Stronghold

by Melanie Rawn

  Pol acted as his own Sunrunner, so there was little for Hildreth to do professionally. Her main duty was teaching—a task she enjoyed but which left the bulk of her gifts unused. In her eyes now was eagerness to function again as a Sunrunner was meant to. Tilal, recognizing this with some surprise, reflected that for all her sixty-four winters she was like a strong young hawk kept hooded in the mews. She needed to be flown at prey.

  “Thank you, Hildreth—and forgive me for not asking you here sooner. It’s habit. I rarely conduct business with my Sunrunner in attendance.”

  “I wouldn’t trust Fesariv, either,” she replied forthrightly. “He thinks the moons rise when Andry gives them permission.”

  Edrel made an annoyed sound. “I’m a fool—I’d forgotten you rode Grib and Meadowlord, Hildreth. You’ll know exactly the best route for his grace to take back to Athmyr to avoid the enemy.”

  “Avoid them?” Tilal forgot that his wife and daughter would be with him, and that he would command no more troops than his small personal guard and those that could be borrowed from Dragon’s Rest. “I don’t plan to avoid them. I plan to slaughter them.”

  • • •

  Hildreth’s foray on sunlight yielded horror. Radzyn attacked, a battle being fought, no telling who would win and who would be slaughtered. The question of defending their own lands or going to their princes’ aid was thus solved for Tilal and Edrel: it was too late to help Radzyn.

  Tilal had planned to speed his journey by swapping his own horses for ones kept at way stations along the road; Meiglan lent him enough spare mounts to make that unnecessary. He requested an escort of fifteen soldiers; she gave him thirty. When he thanked her, she expressed regret that she couldn’t send more—while wishing she could keep all of them here, especially Tilal. He had fought in the war against Roelstra. That was many years ago, and he had only been a squire, but at least he had experience. She wanted him to stay and take care of everything while she hid in a safe dark place until Pol came home.

  “I’ll send your people and horses back when I meet up with my own,” Tilal said. “Probably somewhere in Grib. I’ve sent word for my northern levies to join me while the southern protect the Pyrme River.”

  Jihan—irrepressible, willful—rode up on her new pony, demanding to be taken along. Meiglan saw the others smile. She felt like hauling the child down and slapping her.

  Kierun deflated Jihan’s dreams. “You can’t go, my lady,” he said with the firmness of four winters’ seniority.

  Very few people had ever forbidden Jihan anything—and none of them had been twelve-year-old squires. She sucked in an outraged breath, but never got the chance to tell him what to do with his orders.

  “My lord charged me to protect you and Princess Rislyn and her grace. And I can’t do that unless you’re all in the same place.”

  Meiglan nearly laughed. Protection from a child. The world had gone mad.

  Tilal intervened hastily. “Lord Kierun is right. Your safety is his responsibility. You wouldn’t want him punished if anything happened to you.”

  Her jaw jutted out, plain indication that she didn’t care if Kierun swung by his thumbs for it. But she climbed off her pony and waved a sulky farewell.

  “Don’t worry too much,” Tilal said kindly to Meiglan, but his green eyes were shadowed. “Radzyn’s never been taken. Everyone there will be all right.”

  Everyone at Radzyn could die for all she cared, as long as Pol came home where he belonged. She bid Tilal and Gemma and Sioneva farewell and sought her chambers. She knew she ought to sit with Lisiel, who had been confined to bed by the physicians. But Meiglan did not want to be with a woman who had given her lord one son and might produce another very soon now. It was a reminder of what she had not yet given Pol.

  At the Rialla this year she had summoned the courage to beg Sioned to tell her if a Sunrunner physician could help her bear a son. The reply had been completely unexpected: “You’re worth much more to him than your ability to have children, my dear. You’re not a brood mare! You are a princess.” Simple enough for Sioned to say; she had given her prince an heir.

  But though Meiglan could not bring herself to sit with Lisiel, neither could she think of a place dark enough and secret enough to hide in.

