Then, she’d been garbed in bright colours, exquisite silks, and engendered envy from all the women of the court.
Now, her liver-spotted complexion and grey shift consigned her to sniggering ridicule behind her back. Oh, she knew they talked about her, wondering about her sanity. As if Thand’s erratic ailment was inherited from her. Her thick moist lips twisted. How dare they!
Thand kicked at the bed-covers and his face contorted, his mouth emitting soft sobbing sounds.
Her heart ached. She knew that right now Thand vied with the demons in his mind, demons that did not exist, and there was nothing she could do to help him.
Yet in lucid waking moments, he was his old self, capable of tenderness and generosity. He would make a good king, she knew.
She again read the saptor message in her aged hand.
The assassination attempt on the Lord-General had failed. Matred Boudela was dead. Her informant regretted that before Matred died he revealed her name to the Lord-General. When she first read that, her stomach had lurched; a horrendous sensation overwhelmed her, as if she had tumbled off the roof of their palace.
She shoved the message into her mouth and started chewing on it.
Distasteful, she admitted; but not as bad as eating the ashes of this setback.
We must be rid of the Lord-General! For Thand’s sake.
She swallowed and her thin neck pulsated as the paper sank down her gullet. She fought the incipient gagging that threatened to disgorge her last meal, and turned to study her son again.
Now, he was lying restfully, in repose. Her heart went out to him. If she could, she would swallow all of his demons and let them ransack her mind rather than his.
She picked up the glass of water by his bedside and swallowed all of the contents, washing down the fateful message.
All was not yet lost, however. She sniggered. She still had a few irons in the fire.
By accident, she had learned of Sister Illasa’s creation of a melog, a shadow assassin that killed a number of Saurosen’s influencial backers; that had precipitated Saurosen’s edict to ban the festival. No, she was not averse to using Illasa’s dark magic, if necessary, towards her own ends.
***
Epal villa, New City, Lornwater
Kneeling naked and bruised before Epal, Lorar wept silent tears, her breathing heavy, her heart torn as badly as her nightgown. The bedclothes lay tumbled on the floor.
He flung off his robe and bent down, and pulled at her hair, drew her towards him.
Fear sent ague through her limbs as she looked up at him. He took great pleasure in demeaning her and she hated herself for succumbing, for crying, for wanting Ranell to save her.
“Tears do not affect me, sweet Lorar,” Epal grated, thrusting himself against her face.
He smelled of stale sweat and drink and she cringed.
He slapped her face. “Do not flinch away from me! By the gods, I will crush your will.”
“I’m – I’m sorry, Danorr,” she whimpered, disgusted at her response, her cheek stinging.
“You will refer to me as ‘master’! How many times must I tell you?” He smacked her again.
“I’m… truly s-sorry, m-master…”
“Good. See you mind that in future! I have made arrangements for Ska-ama to teach you how to serve me as I want. I am your master – at least until I provide a new master for you, someone useful to me and my future…”
Fleetingly, hope rose in her breast. He sought another master for her. Anyone would be better than him, surely?
He let go of her hair, lifted her right arm.
Her heart faltered as he stared at the bracelet on her wrist.
“Where did this come from?”
Instinctively she realised that if he knew it was a gift from Ranell, he would deprive her of it. “My father… he gave it to … to me,” she lied.
He thrust her away from him, no longer aroused, as though mention of her father had ignited a spark of conscience. “Then do him honour and wear it when we go to the Red Tellar tomorrow.”
“Yes, master.” She lowered her eyes and, despite the pain and heartache, secretly she permitted herself to smile. Weakly, a tiny ember of hope glimmered. She might see Ranell tomorrow.
***
The royal palace, Old City, Lornwater
Glaring at Aurelan Crossis, Bem washed his bloody hands in a bowl of scummy water. “I don’t like the way he looks at us,” he said, drying his hands on a grubby cloth.
“He should be grateful you bandaged his wound,” agreed Hun.
