Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two

by Neumeier, Rachel

  “I understand what you say.” The king leaned back in his chair, looking at Tehre. “Lady Tehre, I understand your concerns. I promise you, so far as I am aware, your family, however far north they may be, is not in immediate danger. If danger arrives at the doorstep of your family’s house, I think it will not come so swiftly that they and all their household cannot retreat before it.”

  “But…” said Tehre, but then did not know what to say. She blinked, trying to rid herself of the image of her father’s house surrounded by sand and red stone.

  “I have considered carefully,” the Arobern said firmly, “and I am satisfied to leave matters as they stand.”

  “Oh.” Tehre tried to think. She began uncertainly, “But—”

  “No,” said the Arobern, holding up a hand to stop her. “Let your friend go north. Let my mage see to this problem, as I have sent him to do. Attend to your own house, Lady Tehre.” He got to his feet and stood looking down at her.

  After a moment, Tehre realized that this was actually a command. She rose quickly. “Lord King—”

  “No,” said the Arobern. Patiently. But with enough firmness that she knew she could not protest again. He added, “Lady Tehre, I see that you, too, have a great capacity for loyalty. I admire this. But, no. Go home. When there is news of practical importance from the north, you will hear it, I promise you.”

  Tehre hesitated. Then, as there was nothing else she could do, she bowed. “Lord King.”

  “And another time,” the king said, showing a glint of iron under the patience, “I hope you will be content to wait for a proper appointment, Lady Tehre.”

  Tehre caught back several things that occurred to her to say. Her mother would have been amazed. Instead of saying anything at all, she bowed again, lower, in apology, backed away three steps, bowed once more, and retreated. Not in very good order, she knew.

  Go home. Like she was a child. Or, she admitted to herself, perhaps merely like she was subject to the commands of her king. That was harder to protest. If the Arobern had ordered her to go home without talking to her at all, that would not actually have been surprising. He had been patient.

  She was angry anyway. She was both angry and frustrated when she left the palace and told a servant to hail a public carriage for her. But the anger faded as the carriage rattled through the streets of the city, and by the time she stepped down and waved at the driver to go around to the kitchen door for payment, she was no longer angry at all. But she was still intensely frustrated.

  “Tehre…” Fareine brought her a plate of apple pastries in the library, since she had not eaten breakfast.

  Tehre picked one up, put it down, and asked, “Fareine, do we have a map of the north somewhere?”

  Fareine regarded Tehre uneasily. “Several, I should think. But—”

  “Would you get one for me, please?”

  “What did you find out about Gereint? Or the lord mage? Isn’t that what you went to find out?”

  “Yes. Nothing.” Tehre tapped her fingers on the polished surface of the table. “I saw the Arobern—”

  “You went to the king? Again? Tehre, you’re going to offend him, doing that!”

  “Yes, maybe. Anyway, it didn’t help.”

  “You couldn’t speak to him?” Fareine sounded as though she suspected such a failure might have been a good thing.

  “I talked to him,” Tehre corrected. “He wouldn’t talk to me.” She was silent for a moment, contemplating the pattern of that encounter. “I might have said too much, too openly,” she concluded. “But he said far too little. Fareine, would you please get me a map?”

  “If I won’t, I suppose you’ll get one yourself. So I suppose I will. If you’ll eat a pastry for me.”

  “Oh…” Tehre picked the pastry up again and bit into it. The apples were nothing like as good as the ones from her mother’s orchards. She ate the pastry anyway, brushing crumbs absently off the table onto the floor, ignoring Fareine’s little sound of protest. “What?” she said impatiently. “Do you want me to get grease spots on the scroll?”

  “No,” sighed Fareine. “I’ll get a girl to come sweep.”

  “Yes, please,” Tehre agreed absently, and set the plate with the remaining pastries on one edge of the map to hold it open. Then she studied it. It was really more a map of the northeastern province of Meridanium. The Terintsan River formed the western border of Meridanium, small towns scattered along its length until it joined the Teschanken in the confluence at Pamnarichtan. Well to the north and west, at the edge of the map, lay Melentser.

