Battle mages who fought for the Daesin army often worked in pairs, linked together at times by various spells to gather intelligence, guide each other during covert missions, and lend firepower to teams of non-magical soldiers. The orbis spell Cimejen had cast between himself and Bron had allowed him to see Bron and his men advance into Baelok as they searched for the itzuli. He’d stayed with one of the catapult teams, acting as a weapons guide so they’d know where to aim and launch their load of stone without killing their own men under a barrage of friendly fire.
For all their usefulness, Bron remained uneasy over such connections, especially when he worked with a mage he didn’t like. He liked Cimejen and trusted the man wouldn’t abuse the power of such spells—he’d regret it if he tried—but trust or not, Bron would never grow used to them.
He followed Cimejen’s gaze, wishing he could catch a glimpse of Disaris. “Someone attacked her by the look of it. A serrated knife I think. If I’m right, she dodged the worst of it and used a pouch she carried to try and block the slash.”
She’d been alone when he and his team found her. Had the Daggermen saved her for last in the hopes of keeping their itzuli alive long enough for their purposes later? Had her own husband been the one to attack her?
A black anger spread roots, anchoring deep in his spirit. Once Baelok was fully taken, he’d look for Ceybold among the dead. If he still lived and Bron discovered his erstwhile friend had been Disaris’s attacker, he’d kill him.
“She’s either quick, or fortunate, or both.” Cimejen handed him a partially full wineskin. “Drink. You look like you need it.”
Bron accepted the offer, taking a generous swallow of the spiced wine brought by caravan to the two Daesin camps entrenched on the plain. He wiped his mouth and returned the vessel to his companion. “My thanks.”
Cimejen corked the skin, tucking it into his belt. “How do you know the itzuli?” He shrugged when Bron’s eyebrows rose. “The orbis spell might not allow me to hear what you’re doing, but I could see what the woman said. Your name is easy to read on another’s lips. It was obvious by her expression that she recognized you.”
Battle mages weren’t as rare as itzulis, but they were uncommon and highly sought after by all armies. Cimejen had been a seasoned battle mage serving under Golius for two years before Bron met him. The eunuch had already gained a reputation as both an exceptional mage and fighter. Bron had fought beside him in several skirmishes between Daesin and Kefian troops since then. He was smart, observant, and wielded his sorcery judiciously. Such a man made a valuable friend and an equally dangerous adversary. Bron admired him and was wary of him. That Cimejen noticed such small details within the restrictions of the orbis spell reminded him to watch his words.
“We were neighbors in the same village when we were children. I haven’t seen her in years,” he replied.
Such an innocuous answer might have satisfied another person, but not Cimejen. “Golius may not believe you’ve actually managed to catch the itzuli. He’ll think you’ve been misled and found a simple hedge-mother.”
Golius could go fuck himself. Bron knew his own sorcery better than anyone, and he’d never been wrong in locating another mage of particular power. “I don’t doubt he’ll question me. And he’ll want to test her skills to see if she’s truly an itzuli.” If she were, she was either a living treasure or an abomination,depending on who was asked. Every itzuli discovered—and those were few across centuries of time—had always been male.
By all measures, Disaris was a prisoner of war, and the fate of those unfortunates was often brutal and short-lived. She, however, was unique in her value. Until Golius could prove she wasn’t the itzuli used by the Daggermen and sought by both the Daesin and Kefian armies, she was safe from any real harm. Even if she wasn’t itzuli, she was still safe. He’d make certain of it.
“Did she ever give any hint of her ability when the two of you were growing up?” Cimejen’s steady gaze was as golden and piercing as a hawk’s.
Bron shook his head. “Not that I noticed, but it wasn’t like I was looking for it.” A truth his companion was welcome to dissect for any lies. He’d fail. That Disaris had displayed any magical ability at all, especially that of a code breaker, still left Bron reeling.
Weary of Cimejen’s not-so-subtle interrogation, he was about to bid the man farewell when a shriek sounded from the tent. Bron bolted for the source, the familiar cry sending a frisson of alarm up his spine as he leaped over litters and cringing patients to reach the corner of the tent where’d he’d left Disaris.
No longer unconscious, she stood on the litter, needle and thread hanging from her partially sutured arm as she held off Pyder and his helpers with a lancet used for bloodletting. She swayed, blinking slowly as she tried to focus on her opponents. She looked even paler than when Bron left her in the physician’s care.
Relief and joy flooded her eyes when her gaze landed on him. “You’re real,” she said in a thin voice. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”
Bron shouldered past the small crowd surrounding her, catching her as her knees buckled. He snatched the lancet out of her hand and tossed it to the physician. Careful with her arm, he braced a hand against her back and the other at her hip, holding her close. “I’m real. Why are you screaming, Disa?”
Suturing hurt, especially when the injured person no longer burned with the fire of battle fever and was nearly immune to pain. But Disaris’s cry hadn’t been one of suffering but of terror, an echo of one he’d heard from her years earlier, muffled by water yet no less desperate.
“They were trying to take my skirt,” she said, still giving that slow blink as she stared at him with the wonder one might display at the sight of a miracle. The idea of it made him squirm inside and turned his cheeks hot.
“What?” Her answer startled him. He forgot the crawling heat of his blush and glanced down, widening the space between them so he could better see her clothing.
Her garb was barely a step up from a beggar’s rags, marked by patches and held together by prayer and faded thread. Caked with dirt, the skirt was fit only for kindling in the camp burn pile and would fall apart at its next washing. Bron couldn’t imagine why she fought so hard to keep it on.
A grim possibility made his heart twist, and his hand lightly caressed her back. “It’s all right, Disa. You’re safe here. No one is trying to hurt you. They just want to give you clean clothing.”
She flinched in his arms, and her gaze fell. A blush painted rosy flags on her gaunt cheeks. “That isn’t why I screamed. My mother sewed this skirt for me. It’s all I have left of her. I don’t want it to end up in a midden.”
The horror of war included rape, and the gods only knew what she’d suffered at the hands of the Daggermen, but her scream sprang, not from the remnants of trauma, but from the desire to hold on to a treasure, no matter how battered or worn.Bron rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes for a moment. He then glanced over his shoulder at Pyder. “When you bring her new garb, don’t take away what she’s wearing. Understood?”
The physician nodded so hard, Bron thought his head might fall off. “Of course, Commander.”
Warmth suffused Bron’s entire body when Disaris leaned her forehead against the unyielding metal of his cuirass. “Thank you, Bron.” She held on to him when he lowered her gently to the litter, hands gripping the chainmail sleeves of his hauberk.
“Let the physician finish his work, Disa,” he said. “I won’t be far away if you need me, and your skirt is safe.”
She nodded, then frowned. “My satchel?—”