“I appreciate it,” said Aurelan. “Not that my thanks will mean much when I get my hands on you both. Betrayal has its own reward.”
Bem flung the cloth at Aurelan’s face, but it missed, fluttering to the stone-flagged floor.
Hun sneered. “Are we supposed to be nursemaids until Che-man Car returns?”
“I think not! There are women to tup in the rioting streets. We’d be foolish to miss that!”
“What about payment from the king and queen?”
Hun looked meaningfully at Aurelan. “I’m wondering if maybe our payment might be as generous as his, eh?”
Bem gulped. “They wouldn’t, would they?”
“They’re royalty. They can do what they like!”
“We should have stolen some of that tresure when we had the chance.”
“Let’s go, then. Raid a few larders, eat our fill.”
“And raid a few bedrooms as well!”
“Yeah, let’s make a meal of it!”
Laughing in unison, Bem emitting a whistling sound, they scurried up the stone steps.
***
Fourth Dekin of Fornious
Red Tellar Inn, New City, Lornwater
Epal ground his teeth as he and Lorar entered the long room. Ranell joined them, acknowledged Epal with a curt nod and then forced a smile at Lorar.
“I did not expect to see you here,” Ranell said, taking her hand tenderly. He touched the bracelet, added, “A pretty bauble.”
“My – my father gave it to me.”
Ranell bowed his head solemnly. “He chose well. May he rest with his ancestors and look pleasingly upon you honouring him here.”
The long room was filled with people, Epal observed. All of them chatting – or more likely plotting – and there were many swords and knives in evidence. He fingered the hilt of his own weapon and wondered if he could strike down Ranell in a justified fit of pique. Probably not.
To one side he saw Prince Haltese talking to a coterie of gildsmen, his bull-necked eunuch hovering nearby.
He noticed that Ranell’s hand still lingered on Lorar’s and roughly pulled her to one side, disengaging them. “We are here to provide you with support, Ranell, in the absence of your father. It is my wish. And of course Lorar must accede to my wishes, no matter that she would rather not see you again.”
Those words cut the innman’s son deeply, Epal was pleased to note. The young fool was so transparent!
He glared at Lorar. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes moist. “Compose yourself, girl,” he whispered, “or I will send you packing and whip you later. Cannot you see we have important men’s work to do here?”
“I – I will, agnate. Truly.” She sounded contrite, which was fortunate, otherwise he would have to chastise her as threatened. He might still have to do so. Still, she had promised to abide by his wishes, all of them, if he joined Ranell here. “Though I have no idea what use I can be to the rebel cause,” he’d conceded.
“That is better.” Epal turned to Ranell. “So, what do you propose to do?”
“It is not for Ranell to propose anything,” interrupted Prince Haltese, striding over to join them. “I am in charge here.” He gave Epal a cursory glance and then set his blue-green eyes on Lorar. He stared, as if entranced by the vision before him. “Who is this?”
“My ward, Lorar,” Epal said, “recent orphan of Gildmaster Mowensar.”
“Lorar. A pretty name,” Haltese sai
d in a husky voice. He took her hand in both of his and caressed it. “I have heard about your father’s untimely demise, my dear. I am sorry that Daqsekor has called him to his side.”
“Thank you, Prince,” she replied equably, “but it was not the Overlord who took my father away. Merely cowardly ruffians.”
Haltese stroked his narrow blond moustache. “Followers of Bridansor, no doubt.” His veal-coloured lips pouted in concern. “I grieve with you, dear Lorar.”
She bowed her head respectfully, nervously fingering her bracelet. “You are too kind, highness.”
Studying the pair, Epal was ambivalent about this interlocution. It was plain to see that the royal prince was attracted to Lorar, though she appeared oblivious.
He noted Ranell’s clouded face and a warm glow suffused him. Ranell was disquieted, most certainly; now jealous of the royal prince.