  Or that was where Melentser had lain. Tehre supposed it had all gone to desert now. She wondered how long the city would last under the pressure of sun and scouring sand-laden winds. Would all the tall buildings, so proudly raised over the years by builders and engineers, merely wear away? That might take a long time. Or would the desert somehow destroy the remnants of the human city quickly? And if so, how?

  And why did Beguchren Teshrichten want to go north toward that desert? And why did he need a maker to go with him? Not just a maker, but one from the north, maybe from Melentser, a man who might have actually seen the desert come to the city. Yes, Gereint had probably used the coming of the desert to get away from Lord Fellesteden; that seemed logical. But did the cold mage specifically want a man who had been in Melentser, or a man who had been geas bound? Or both?

  Too many questions, and no way to answer any of them. Tehre sighed.

  “You—” Fareine began, but stopped.

  “I think…” Tehre began. “I think—”

  But one of her other women interrupted her. She came quietly to the door, waiting for attention.

  “Yes?” Tehre asked the woman.

  “A visitor, my lady,” murmured the woman apologetically. All the household knew Tehre did not like visitors.

  Tehre nodded, developing and discarding half a dozen quick guesses about who might have come—Gereint again, not likely; a servant from the king, more possible but still unlikely; her brother? A messenger from her parents? Oh, probably a representative from Lord Fellesteden’s heir; now that seemed likely. If unwelcome. Tehre tried to think of a highly regarded judge in Breidechboden to whom she might appeal, if there was going to be trouble from that direction after all…

  But the woman said instead, “A foreign lord, honored lady: a Lord Bertaud. He didn’t give his other name…”

  “They don’t,” Tehre agreed, blinking in surprise. “In Feierabiand, they say Somebody son of Somebody. Or daughter, I suppose.” But she was not thinking about this interesting difference in customs. She was thinking about the Feierabianden lord she had met in the Arobern’s palace. He had been kind to her… or interested in her, or more likely her business with the king… She said, “I will see him, of course. In, well…” She looked questioningly at Fareine.

  “Your reception room has half a disassembled catapult in it,” Fareine murmured.

  “My workroom?”

  “Not suitable. It had better be here, I suppose. Let me get this plate—is the floor clean? Honored lady, you need to go put your hair up.”

  “It is up…”

  “It’s coming down,” Fareine said inflexibly. “Go put it up properly. I’ll go myself to welcome our guest. Does he speak Prechen? Well, at least that’s in his favor…” She went out.

  Tehre ran up to her room, took one surprised look in her mirror, tried to tuck recalcitrant strands of her hair back where they belonged, gave up, took down the whole mass, and began impatiently to put it up again. Luckily Meierin arrived to help.

  “Fareine says your green dress is fine,” the girl told Tehre. “But she said to remind you that you can’t wear gold in your own house; where are your copper earrings? Oh, never mind, here we go,” and she collected earrings and bangles of fine twisted copper wire and helped Tehre put them on. “I’ve never seen a Feierabianden lord,” she remarked wistfully, stepping back to look Tehre quickly up and down and add one last copper pin t
o help hold her hair in place.

  Tehre laughed. “Bring a plate of cakes in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you!” said Meierin, smiling back, and ducked out to run down to the kitchen.

  Tehre left her room with a good deal of stately care to avoid losing any pins, descended the stairs, and entered the library once more.

  Lord Bertaud… son of Boudan, was that right? Such strange names, so soft in the mouth. Tehre smiled and inclined her head and limited herself to, “Lord Bertaud. Welcome.” That should be safe…

  The Feierabianden lord had been standing by the table, gazing thoughtfully down at the map that was still laid out there. But he looked up when Tehre came in, took a step forward, and bowed very correctly. “Lady Tehre Amnachudran Tanshan,” he said, careful on the rolling syllables of her name. It sounded very exotic on his tongue. He went on in Prechen: “I, ah… intrude, not?”

