Blood in the Water by Juliet E. McKenna Read Free Book Online

Third Day, Noon
     
    Dagaran opened the door. “Good day, Master Aremil.”
    “Good day to you.” It occurred to Aremil that the Soluran lieutenant had never once wished him fair festival. Belatedly, he realised he knew nothing of Soluran customs, not even which gods they worshipped.
    “I have no more news from the forest.” He tried to straighten in his chair. “Not since that skirmish with Duke Garnot’s scouts.”
    He knew there were wizards in distant Solura, but did they know anything of Artifice? Aremil had no idea. Perhaps they did. Dagaran took their enchanted communications in his stride. Then again, Aremil hadn’t seen anything perturb the saturnine man. He went about raising the militias to defend Losand and Sharlac as placidly as a merchant totalling his ledgers.
    “I’m more interested in events at Ashgil.” Dagaran came to adjust Aremil’s cushions with impersonal efficiency. “If you could contact Jettin?”
    “Of course.” Aremil felt embarrassment colour his cheekbones. He should have thought of that himself. He drew a steadying breath. It was getting easier to work this enchantment. Branca had been quite correct, saying practice would help.
    “ Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”
    Though he had only met Jettin a few times, the other scholar was a far more experienced adept. That made the task easier.
    “ Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”
    He wondered how soon he’d be able to contact anyone unschooled in Artifice by focusing his thoughts alone on the enchantments. At present he could only reach close friends like Tathrin and he still had to speak the ancient charms aloud.
    “ Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin—” Stumbling over the words, he rebuked himself. “— sast elarmin as feorel.”
    He must focus his thoughts on Jettin. Youthful and lightly built, olive-skinned with curly black hair. Hot-tempered, always ready to argue with any Vanamese dismissing the Lescari as beggars and fools.
    “ Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”
    Jettin was no fool. He wore an advocate’s ring, not easily won. Nor was he a beggar. Since fleeing Triolle in his own youth, his father had traded in spices to become one of Vanam’s wealthiest men.
    “ Aremil!”
    Jettin’s exultation made his head swim.
    “ We did it!”
    Aremil felt as if he was being swept clean out of the room. His eyes and ears told him he stood in a crowded marketplace. Aremil understood Tathrin’s ambivalence over Artifice far more clearly these days. It took a distinct effort of will to feel the chair beneath his thighs, his hands resting on the desk.
    “You’ve taken Ashgil?”
    Aremil heard the scrape of Dagaran’s boots. He couldn’t see the Soluran. His mind’s eye was filled with Jettin’s jubilant memories of the morning’s adventure.
    That didn’t outweigh Aremil’s exasperation. Jettin had been told to stay well clear of danger. He’d still decided to ride with the lancers. Left to his own devices, he’d have been in the front rank; Aremil could see that clearly in his thoughts.
    But the Dalasorian clan lords were among the few admitted into the secret of Artifice. Like Captain-General Evord, they had only agreed to join this army once they saw how such hidden advantage could tip the scales in their favour. Evord had told them how few adepts served the exiles, so Sia Kersain had sent Jettin to ride in the rear. Tall, lean and hatchet-faced, the Dalasorians’ highest clan lord wasn’t a man to be argued with.
    Aremil felt the jolting of the trotting horse beneath him and the sharpness of Jettin’s irritation. The young adept hadn’t stayed ill-tempered for long, though. It was a bright, clear morning and the Vale of Ashgil lay open ahead. The fields were empty, a chequerboard of stubble and ploughed black earth after the harvest.
    They saw the coloured tiles of Ashgil’s shrine roof first. Aremil recognised Ostrin’s loyal hound, russet against the black, and the god of