Epal thought his future unexpectedly seemed bright. True, it was too early yet, but since he controlled Lorar, a woman who might share the prospective king’s bed, then his fortunes could turn towards riches and influence in due course.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SNO
“Caged birds do not in truth sing, they cry.”
- Dialogues of Meshanel
Fourth Sidin of Fornious
Near Lornwater
Heading from the direction of Daw, General Houran Accantey rode to the fore of the first toumen. Hills on his left offered a vantage point as they approached Oquar II forest. He headed for these, goading his glistening black mount up a slight slope. He was grossly overweight and to ease the pressure on his horse he refrained from wearing armour, despite protestations from his aides. “You pander too much to animal welfare, general” was their interminable refrain.
“Vultor has not failed me yet!” he had rasped, brushing a gloved finger over his long curling moustache. “We have fought in many campaigns and he has carried me victorious!”
Now, he called a halt and reined in Vultor. From this slight prominence, before the fork in the road that led to Lowdorl, he unsheathed his prized possession, a long metal cylinder, a farscope. He was the only general who owned one; with pride he extended it smoothly, placing it to his right eye. The farscope offered him a glimpse above the trees to the tops of the walls of Lornwater. Sunlight glinted on the city spires that surmounted the walls: the Eyrie, the Doltra Complex and the Red Tellar Inn.
He slid shut the instrument, stowed it and summoned his saptorman.
Soon, the fellow rode up; the wood cages of saptors jogged on either side of his piebald. “You wish to send a message, General?”
“No, I was simply enquiring after the health of your birds!”
“Oh, you do jest, sir.” The man cast a gaze over his charges, all of them cooing gently. “The recipient, sir?”
“Nemond Thand.”
“I have two birds here – either will do.” The saptorman held out his hand.
Accantey dropped a small roll of sealed parchment into his palm.
Carefully, the saptorman released the two birds – the carrier and the devoted guard-bird – and attached the message to the leg-ring. An instant later, he let them loose.
They flew high above the toumen, hovered for a short while to gain their bearings, and then headed towards the forest and Lornwater.
Even after all these years, Houran Accantey marvelled at these messenger birds. Unerringly, they found their destination. Without a doubt, soldiering would be far worse without their contribution.
Nemond Thand would now be advised of our approach, he mused. Perhaps people from the Nemond palace could arrange to open the varteron gates.
Gates were not the main problem, however, as he well knew.
No, the fourth toumen presented a formidable obstacle. Spies told him that General Pinur Nhev was very active rallying his men in the forest; Nhev was a warrior he greatly respected, and the forest was his preferred killing ground.
The implacable heaviness of foreboding rested on his shoulders as he leaned down and patted the chest of Vultor. “This might be our last campaign, my friend.”
The horse snorted, as if in acknowledgement.
***
The royal palace, Old City, Lornwater
Perched on the parapet of the royal palace’s manderon citadel, King Saurosen’s falconer observed through his spyglass two approaching saptors and deliberated for a while. Convinced that the markings were not for the king, he hurried to the eyrie in the corner and let loose his falcon.
The bird of prey soared rapidly and with superb instinct the king’s falcon sought out and attacked the male saptor. The pair fought claw and beak, feathers flying, while the female continued on its course to its destination, presumably somewhere in the Old City.
The spyglass pressed tightly to his eye, the falconer fretted briefly, but he had no need to worry.
After putting up a valiant fight, the guardian saptor fell, defeated. The royal falcon ignored its plummetting prey and chased the female.
Presently, the falcon landed on the carrier saptor’s back, sank its vicious beak into the rear of the messenger bird’s skull and then continued flying to the palace citadel, the dead saptor tightly clutched in its talons.
There was a mess of blood and feathers when the falconer reached the eyrie. He let the royal bird feast on its prey while he withdrew his knife and sliced off the dead saptor’s ring-leg.
He opened the message ring and recognised the seal on the parchment roll: the first toumen, from one of Nemond Thand’s generals.
Fingers trembling a little, he broke the seal and read the message.
