All outside the ring of firelight was still. The night was windless. Any creatures abroad in it were either too small for Vivian to see or utterly uninterested in the little camp.
Vivian still watched the stark landscape, mindful of what magic or simply human meat could attract, but she kept a keen eye on Olvir.
He sat as motionless as the mountainside itself, except for the regular rise and fall of his chest. At first, that was all. The fire crackled, the stars glittered overhead, and Olvir held his place, becoming part of the night itself.
It would have been easy to miss the beads of sweat that sprang to his forehead or the sudden ragged inhalation of a man who’d just had a shock. Vivian noticed both. She crossed the distance between them quickly, not standing directly at his back but close enough to catch him if he passed out.
Ulamir’s gem shone blue in the unsteady light. Shadows danced along the naked blade.
Nothing approaches,he said,and I sense no change in the knight.
Vivian asked whether he would, not daring to speak aloud.
I might. I can’t be certain.
The soulsword had picked up the trail of magical creatures in the past, but human wizards generally didn’t stand out. Where did the incarnation of a god, or part of a god, fall? It probably depended on how incarnate it became.
She sent Ulamir understanding. Then she stood and waited.
Olvir’s lips parted. His closed eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids. On his lap, his open hands strained suddenly, fingers splayed and stretching outward, then snapped closed with such force that even Vivian winced at the idea of being in that grip.
His mouth moved but formed no recognizable words.
Vivian swore silently. She wouldn’t interfere unless she decided that irreparable harm was about to happen, she’d said. She thought she’d do a decent job of judging that where the body was concerned. The mind and the soul were dicier.
Her awareness began to center itself around her stance, her arms, and the mild strain Ulamir’s weight was placing on her muscles. The world was resolving into forces: push and pull, up and down, thrust and parry. It was the same way she saw the world before a battle.
Wait, she told herself.
A shift has taken place. How great it is, I cannot say, but there is power now where there was none before.
Ulamir couldn’t tell her the nature of that power, or he would have done so already. In death, he retained his people’s awareness of magic, but nobody could read minds.
So Vivian stayed as she was, braced to strike or to save. She watched Olvir’s fists unclench. His shoulders abruptly slumped, his face relaxed, and his eyes opened. The pupils were very large, color only a narrow rim around the black.
Vivian wanted to be relieved but didn’t let herself. “Name?” she asked.
“Sir Olvir Yoralth, knight of Tinival.” His voice was rough.
Clearly he wasn’t going to topple over, so Vivian dug the weeping sculpture out of her pouch. “Touch this and proclaim your faith,” she said, holding it out.
“I look to Tinival for wisdom, justice, and truth,” Olvir said, cupping the woman’s chin with fingers that shook slightly. “I revere Sitha and the works she inspires from mortal hands and minds. I celebrate and protect Poram’s creation. I praise Letar for her healing, for her passion, for being the flame that burns bright against corruption.”
The wood stayed cool to Vivian’s touch. She took the statue back, then handed Olvir the waterskin from her belt. “You deserve stronger.”
“And we both deserve hot baths and a bed that’s not the ground,” he said with a smile that was probably his. He drank eagerly but not too quickly.
“So?” Vivian resheathed Ulamir.
“It was a good idea, I’d say. Not an easy one, but likely wise.” Olvir wiped his mouth, then his forehead. “I touched the fragment or spoke to it—whichever metaphor you want to use—and I think I can do it again. Maybe I can manage more as we get closer or with practice. I’m not sure.”
Vivian thought of the statue, which wouldprobablyhave burned Olvir if the fragment had completely taken him over but might not have responded to partial control or subtle influence. She remembered the strength of his grip and how his lips had formed phrases of silent gibberish.
“I suspect,” she said, “that we may have to give up on being sure of many things.”
Chapter 17
From the ground, one of the dips between the Serpentspine’s peaks was notably lower than the others. That was the Vadar, the Cattle-Running Pass in the old barbarian language, and Vivian and Olvir’s best chance of getting across the mountains, assuming the old stories held true. It was also the source of a stream that ran briskly down to join the Natarian. So early in the spring, it was a vigorous cascade, thick and turbulent with snowmelt.
