reminder of the force we can exert at will. Either way, it makes it very, very difficult for them to say no.”
“So it’s politics,” Isseya said distastefully, looking around. That explained why Amadis had been given a private room with her own desk, a sheaf of paper, and the rare luxury of writing quills when all Wycome’s goose feathers were being requisitioned for arrows. She had thought it odd for the resolutely practical Senaste to show such consideration for a guest, no matter how closely connected to Starkhaven’s ruling family … but this put a more pragmatic gloss on the Warden-Commander’s actions.
“It’s politics,” Amadis agreed with a companionable grin, “and you’d better get used to playing the game. War is just politics with swords, and we aim to win.”
“I’m better at magic,” Isseya muttered, leaving the human woman to her letters.
Those letters worked, though. Every day, Garahel brought back more promises of support and pledges of aid. Prince Vael sent word that the refugees from Wycome would find safety in Starkhaven, and although Amadis cautioned them to take her cousin’s promises lightly, it still felt like a victory.
Or, at least, it felt like it could be a victory, if only they could get those people to the city in time.
Their days were running out. Even with every able-bodied man and woman working day and night to build aravels from fishing boats and wagon wheels—or donkey carts and sleigh runners, or whatever else they could find—they weren’t likely to have more than thirty done before the Blight took them. Isseya found herself hoping that she’d still be leading the first group out of Wycome when the darkspawn struck, just so she wouldn’t have to watch the town fall.
But the townspeople worked as if possessed, and a week after Isseya first proposed the idea during their inebriated meeting at the Glass Apple, they had enough makeshift aravels for the first transport run out of Wycome.
Eighteen vehicles were harnessed in a double line. They’d finished only nineteen in time, and one had broken during stress testing when Isseya slammed it down on the sheep pasture to simulate a bumpy landing.
Almost two hundred and fifty townspeople had crowded into those vessels, which seemed absurdly fragile to carry them across the Free Marches at speed. Food, clothing, and precious heirlooms mounded the thin wooden shells between wide-eyed children and their parents, who put on brave faces and hugged them close. Lacking much space for storage, most people had chosen to wear their best clothes to save them, and their festival finery gave the affair a grotesque air. Disgruntled chickens and geese protested in wicker cages strapped over the boats’ sides. Their constant squawks and screeches, and occasional bursts of feathers, added to the surreal atmosphere.
Crookytail and Revas stood at the head of the procession, each linked to a chain of nine aravels. Warden-Commander Senaste had procured new harnesses for the griffons, and the bright silver medallions strung on the padded leather straps gleamed like jewels in the misty morning light. It seemed impossible that the griffons, however powerful, could lift such a tremendous burden into the air—and it was impossible, without magic.
Maybe even with, Isseya thought, before she pushed those unwanted doubts firmly aside. She tied the sleeves of her robe around her wrists and elbows, adjusted the wide band that held her hair firmly in place, and glanced across the way to the Warden at the head of the other line. Garahel sat alongside the man, murmuring reassurances to his griffon. He’d control Crookytail, but it was the mage who would keep their aravels aloft.
Isseya didn’t have anyone else guiding Revas. She would do everything on her own, because taking both tasks onto herself meant that there was room for one more passenger.
She took a deep breath, then called over to the other lead aravel: “Ready?”
“Ready!”
“So it’s politics,” Isseya said distastefully, looking around. That explained why Amadis had been given a private room with her own desk, a sheaf of paper, and the rare luxury of writing quills when all Wycome’s goose feathers were being requisitioned for arrows. She had thought it odd for the resolutely practical Senaste to show such consideration for a guest, no matter how closely connected to Starkhaven’s ruling family … but this put a more pragmatic gloss on the Warden-Commander’s actions.
“It’s politics,” Amadis agreed with a companionable grin, “and you’d better get used to playing the game. War is just politics with swords, and we aim to win.”
“I’m better at magic,” Isseya muttered, leaving the human woman to her letters.
Those letters worked, though. Every day, Garahel brought back more promises of support and pledges of aid. Prince Vael sent word that the refugees from Wycome would find safety in Starkhaven, and although Amadis cautioned them to take her cousin’s promises lightly, it still felt like a victory.
Or, at least, it felt like it could be a victory, if only they could get those people to the city in time.
Their days were running out. Even with every able-bodied man and woman working day and night to build aravels from fishing boats and wagon wheels—or donkey carts and sleigh runners, or whatever else they could find—they weren’t likely to have more than thirty done before the Blight took them. Isseya found herself hoping that she’d still be leading the first group out of Wycome when the darkspawn struck, just so she wouldn’t have to watch the town fall.
But the townspeople worked as if possessed, and a week after Isseya first proposed the idea during their inebriated meeting at the Glass Apple, they had enough makeshift aravels for the first transport run out of Wycome.
Eighteen vehicles were harnessed in a double line. They’d finished only nineteen in time, and one had broken during stress testing when Isseya slammed it down on the sheep pasture to simulate a bumpy landing.
Almost two hundred and fifty townspeople had crowded into those vessels, which seemed absurdly fragile to carry them across the Free Marches at speed. Food, clothing, and precious heirlooms mounded the thin wooden shells between wide-eyed children and their parents, who put on brave faces and hugged them close. Lacking much space for storage, most people had chosen to wear their best clothes to save them, and their festival finery gave the affair a grotesque air. Disgruntled chickens and geese protested in wicker cages strapped over the boats’ sides. Their constant squawks and screeches, and occasional bursts of feathers, added to the surreal atmosphere.
Crookytail and Revas stood at the head of the procession, each linked to a chain of nine aravels. Warden-Commander Senaste had procured new harnesses for the griffons, and the bright silver medallions strung on the padded leather straps gleamed like jewels in the misty morning light. It seemed impossible that the griffons, however powerful, could lift such a tremendous burden into the air—and it was impossible, without magic.
Maybe even with, Isseya thought, before she pushed those unwanted doubts firmly aside. She tied the sleeves of her robe around her wrists and elbows, adjusted the wide band that held her hair firmly in place, and glanced across the way to the Warden at the head of the other line. Garahel sat alongside the man, murmuring reassurances to his griffon. He’d control Crookytail, but it was the mage who would keep their aravels aloft.
Isseya didn’t have anyone else guiding Revas. She would do everything on her own, because taking both tasks onto herself meant that there was room for one more passenger.
She took a deep breath, then called over to the other lead aravel: “Ready?”
“Ready!”
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