  “No, no,” Tehre assured him in Terheien. “Welcome. I, mmm, I am glad you visit.” She did not remember the Terheien for “visit,” but he seemed to understand the Prechen. “Do you sit, honored lord? I mean, mmm…”

  “Will you,” the lord reminded her. “Will you sit. Yes. I thank you.”

  Tehre nodded, grateful for the prompt. She said ruefully, “Will you. Yes. Thank you. I should have study harder with my, my… teacher, when I am a girl. Was a girl.”

  “Yes,” Lord Bertaud agreed, smiling. “I, the same. I speak Prechen for day, for week, but still not good.”

  “Well. Not well. Good is… the cakes.” She gestured to the plate Meierin brought in and silently offered around. “The cakes are good. You speak Prechen well. You see?”

  “Yes. Though I think I do not speak well,” added the Feierabianden lord. He smiled at Meierin and took a cake. Meierin blushed, returned his smile, and backed away, bumping into one of the chairs as she retreated.

  “Just leave the plate,” Fareine said, casting a tolerant glance at the girl and waving a brisk dismissal. “Go on, go on, my dear, before you drop those.” She took the plate herself and set it on a small table where their guest could reach it.

  “You come, why?” Tehre asked, and gave Fareine a puzzled glance when the older woman rolled her eyes.

  Whatever objection Fareine found in the simple question, Lord Bertaud seemed not to mind it. He glanced down, frowning, but Tehre could see he was only trying to find the words he wanted.

  Lord Bertaud said at last, “I hear a little of what you say to, ah, the Arobern. I hear a little of what he say to you. ‘Trouble in the north,’ you say. ‘Griffins, desert,’ you say. The mage, the king’s mage, Beguchren Teshrichten, he goes north, is that so? There is a problem there, where the desert is. Melentser. I ask the Arobern.” He made a small, frustrated gesture. “He say, ‘Do not worry, not your problem.’ But I think of the griffins in Feierabiand this summer, and I do worry. I wonder, what problem? I wonder, what does the king’s mage do in the north? I think maybe you know because your friend go with the mage, is that not so? So I come here to ask. Do you understand?”

  Tehre thought she did. “The griffins brought their desert into Feierabiand, is that not so? But they were on your side, everyone knows that; in the end, they came in on your side against us and that’s why your people could defeat our king—” She realized suddenly, partly from Fareine’s expression, both that she was speaking rapidly in Prechen and that this last statement might be taken as an insult to Feierabiand. She stopped.

  But Lord Bertaud only nodded and said, “Yes. That is true.”

  Well, no wonder he was worried. And if this Feierabianden lord had been involved in all those events during the summer, no wonder the king did not want to tell him anything important. The memory of that defeat must burn like fire to a proud king such as the Arobern.

  It occurred to Tehre, belatedly, that perhaps she should not say more to Lord Bertaud when her own king had already rebuffed him. But, then, she really could not tell him anything; she did not know anything. She explained, this time careful to speak Terheien, “I wonder also. I ask many question also. I do not know. My lord king the Arobern, he says, yes, there is a problem. But he does not tell me what.” She echoed the lord’s earlier gesture of frustration. “I do not know.”

  “Ah.” Lord Bertaud looked down for a moment. Then he looked over at the map on the table. “That?”

  “Oh…” Tehre did not know quite what to say.

  The lord got to his feet, went to the table, bent his head over the map for a long moment. He traced the crooked line of the Teschanken River with the tip of his finger. Tapped a spot in the far north, hard against the mountains. “Here,” he said. “Melentser. Is that so?”

  “Yes…”

  “Yes.” The lord turned from the map, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded Tehre for a long moment. “You go north?”

  Tehre, startled, began to say “no.” But then, returning that earnest gaze, she did not deny it after all.

  “You must be joking,” said Fareine, gazing at her in total exasperation. “Except you never joke. Tehre…”

  “I think,” Tehre said slowly, in Terheien, not looking away from Lord Bertaud. “I think… maybe I go north.” And, to Fareine, “Hush, Fareine! I can certainly go visit my parents, can’t I? That’s perfectly respectable, and I want to know what’s happening in the north, not just sit here and worry! Don’t you? And I’m a very broadly skilled maker, you know, much more so than Gereint. Maybe the king believes he has to have a man to deal with whatever is wrong; maybe Beguchren Teshrichten, for whatever reason, believes Gereint is just the right man, but maybe they both ought to consider their options a little more widely, do you think?”