  Thanys entered the bedchamber with hot taze and cakes. She served Meiglan and then set about sorting a basket of clean laundry, talking on and on about the uproar in the kitchens as the servants prepared for a siege. Not that one was likely, but the chief cook had decreed that provisions were one battle Dragon’s Rest would never lose. His underlings were commanded like soldiers on a regular basis; since word had come of war, he was even worse—

  “Be quiet!” Meiglan shouted. Thanys was so surprised she nearly dropped an armful of lace bedgowns. “Do what you came for, but do it in silence!”

  Sioned would never have had to raise her voice. Meiglan huddled in on herself in despair. She had learned it all so well, all the things to say and do. And she knew how hollow the words were in her mouth, how meaningless the actions. Other women of her rank—Sioned, Sionell, Tobin, Gemma, even hateful Chiana—would be doing something right now, secure in their authority, preparing for war as efficiently as they governed their daily lives. Meiglan had no example for war. She didn’t know what needed ordering, organizing, overseeing. Her authority was empty without Pol.

  When Thanys murmured that it was nearly time for the children’s lesson, Meiglan stared in amazement. Pol was fighting for his life, and Thanys could prattle of the children’s lessons? But as she glanced automatically at the water clock, her mind turning just as instinctively to the day’s plan, she realized the older woman’s wisdom. There was soothing comfort in routine that fooled the mind and heart into believing that nothing had changed. For the children’s sake, life here must continue as regularly as possible.

  For the children’s sake? For her own. If she clung to the usual order of things, said what she always said and did what she always did, then perhaps she could convince herself that Pol was only out for an afternoon ride, that she could tiptoe into his chambers tonight and lie in his arms.

  But there was a greater reason than her own need to behave as if all was well. People would see and approve, and say of her, How calm our princess is, going about her everyday business as if the enemy didn’t even exist!

  She prepared for the deception, knowing it depended on her ability to deceive herself. Stitchery, she repeated dully, she would be teaching the girls stitchery today. Monotonously, mindlessly plying her needle would present the very picture of serenity. She could even smile faintly at the irony of it, for the woman who had unknowingly taught her this placid skill was the least peaceful person in Pol’s whole family.

  Tobin alone of the highborn ladies Meiglan knew was a notable needlewoman. She had faithfully studied every stitch of the embroidered blanket Tobin sent when Jihan and Rislyn were born, and by now was adept. Fingers that plucked the fenath with effortless ease had no trouble with the needle. She intended her daughters to master the elegant craft from childhood—it was the only one she could teach them of all the things they must learn, things that would make them powerful, self-assured women like Tobin and Sioned. Jihan and Rislyn would always be certain of their accomplishments and worth.

  Meiglan left her own chambers with steps that sounded cheeringly confident to her own ears—and faltered before Pol’s door. She glanced up and down the hall to see if anyone was watching, loathing her instinctive hesitation. This was her home, these were her husband’s rooms; she could go in if she liked.

  Once inside, she cursed her foolishness. Had she hoped to feel closer to him for standing by his bed, fingering his pillow? Or was this the hiding place she sought? She turned to leave, only to bump into Kierun on his way in.

  “I’m sorry, your grace. May I help you find something?” the boy asked considerately.

  Insane to be blushing and stammering in her own home. “No. Nothing, thank you, Kierun. I—I’m late
for the children’s lessons.”

  He bit his lip, then said in a rush, “Your grace, I hope I didn’t presume too much with Princess Jihan this morning. It’s just that—my lord said—”

  “No, you were quite right, Kierun. It was just the right thing to tell her. She’s so stubborn.”

  “I’ll say,” Kierun muttered, then turned fiery red. “Forgive me, your grace—”

  “It’s all right, Kierun. Go about your duties now.” As she escaped down the corridor, she realized how fortunate she was that the only person who had seen her was also the only person at Dragon’s Rest even shyer than herself. But Kierun had been assertive enough with Jihan. It was galling to find example in a twelve-year-old child.

  • • •

  “I told you it was a stupid time of year to cross the Long Sand!” Chay yelled, barely able to see Rohan in the stinging haze of sand.

  “Cheer up—the road to Stronghold’s probably even worse than this one!”

  “What road?”

