places I am mapping and measure – as best I can, using methods taught to me by a shipping merchant and some I’ve developed myself – the distances and positions of everything. Well, not everything, but the features that are important to people who use maps.”
Stara noticed that he glanced a few times at a large metal cylinder leaning against a wall. It looked very heavy.
“Do you have any maps here?” she asked.
“Oh, yes!” He leapt up and strode over to the cylinder. Lifting it, he carried it back to the stools and sat down again. But he did not open it. He caressed the metal with his long fingers. He has elegant hands for a Sachakan, Stara thought. So many of them have hands to match their shoulders, broad and strong. In fact, his build is more like that of a Kyralian, though his colouring isn’t. I wonder . . .
“Have you finished the map you were drawing for the emperor?” Kachiro asked.
Chavori nodded. “At least, as much as I can with the information I have.” He turned to Stara. “Most people find maps confusing, so I have compiled everything into one, simpler map. But there are blank areas. I refuse to include any information I haven’t confirmed for myself.”
“Show us,” Kachiro urged.
Chavori beamed at him, then grasped the end of the tube. The cap came off with a musical pop. Reaching inside, he drew out a thick roll of paper.
Peeling this back, he unrolled until a large sheaf fell away. It automatically recurled. Kachiro lifted the table and put it aside, so that Chavori could smooth the map out over the floor rug with his elegant hands. Kachiro looked around, then picked up the bowls of nuts and weighed the two far corners down with them. Then he slipped off a shoe and placed it on the near corner at his side, which made Chavori’s nose wrinkle. Stara took off a bracelet and dropped it at the other corner, earning an approving smile from the young man.
The paper was covered in fine ink lines. Looking closely, Stara gave a little gasp of delight at all the tiny drawings of mountains, houses and boats, and the fancy decorative border framing the map.
“It’s beautiful!” she said.