Point of Hopes

“These can’t be all of them, surely?” Coindarel stood in his stirrups, turning to survey the half dozen or so in the mine yard. A few more children were creeping out from among the trees. Rathe saw, and braced himself to the task of finding the rest. At least Asheri was safe, he thought, and was instantly ashamed.

“No. We–I sent the rest into the forest, down towards Mailhac. They’ve probably scattered, I told them to follow the stream, but we’re going to have to find them, get them back to Astreiant…”

“You don’t have to do anything, pointsman,” Coindarel said. “That’s what we’re here for.” He looked around the yard again, and touched heels to his horse, sending it dancing sideways toward the pile of ash where the magist had stood. “But we seem to be missing someone, by all accounts. Where’s Maseigne de Mailhac–or her pet magist, for that matter?”

Before Rathe could answer. Coindarel’s horse shied, bounced sideways on bunched feet, away from the ashes. Coindarel swore, one arm instantly steadying Asheri, and brought the animal back under control with an effort. Rathe pointed to the pile of ash, the wires that had been the orrery just visible beneath it. “That’s what’s left of them,” he said, and Coindarel lifted his head, eyes wide, looking suddenly like one of his own horses.

“I’m not at all sure I really want to know,” he said at last. “At least, not yet. Not until we’ve found the children, maybe not until we’re back in Astreiant.”

Rathe shook his head. “No, Prince‑marshal,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

Coindarel lifted an eyebrow, but visibly thought better of it. He wheeled his horse again and trotted back toward the rest of his troop, just coming into sight at the head of the path. There were more children with them, a good dozen, and Rathe allowed himself a long sigh. Coindarel’s men would find them, the children would come to them, and everything would be all right. The sun was rising at last, a breeze rising with it, and the ashes stirred, releasing an odd, acrid smell, hot metal and something more. Rathe winced then, thinking of untimely deaths, and turned to b’Estorr.

“I know this was just. But I also know what Timenard was.” He looked back at the pile of ash, the dull wires half buried in it. “And I don’t want anyone troubled by his ghost.”

“I can do that,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe nodded.

“Then, please. Do it.” It was his right, as a pointsman and a servant of the judiciary, to ask that, or it would be if they had been in Astreiant and Timenard had died on the gallows. Rathe shook the doubt away. He had told the truth: Timenard’s death had been deserved, and de Mailhac’s with it; if nothing else, treason was a capital crime, and madness like Timenard’s was worse than treason. He nodded again, and b’Estorr nodded back.

“You’re right,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his coat, bringing out his own orrery. The metal was tarnished, as though it, too, had been through the fire, and he blinked, startled.

“Mine, too,” Denizard said, and held up a smaller, double‑ringed disk. “Gods, if that–device–of his was powerful enough to do that just in its destruction…”

“Then Nico’s right, and the ghost ought to be laid, for good and for all,” Eslingen said.

“I agree,” b’Estorr said, absently, adjusting the rings of his orrery. They moved smoothly now, Rathe saw, and shivered, remembering their earlier stubbor

“Let me help,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr nodded.

“If you’d set the wards?”

Denizard nodded back, and crouched to begin sketching symbols along the outside of the circle. b’Estorr reached past her, drew more symbols inside the circle, murmuring to himself in a language Rathe didn’t recognize. He drew two more sets of symbols, consulting his orrery each time, and then looked down at Denizard.

“Ready?”

“Done,” Denizard answered, and drew a final symbol in the dirt outside the circle. Rathe felt something give, as though the air itself had collapsed, leaving a space that was somehow outside proper time and space, and b’Estorr reached calmly into the center of the circle, inscribed a final symbol in the air above the pile of ash. There was a flash of light, gone almost before Rathe was sure he’d seen it, and the feeling of dislocation was gone with it.

“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe nodded.

b’Estorr slipped his orrery back into his pocket and held out a hand to help Denizard to her feet. “That’s bound them, not that there was likely to be much left to trouble anyone. Power like that is called soul‑destroying for a reason.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and wished he could think of something more.

“Mind you,” b’Estorr went on, “if they want to use the mine again–whoever de Mailhac’s heirs are, they’re unlikely to turn down gold–I’d suggest putting up something a little more solid to mark the spot, otherwise it’ll drive the horses crazy.” He seemed to realize he was babbling, and stopped abruptly, shaking his head. Rathe touched his arm in sympathy, and looked back across the yard to where Coindarel and his men were still gathering the children. There were two more of them on the hill above, he realized, a boy and a girl, and he lifted his hand to wave them down. They saw the gesture, and started toward the others, and a third stepped from behind a tree, picking her way carefully over the stones after them. That must be close to half of them, Rathe thought, and all of them safe and sound, frightened, certainly, but unhurt. That was a better result than he had thought possible even a week ago, and he felt unexpected tears welling in his eyes. He blinked hard, impatient with himself, and Eslingen laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Seidos’s Horse, we did it.” He looked more closely then, and the cheerful voice softened. “You can take them home now, Nico.”

Rathe smiled. “Well, Coindarel can,” he said. “They’re going home, that’s the main thing.” And that, he thought, was more than enough for any man.

Epilogue

« ^

it was a slow journey back to Astreiant, despite the wagons Coindarel commandeered from every farmstead he passed, but the news ran fast ahead of them. By the time they topped the last long hill that led down to the city, the steep slate roofs rising like a stone forest from the paler stones of the houses, the royal residence sitting on its artificial hill to the north as though it floated above the ordinary world, they could see the crowds gathering along the Horsegate Road. The first parents had already reached them, reclaiming their children with shouts and tears of joy. Coindarel slowed his troop to a walk and gave up all pretense at discipline by the time they’d reached the outlying houses. Rathe, riding with the first wagon, was buffeted by the crowds, women and men thrusting flowers toward him and shouting inaudible thanks, clutching at boots and stirrup leathers as though they couldn’t otherwise be sure it was all real. They grabbed at the wagons, too, and a couple of Coindarel’s sergeants moved cautiously to block them so that the horses could keep moving.

Rathe heard a shriek from the nearest wagon, turned sharply, his fear turning to relief as he saw Herisse Robion, her green suit sadly battered now, leaning over the wagon’s side to wave to someone in the crowd. Rathe turned to look, and saw the butcher Mailet, and with him Trijntje Ollre, tears streaming down her face.

“Trijntje!” Herisse cried again, and Rathe touched heels to his horse, edging it through the crowd.

“Need help?” he asked, and the girl turned to him.

“Oh, let me down, make them stop, please, it’s Trijntje, and Master Mailet, and everybody–”

Rathe glanced at the wagoner, who shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, if I stop for her, I’ll have to stop for all of them, and we’ll never get them home.”