  They hauled at their horses’ reins, slogging through shifting sand that sucked at their boots like mud. The first storm had spent its fury in a single night. They’d had a day of clear riding before another blew in. Not nearly as fierce, still it caught them between shelters and showed every sign of lasting until evening. They were all old enough hands at living in the Desert to wade through, but it was hard going, and the journey to Remagev that should have taken three days looked as if it would last five, perhaps six.

  Chay’s main worry was Tobin. Incapable of walking, she was huddled against his stallion’s neck, wrapped so tightly in a voluminous cloak that he wondered sometimes how she breathed. Every so often he reached for her hand, felt a reassuring squeeze, and swore that one enemy soldier would die by his sword for every instant of this nightmare. Strength and courage she should have been using to get well were instead expended in simply staying alive.

  And then there was poor little Tobren. Desert forebears she might have, back a score of generations, but she had been born and raised at Goddess Keep on the Ossetian coast—a land wild enough in its way, with deadly winter storms, but wholly unlike this wasteland gone mad in the wind. It had taken Hollis and Betheyn together to coax her out of the shelter that morning. She hadn’t spoken a word since. When the storm blew up today, she had begun to weep silently, too proud to draw attention to herself until Maarken lifted her from her saddle into his arms. A charming introduction to the land of her ancestors, Chay thought bitterly, wanting to rock her to sleep and ease the terror from her blue eyes. That was something else those whoresons would pay for in blood. They had made his granddaughter cry.

  “I think it’s letting up!” Rohan shouted.

  “You always were a dreamer!” He adjusted the cloth covering his face. “This damned stuff doesn’t enhance my warrior’s image any, you know!”

  “Be grateful for wives with expensive tastes!”

  Usually everyone traveling the Desert at any time of year—but especially in autumn—carried a length of fine-woven silk mesh for just this reason. But there hadn’t been enough to screen all the people and all the horses. So the delicate undertunics worn by the highborn ladies had been ripped to shreds, and they and their husbands were swathed in softly perfumed lace. Chay had to admit it worked nearly as well as the silk—but he felt ridiculous.

  He fumbled for Tobin’s hand again, his heart catching when he felt her grip a little weaker than it had been. “Are you all right?” he yelled. The cloak nodded. “We can stop and rest if—”

  “Chay!” Rohan yelled. “Somebody’s coming!”

  His hand went for his sword. How Rohan could tell there was anyone out there was a mystery; he couldn’t see an arm’s length past his own horse. He squinted and eventually the swirling sand assumed a shape, then another, then a whole group of shapes nearly the same color as the storm. “Maarken!” he bellowed. “Pol!”

  But Rohan was gesturing peace. The shapes drew nearer, leading horses whose faces were wrapped in silk. Chay realized belatedly that these people were coming from the north, the direction of Remagev. The enemy could not have outrun and outflanked them so soon. Where were his wits? he asked himself. He wasn’t just too old for this kind of thing, he was senile.

  He drew even with Rohan and watched in surprise that quickly became amusement as one of the sand-colored shapes dropped to one knee.

  “Great and noble High Prince!” a voice cried, and the other shapes descended likewise onto the sand. “The Mother of All Dragons has blessed your pathetic kinsman! He has finally found you in this likeness of the Sixth Hell! Have you or your beloved lady wife come to any hurt?”

  “None!” Rohan shouted back. “I’m glad to see you—but, damn it, Kazander, I thought I told you to stay at Remagev!”

  “Most honored prince, I could not!”

  “Why?” Rohan demanded.

  Kazander looked up. “Because, my prince, you are going the wrong way.”

  • • •

  Tilal fulfilled his promise of slaughter sooner than he intended. Lacking a Sunrunner to spy out the land ahead, he had to rely on teams of mounted scouts. When, on the morning he crossed the Faolain River at a little-used bridge, one pair failed to return, he knew he was in for trouble.

  “It’s hellish, being out of touch this way,” he told Gemma. “I don’t know what happened at Radzyn, the news is days old—Goddess, I need a Sunrunner!” He fretted over this truth for a moment. “The last report that came to Dragon’s Rest put the enemy at least a hundred measures south of here. I’d planned to look in on Velden at Summer River, use his faradhi to take a look. But now it seems we’ll have to go around.”