This was dire, he knew. His knees grew weak, yet they had to take him down the stairs. His mouth was dry as he scurried towards the palace.
He was one of the few subjects always permitted immediate access to the king. His was a privileged position, based on absolute trust. He was expected to read intercepted messages and keep the information to himself, only divulging it to his liege.
As he feared, King Saurosen was furious. It was fortunate that the queen was with him. More than once she had been known to mollify the king, advising him that he should not blame the messenger.
“This is an outrage!” the king fumed, pacing back and forth. “Where is Bayuan Aco? He should have Thand in chains by now!”
“Sauri, I am not the keeper of your guards’ whereabouts. Calm yourself, please.”
She looked anxiously at the falconer; those sky-blue eyes melted his heart every time! “Yet again, you have given us impeccable service, Master Falconer. You may leave us now.”
“You are too kind, your highness.” He could not take his eyes off her as he backed towards the door, yet he was glad to get away. He turned and exited past the sentry who held open the door. Behind him, he heard, “Loyalty is very lacking, Jikki, as Nostor Vata said.”
The door was shut. He was troubled. The riots were getting out of hand, he knew. But that was an issue for the king to resolve. In truth, he feared for Queen Jikkos. Why was Thand bringing his troops here? Was it open revolt?
This was not good. The fourth toumen would not allow any troops to enter the three cities.
There would be fighting in the forest; it was inevitable.
He hurried back to the manderon citadel and his royal birds.
***
Oquar II forest
With measured tread, the massed horseflesh and the riders of the first toumen advanced to the outskirts of Lornwater, on the edge of the vast forest. Here, on the manderon road, they were accosted by ten of the fourth toumen’s scouts.
“Hold, go no further!” barked a black clad warrior in the van. “State your business!”
General Houran Accantey reined in. He gestured behind him, at the pennon held aloft. “You can see we are the first toumen, with allegiance to the king’s first cousin!” he rasped. “We offer aid at this time of need.”
Then another horseman in black armour emerged from the forest. “Welcome, General Hou
ran Accantey.” His complexion was leathery and he only had one ear, the other having been sliced off in battle years ago. He wore his black hair long, swept into two pigtails over broad shoulders, draping to his narrow waist. Accantey envied the man his tall slim physique. Probably wasn’t over-fond of sweetmeats and pastries. He affected green-and-black silk pants gathered at that enviable waistline and the puffy legs narrowed to the ankles.
“General Pinur Nhev, I’m pleased to meet you, though the circumstances are not propitious.”
Leaning on his pommel, his twilight-dark purple eyes glinting, Pinur Nhev said, “Indeed they are not.” His voice was like gravel brushed over dry leaves, and his mouth twisted due to a wound, the lower lip scarred. “Messengers have informed me that the king has Nemond Thand under house arrest.”
“This is dire news to me, sir!” Houran Accantey lied. The saptor messages he had received had spurred him on. “So, you are saying that I and my men – merely half a toumen – are not welcome, is that it?”
“I regret, and wish it were otherwise, but those are my orders. The Black Sword is in peril and your allegiance is now aligned with an enemy. I’m quite happy for you to retreat to Daw to await the outcome of this rebellion.”
“Retreat?” Accantey bellowed with laughter.
“The alternative will not be pleasant, General Accantey.”
“In war, think always of how to save lives…”
Nhev grated his teeth. “You would be wise to abide by that Tangakol tract. Another springs to mind – A good fighter flees from a moment’s danger.”
Accantey shook his head, gently patted the neck of Vultor. “I’m sorry, General Nhev. But ‘retreat’ and ‘flee’ are not in my strategy handbook. I fight, and I fight to win!” Swerving his horse round, he barked, “With me, first toumen!” He rode the road a short distance the way they had come.
Then, as the roadside gave way from trees to brush, he halted and turned his horse. “Prepare for a glorious fight, General Nhev!” he roared. He unsheathed his sword and Vultor whinnied and reared up. Behind him he heard the clamour of his troops, banging weapons on metal shields.
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