“You think the help will come in time?” asked Temar, struggling to absorb this astounding proposal. “Could force enough be rallied to cross the ocean before the autumn sets in?”
“Could the Sieur of any House deny his support, given tokens that contain the very life-essence of his people to hold in his hand? Could he face his brothers and sons knowing he was condemning those minds to forever remain frozen and insensible, far from their bodies sleeping in a distant cavern for all eternity?” Den Fellaemion’s voice was soft, but his eyes were as keen as steel.
“I see what you mean,” said Temar faintly. “How could they refuse?”
“So will you help us?” Guinalle asked, her eyes pleading with Temar. “We need to persuade our people here that this is their only hope. We have to call on all the ingrained loyalties to each Name that we bear, give them just enough information to convince them to do this. Without their belief in the plan, it cannot work.”
Temar nodded, his mind already searching the plan for any flaw or opportunity. “So who will you be sending overland?” he asked Den Fellaemion, “Those with families in the new settlement might be best—”
“They will be the first to submit to Guinalle’s ministrations,” Den Fellaemion said sternly. “Use your wits, Temar, these people have been through a waking nightmare and I am only going to put demands on them where I must.”
“I don’t understand,” frowned Temar.
“Think about it, lad,” the Messire rubbed a weary hand over his bloodless lips. “If we are sending people away from horror and death, toward safety and their loved ones, if danger threatens, who among them is going to struggle to protect a burden, however precious they have been told it might be? I don’t mean to condemn our people as cowards, but be realistic, Temar, we need to send men who will lose their lives before they lose these valuables. More than that, we need to give the settlers at the new port every incentive to get home, to rouse a riot if need be, to summon aid and bring help to restore their own loved ones to life again.”
Temar could see Guinalle was as shaken by this uncompromising argument as he was.
“It can only be a matter of time before these invaders follow the coast south and find the new settlement. There’s more to this than simply protecting our own lives, you know,” Den Fellaemion continued, his pale eyes distant. “I do not understand how these murdering bastards came to this land but I will not leave them our great ships to steal, to cross the ocean with and fall upon an unsuspecting Empire, especially if the chaos that we have heard of is worsening. I bless Dastennin that they were all sent south for refitting in those more sheltered waters. If we must die here, so be it, but I spend my life in defense of my honor to my House, even if my Emperor is a wastrel and a fool.”
Guinalle and Temar exchanged an uncertain look. He stifled the qualms gnawing at his empty belly and squared his shoulders.
“I won’t fail you, Messire,” said Temar formally, resolutely banishing his own terror at the prospect of a journey through cramped and dangerous caves. “You may lay this burden on me.”
“Guinalle, could you go and help Avila, make a start on getting a meal inside these people. Warm food, however little, will put some heart into them.”
Guinalle blinked, evidently surprised at this albeit gentle dismissal, but rose obediently from her damp seat and made her way carefully down the slick steps into the cave.
“You won’t be leading the expedition overland, Temar,” Den Fellaemion said crisply.
“You cannot be thinking of going yourself, Messire—” protested Temar hotly.
“No, I am not, I know I haven’t the strength left.” Den Fellaemion shook his head. “This throw of the runes falls to Vahil.”
“But surely—”
“Hear me out, Esquire.” Den Fellaemion folded his arms over his narrow chest and looked steadily at Temar. “Vahil has Elsire at the new settlement and, yes, I know what I said about choosing those who would go, but this is a special case. The thought of rescuing Elsire is just about all that is keeping Vahil on his feet at present, all that is stopping him succumbing to the shock of seeing his parents slaughtered before him. I’m not going to remove that prop and, more importantly, I need Vahil and especially Elsire to demand aid from the Empire. As nephew and niece to the Sieur of arguably the mightiest Name in the south, their demands will not go unmet, I’m sure of it. Their uncle will get things moving, he will have to or be forever dishonored.”
“And D’Alsennin is a fallen House with little or no influence, is that it?” Temar could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Hardly. Your grandfather will take Nemith himself by the ears to shake some sense into the sot, if need be.” Den Fellaemion smiled faintly. “No, it’s rather that I want you here, at Guinalle’s side, just in case of the unexpected.”
“How do you mean?” Temar looked up, a little heartened.
Den Fellaemion drew a sigh deep into his thin frame. “Guinalle is confident that this extraordinary idea will work and, more, that she will be able to conceal all traces of the cave where you are hidden. I have to confess I still have concerns. We do not know just what Artifice these invaders are capable of and I am worried lest they find you all and somehow revive you. Guinalle has had to admit that in theory the body might be used to summon the mind from afar and in any case, whatever she chooses to contain her mind will have to remain with her body, since she has to be the last awake to seal you all in.” He looked after Guinalle, small in the vastness of the cavern as she knelt beside a weeping child.
“Of course, she swears that were she to wake to find herself in the hands of the invaders, she would use the last of her skills to warn the Empire then to stop her own heart, but I am concerned that if these savages have the Artifice to wake her they might also have the skills to take her will from her and bend her to their purpose. Should that happen, Temar, I would want you here above anyone else, to defend Guinalle and to find a way to salvage something from the wreckage of our colony, even if it is only spending your life in killing whoever has the Artifice to defeat Guinalle’s enchantments. I know I can rely on you for that, D’Alsennin. I can think of no other I could call upon.”
Temar could not find any words in the confusion of emotions within him until one question above all others demanded an answer. “But you will be here, Messire, surely?”
“No, Temar, I shall not.” Den Fellaemion moved to the edge of the alcove and looked out at the dark-green secrets of the gorge below them, the shadows deepening. “Walk a little with me, Esquire. We can check on the look-outs.”
Temar drew a deep breath of the fragrant air as they made their careful way along the ledge at the front of the cavern, slippery with returning dew where the sunlight had never reached the stone. Coming out of the shadow, Temar turned his face to the meager warmth, the chill of the rocks seemingly sunk into his bones. Den Fellaemion rubbed his thin hands together, the hooked nails almost blue against the papery skin.
“I’m dying, Temar,” he said simply. “The whole reason Guinalle started to research this arcane ritual was in a desperate hope that I would agree to be sent back to Bremilayne in such a sleep, to the shrine of Ostrin where the Adepts might have the skill to destroy the canker that’s eating away at my vitals.” He smiled, this time with fondness. “The dear girl does so hate to be beaten. Anyway, that’s how all this started,” he continued briskly, “but by now there is no likelihood that I could be revived, even if the enchantment did not kill me outright. In any case, knowing that Saedrin waits just beyond the door for me, I cannot see the virtue in sleeping awhile, only to waken to die. I intend to spend my life to some purpose at the last; I am going to take a ship, the rails lined with the fallen, and attempt to run the blockade myself.”