She turned in time to see him…
…descending from the skies.
37
The Moonrider did not remember him, and why should he? I am wearing a different face, Emeric Manfrey thought, and it was not a mask that could be easily removed.
“It is me I assure you, my lord,” he said, speaking in the Lumaran tongue. His long years living in the south had taught Emeric how to speak as a native, without so much as a hint of accent to betray his Tukoran roots. In the past, the pallor of his skin had done that. Not so today, with his features changed and darkened with the aid of Marian Payne. Emeric had seen himself in the mirror before leaving. It was him, but not him, a Lumaran version of Emeric Manfrey, the features delicately toned and altered by balm and potion to pass him off as one of their own.
Timor Ballantris was looking at him curiously, searching his face for the man behind the mask. The Moonrider was tall, lean, baldheaded, clean-shaven, with rich dark skin and piercing purple eyes, some fifty years in age. The few thin lines around his eyes and mouth and forehead spoke of a man of staid expression. “You look different, Emeric Manfrey,” he remarked. His voice was deep, calm. “You can see why I would have trouble believing you.”
“I understand, of course.” Emeric thought that now might be a good time to speak in his own mother language, so switched to the common tongue of the north, with that distinctive Tukoran brogue. “Perhaps now you may be more convinced of my identity?” he said, with a smile.
The Moonrider cocked his head a little to one side, bemused. “A switch in tongues and timbres serves as a nice trick. But I will need more proof than that.” He wore a magnificent cloak of black and blue lion fur, white at the collar, with a belt of silver medallions fastened about his waist. His armour was scalemail, in intricate links of black and blue and silver as well, set on a mannequin to one side, glittering in the torchlight.
Emeric felt rather naked without his own plate armour, but walking into the enemy encampment bedecked in godsteel from head to heel was not likely to go down quite so well. Instead he was armed and armoured as the others were; in the fine gold garb of the Sunshine Swords. “What proof do you require, Moonrider Ballantris?” he asked.
The man continued to study him. “How many times have we met?”
Emeric did not need to think about it long. “Four, my lord.”
“Where was the first occasion? When?”
“In Lumos, eleven years ago. It was my first time to the Glass City. You had heard that Sir Oswald’s descendent had come to settle in the empire and were eager to meet him.” It was a tale as old as time for Emeric. Even in the south, Sir Oswald Manfrey was a famous name. “You spoke to me with grace, I recall.”
“And what did we discuss?”
“My exile,” Emeric said. “You had some choice words to say about it.”
“What were those words?”
“Not ones I would care to utter again.” Emeric smiled. He had been required to shave his beard for the disguise, and his cheeks and chin felt terribly cold without its warm black cloak. “You taught me many new expletives that day that I had not heard before.”
A smile formed on the moonlord’s lips. “I am always happy to expand another’s vocabulary. Even then, your grasp of our tongue was quite exemplary, but your use of curses was sadly lacking.” He looked behind Emeric, to where several soldiers stood with long blue spears, their handles black. “You may leave us. He is who he says he is.”
The soldiers bowed and left them alone, moving through the flaps of the stately pavilion. The rest of the Sunshine Swords had been left outside to wait, save Sansullio, who stood to one side, politely observing. The morning was wet, cold, and misty, a thick fog hanging over the fields and woods. Emeric and the sellswords had used it to mask their approach, as planned. With Sansullio taking the lead, getting through the cordon of guardsmen at the camp border had been simpler than Emeric could have hoped. It seemed that they were not the only company of Sunshine Swords here; several other groups had sworn their swords to the war effort, and they were simply assumed to be one of those, passing on patrol through the camp.
Timor Ballantris began walking side to side, his cloak of dyed lion fur waving gently. He held his elbow in his palm, hand to his mouth in thought. “I have every right to kill you,” he said, after a time. “We are at war, I am sure you know. Why did you not come with a banner of peace? A white flag would have protected you.”
Emeric had to doubt whether that was the case. Either way, it hadn’t been an option. “It is important that Dragonlord Ven is not aware of this meeting, my lord. Nor Sunlord Avam. I sought a privy conference.”
That made the man frown. “Sunlord Avam is in command of our forces here. If he should discover that I entertained a spy in my tent…”
“There is no reason why he should. And I am no spy, but an emissary.”
“A secret emissary. Some would call that a spy. Avar would certainly be one of them, as would Lord Vargo. You have put me in danger coming here.”
That gave Emeric pause. Not often did a man like Timor Ballantris exhibit concern. “That was not my intent, my lord.”
“And what is your intent?” The Moonrider’s fierce eyes shifted to Sansullio, and back to Emeric again. “I hope you are not here to try to seduce me to your side, Emeric. If you are, you had best save your breath and leave the way you came.”
“I know you would not join us. Not directly, in any case.”
“Directly? So you expect me to join you indirectly, is that so?” The man’s hackles were rising more than Emeric would like, and that put him on dangerous ground.
It was dangerous enough coming here, he thought.
“We have heard rumours of division among your ranks, my lord,” Emeric said, choosing his words carefully. “That is only natural. I know how tense relations have been in the south, between Empress Valura and the Patriots. I know what happened at the warmoot. Valura was strong-armed into action against her will, through threat of violence and civil war. I understand. She had no choice, lest her people suffer, and she lose her rule. But that does not mean she wanted any part in this conflict.”
“No,” Ballantris agreed, blunt-voiced. “I stood at her side at the warmoot, Emeric. I spoke against the war, the same as Moonlord Hasham, and Grand Duchess Nemati, and several other prominent figures. But we were outvoted. The Patriots came in force and with the backing of their Agarathi allies. Empress Valura kept her own counsel; she was there to listen and to hear, not to speak, as is custom. But privately, I heard her thoughts. No. Of course she did not want this war. But that was not her choice. As sovereign, she must hear her people. The vote was cast, and here we are.”
“But not you,” Emeric said. “I am told you were not present at the Battle of the Bane, my lord. Nor Moonrider Ranaartan. You were sent later…by Empress Valura, is that not so? To balance the scales, and speak with her voice.”
The moonlord considered that at length. “My voice is not so large or loud as you may think, and the time for speaking is done. That was what the warmoot was for. By sacred tradition, we declared ourselves allies to the Agarathi, and Empress Valura herself commanded us to muster and march here. That I came later is of no significance. Nor are my personal beliefs.”
Emeric understood. “You serve,” he said. “Whether you agree or not, you obey.”
“I must,” said Ballantris. “This is not a time for half-measures, and the empress is not as strong as her mother was. She bows to strength, and what are the Agarathi if not strong? Were it mere civil conflict against the Patriots she feared, perhaps she would have taken a harder line, but it isn’t. To stand against them both would be to court her own destruction.”
“And what of the world’s destruction?” Emeric asked. He fixed the man with a steely look. “Are you aware that the Dread has risen, my lord? Have you heard of the ruin he has wrought?”
A shadow passed the eyes of Timor Ballantris. He did not speak for a moment. Then he looked at Sansullio and asked, “Is this true?”
The Captain of the Sunshine Swords gave a nod. “It is true, Moonlord.”
“You’ve seen him? The Black Calamity? With your own two eyes?”
