gods would be able to find them anywhere they went, he still felt vulnerable here. And all the while a dead body lay on the sand a short distance away.
“So,” he summarised, before anyone else could launch off into yet another tale, “you all hear the voice of someone you do not know. He’s a magician, able to lend you powers you don’t normally have. And, by all accounts, he does not necessarily have our best interests at heart.”
Three nods.
“You think someone in Andratan put something in your heads.”
Again, three nods.
“Then there’s only one solution,” he said, the words forming before he could question them. Pre-empting the obvious conclusion. “You three need to leave the rest of us. It is too dangerous for you to remain.”
There was a general indrawing of breath.
“Father!” his son cried out. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”
Noetos found himself asking the same question. His own daughter, whom he’d thought lost! Yet he had a responsibility to everyone here.
“Having a presence amongst us capable of slaying anyone without a moment’s warning is simply intolerable,” he said.
“There are many among us with such power,” growled Heredrew from somewhere behind him, in a voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“You have that power yourself!” Duon shouted at the fisherman. “Must I tell everyone here all the details of what happened in the Summer Palace at Raceme? You drew power from a voice in your head!”
This was not where he wanted the conversation to go. “That magic came from the sacrifice of my daughter, who acted as a conduit for hundreds of refugees from the city,” he said angrily. “A perfectly legitimate exercise of her magical powers. Nothing at all like yours.”
He decided not to mention that the voice in her head might well be able to reach him through her. Might even have assisted him in the Summer Palace. If the others couldn’t figure that out, he’d not help them.
“You’d drive your own daughter away?” This from Stella, in the gentlest of voices.
“I do not see it as driving anyone away,” Noetos replied wearily, aware—and secretly grateful—that he was going to lose this argument. “Rather, we are simply depriving our enemy of information. How can we help our three friends if our every plan is overheard by the voice in their heads?”
“Spoken like a soldier,” said Stella. “Perhaps I’d feel more comfortable were you to speak like a father.” She stared at him with something akin to loathing on her face.
Why do people always follow sentiment rather than common sense? He gave it one more try. “As her father, I want Arathé to have the best chance of getting free of this curse that has her in its grip. If that means sending her away—in the company of a priest and a very capable soldier, I remind you—so we can work out in secret how to save her, then that is what, as a father, I ought to do. If I give in to sentiment and keep her here beside me, we all might lose our lives.”
Incredibly, as he scanned his fellow travellers, he found himself facing a dozen hardened expressions. They don’t understand. None of them, it seemed, could take the tough decisions. His son’s attitude he could comprehend, but the others were leaders. This ought to be the sort of equation they dealt with on a daily basis. He wondered at the scrupulousness that forced him to argue for what was right and against what he wanted. Was it some failure in him; or was their rejection of his argument their failing?
They hate me, he realised. They think me unfeeling. They will never follow me.
“You should not send them away,” said Lenares. “If you send them away they will be hurt. The hole in the world will swallow them up. We need to protect them.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled across the group.
“Very well,” Noetos said, trying to contain his anger and hide his relief. “But this decision should be reviewed often. And those three”—his finger punched the air in their direction—“must report to us every word this voice speaks in their minds. No more secrets.”
Without waiting for a reply, he rose from his position at the side of the gathering and strode rapidly away across the sand, scuffing at the dirt. Walking off his frustration and confusion, just as he had done in Fossa after every argument with Opuntia. Just as unsuccessfully.