  “Not around whoever got our scouts!” she exclaimed.

  “I never suspected such a lovely face hid a warrior’s heart.”

  Gemma shrugged. “If a warrior is what’s needed, that’s what I’ll be. I’m no Meiglan, cowering in a corner, waiting for Pol to come home and make everything all right.”

  “Did she seem that way to you? I thought her very cool and capable about it all.” He gestured to his squire and said, “Find Chaltyn for me, Malyander. We need to confer.” When the boy was off on his errand, he continued, “Now that you mention it, I’m glad Edrel and Laric are there to make decisions for her.”

  “When we get to Athmyr, you needn’t worry about my finding a convenient corner to hide in,” she stated. “I’ll hold the castle. But I swear, Tilal, if I have to bind and gag Sorin to keep him from following you off to war, I will.”

  “Just make sure nobody tells him about Jihan. Goddess, I really thought she was going to gallop after us. She had a look in her eyes like Pol used to get when he was her age. Impossible brat.”

  “Talking about little brother again?” Sioneva guided her horse nearer her parents, smiling.

  “Obliquely,” Tilal replied. “Don’t say anything to him about Jihan’s little performance—we’re hoping he won’t get any ideas.”

  “Not a word. Why have we stopped?”

  “Take a guess,” Gemma invited. “The scouts haven’t reported back.”

  The girl’s eyes rounded. “You’re not going to lead a skirmish yourself, Father!”

  “I’m forty-five, not ninety,” he said a bit testily, and reined around as Chaltyn, the commander of his guard, rode up. A brief conversation divided the soldiers into two groups: one to hunt the enemy, the other, from Dragon’s Rest, to remain behind. With a jaunty salute to his wife and daughter he rode off to the skirmish.

  But, as he had unwittingly prophesied, it was no skirmish. It was a slaughter. They found the enemy in a copse where autumn foliage stained the forest yellow, rust, and brown. The two scouts were being systematically, almost ritually tortured. They did not scream because they could not; their own shirts had been stuffed so far down their throats that no sound could emerge. Tilal peered from cover at the sword cuts like bleeding ribbons across the man’s back and the woman’s breasts. He gave a signal, and his twenty fel
l on the twelve enemy—swiftly, brutally, and to the point.

  The woman, one of his own guard, sobbed unashamedly when the gag was pulled from her mouth and cool water was poured over her wounds. “My lord—it was so quick, we had no warning—”

  “You did all you could. I’m just glad you’re both alive.” Tilal hid sickness at the sight of her flayed skin. The war with Roelstra had been terrible—but prisoners had never been tortured. There were rules, and honor. What had been done to his scouts warned him that if, as Rohan sometimes said, war was the craft of barbarians, this enemy had made of it an art form.

  “They spoke—we couldn’t understand them,” she went on, gasping as bandages were applied. “Panadi, he’s one of Prince Pol’s men, from near Rezeld, he thought he recognized a few words, like the old language, but—oh, Goddess—”

  “That’s enough for now. Rest.” Turning to his guards commander, he said, “Search the corpses down to the toenails. We must learn all we can about these animals. I especially want those gold beads from their beards. And send someone back to her grace to tell her we’re all right.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  He watched as the bodies were unceremoniously stripped. Not animals; just men, uniformly dark-haired and dark-eyed, built like bull elk. Clothing was laid aside for his inspection. Tunics of some rough-woven, undyed cloth that was neither wool nor silk nor linen. Trousers the same, only dark. Shirts were of a thinner, softer version of the material, bleached white. Short boots of cowhide with surprisingly thin soles that, despite the long measures marched so far, showed little sign of wear. No rings, necklets, armbands, earrings, or other jewelry, except the gold beads. No underclothes, either. Just shirts, trousers, and plain tunics with a jagged design stitched in red on a black badge over the heart. Tilal cut one off with his knife, studied it, and decided at last that it was a stylized bolt of lightning.

  Tilal got back on his horse and returned to his wife and daughter, thinking along the way about what those clothes might mean. All he came up with that he trusted was that the lightning might have some connection to the Storm God. Perhaps he and not the Goddess was the primary force in their lives.