“But she says there are men living there, in mid-River!”
“Who may have been there for countless generations. What I find more interesting is that she says there are Treeci, but she does not tell us what those are. Another race of creatures, however. That must be what she means!”
“It is unfathomable to me that men would not have settled another land if that land were reachable by any means,” she grumbled, still preoccupied with Medoor Babji’s possible pregnancy and not thinking of exploration or settlement at all.
“And perhaps they did,” he replied. “And perhaps they are there now. And perhaps they did, and perhaps they all died. And perhaps they did, and some other thing happened. And perhaps, just perhaps, the men who are meant to settle that other land are the Noor.”
She bowed her head, whispered, “You’re right, Strenge. As you often are. So. Send word to all the Noor. They are to leave for Southshore by the quickest route, every tribe in its own way. Empty the coffers of the Queen. Hire boats where we can. Take them where we cannot. Arrange provisions. And send word, as Medoor Babji has suggested, to all the Melancholies between Thou-ne and Vobil-dil-go. There must be some plan made for the assembly of our people when we reach Southshore. If we do. …” She took a deep breath, drew herself up.
“We will leave in the morning! We will forget our plans to seek any agreement with the Chancery. It was always a vain hope. Since we are very near to Split River already, we will go down along the river to Northshore. Forced march. We Noor can march in three months or four what would take the Northshoremen a year. She bids us hurry. We will hurry.”
She was silent a time, thinking. With all this threat to her people, still she longed to have Medoor Babji beside her at this time. But pregnant?
“Ah. I am to be a grandmama again. My heir is to have a child. Ah, Strenge, what message shall my heart have for my daughter when she returns?”
Tharius Don slept, deep in the sleep of angels, where no trouble was nor anguish. He flew, as with his own wings, alight with holy fire.
Someone shook him by the shoulder.
He opened his eyes, struggling to penetrate the gloom.
“Your Grace.”
“Ah?”
“A message, sir. It came in this afternoon, but with everything that was going on, it got mislaid. When I came on duty, I knew it should be brought to you at once. It’s from the Dame Marshal.”
The young officer looked haggard. He offered the message bone with a shaking hand.
“Open it,” Tharius ordered, pulling himself up in the bed. Even when the message was unrolled before him, he had trouble focusing on it. It wasn’t Gendra’s hand. . . .
The thing wasn’t from Gendra. The words within were signed by the Noor slave, Jhilt. They spoke briefly of the Noor, and then they spoke of Pamra Don, who was to be given to the Thraish for some kind of ceremonial degradation at Split River Pass. The Thraish had not been convinced or in anywise changed by Pamra Don. They planned this thing in order to discredit her before all her followers.
When he had read the words over for the fourth or fifth time, Tharius Don dried the weak, futile tears that were flowing unbidden down his face, dripping off his chin.
“So,” he said, reaching for the bell at his hand. “So is my pride humbled.”
“Bring me food,” he said to the yawning servant who came in response to the sound. “Something hot and strengthening. Find my musician, Martien, and ask him to come to me here.”
When Martien arrived, breathless, he found Tharius Don wrapped in a blanket, eating with single-minded compulsion. His face was drawn into an expression of concentration and pain.
“I am not staying here for the funeral,” Tharius said. “I’m going over the pass, leaving almost immediately. Send the alert for the strike, Martien. Have watchmen posted on the heights. Though I pray it will not be needed, I will carry the green banner. When it falls, the word is to go out.”