  Fareine, who had opened her mouth, looked faintly nonplussed and shut it again.

  “Surely you wouldn’t think I just wanted to chase north after a… a…” Tehre glanced quickly at the foreign lord and instead of lover finished with a far more obscure word: “Swain.” She let the tartness of her tone suggest what she thought of this suggestion.

  Fareine blushed, but she said stubbornly, “Tehre, dear, traveling with a foreigner? Meaning no offense to the honored lord, but your reputation isn’t something to toss aside into the street—think of your honored father and lady mother!”

  “There’s no reason for anyone to think anything of my reputation one way or the other,” Tehre said crisply. “As you know perfectly well. If anyone even notices anything I do, and why would they? But if I decide to visit my parents and then choose to travel in company with a respectable and honorable foreign lord who also happens to be going north, that’s just good sense and why ever would anybody think twice about it?”

  From Fareine’s expression, she would have liked to argue with this, but she couldn’t quite manage it. But she said, “Aside from ‘everybody,’ you might give a thought to what the Arobern might think! You’re used to being cleverer than most people, but he’s not a fool, Tehre.”

  Tehre paused. This was harder to answer. At last she merely shrugged. To the foreigner, she said again, “I think maybe I go north. My…” She could not remember the Terheien for “parents.” “My father and mother live here.” She touched the map. “I think maybe I go, ah, see my mother. One day, two, maybe. Then I go. But the…” “path,” “street,” “trail,” what was the word for “road”? “The way is, ah, it is not safe. I find other person to go with. Yes?”

  Lord Bertaud nodded. The swift exchange with Fareine had been too fast for him, but he understood her slow Terheien well enough, however clumsy. It was the satisfied sort of nod that said, I knew I was right. He said, “I go north. You, me, is that so?”

  “Yes,” Tehre said, satisfied. “You are kind to offer.”

  “The Arobern—” Fareine began, herself far from satisfied.

  But Lord Bertaud only shook his head and held up a hand, smiling at the old woman. He said to Tehre, but also to Fareine, “I do not ask leave to come and go.” He smiled at Tehre, not a cheerful smile, but somehow confi
dent and grim and sad all at once. “But I do not, ah. Speak well. I do not… I am from Feierabiand, anyone can see. It would be good to go with a person from Casmantium. You go north, I go north, is better, yes?”

  Tehre met the foreign lord’s eyes. She tapped the map again, north of Tashen, where her father’s house lay. “You, mmm… You might come and will be, mmm, my mother’s guest?”

  Lord Bertaud looked at the map, and then carefully at Tehre. “Generous, you. Yes. I come.”

  Tehre remembered very clearly the Arobern telling her, Go home. “I,” she said firmly, “also do not ask leave to come and go.”

  CHAPTER 7

  When Gereint left Tehre’s house, in the dark before dawn, he headed down the street with a long stride as though he knew exactly where he was going. But, though he had not admitted it to Tehre, he was actually struggling with a dilemma. Because the Emnerechke Gates were not the only gates that led out of the city. There was still the other road, the one that ran west toward Feierabiand.

  Trouble in the north; yes, that was interesting. But then, an intelligent man would not necessarily rush toward trouble. If the king’s own mage was heading north, how crucial could Gereint’s presence be? All this I need a maker aside… there were no few strongly gifted, highly skilled makers in Breidechboden. Some of them must surely suit Beguchren’s need, whatever that might be. If Gereint did not appear at the Emnerechke Gates at dawn, Beguchren Teshrichten could invite or compel one of them. Or a dozen. Earth and iron, the king’s mage could probably march every maker from the city into the far north in one long parade if he chose. They’d probably feel it an honor. Gereint did not even want to know why the king’s mage had found him so uniquely suitable for whatever purpose he had in mind. Though probably he was going to find out.