Hal craned his neck to see over his defender. One soldier used his own sword to catch at the hilt of Tasuntimanu’s, pulling away the councillor’s weapon. Two other guards dove forward, seizing the traitor’s arms and forcing him to the ground. The earth crushed out the last sparks from the oil lamp, leaving behind the stench of burnt wool and singed hair. Yet another guard knelt in the middle of Tasuntimanu’s back, setting a mailed fist across his neck.
Only after the traitor was further subdued with a pair of sharp jabs delivered to his lower back did Hal succeed in pushing off his protector. The king’s chest seemed too small for his pounding heart as he fought for his feet, and he gladly seized his guard’s hand, grateful for the assistance. He was vaguely aware that his palm was singed; his side was bruised. The breath was knocked clear from his lungs, though, when he saw which man had interposed his body to save his liege. “Puladarati!”
The old councillor was gasping for his own breath, his lion’s mane of grey standing out around his face as if he’d been caught in a storm. “Aye, Your Majesty.”
“But – I thought –”
“My liege, you’re injured!” The former regent snapped out a command to one of the soldiers, ordering the chirurgeon to be summoned. Before the medic could arrive, Puladarati guided Hal to a camp chair, his large hands gentle as he eased his king to a sitting position. “Breathe deeply, Sire. You’ve only had the wind knocked out of you.”
“Only –” Hal paused to gasp, a reaction that was only made more necessary by Puladarati sinking down before him, kneeling like the most humble of supplicants in the House of the Thousand Gods. Before Hal could act, the silver-haired councillor had pulled a silver-chased dagger from his well-worn boot.
Even as Hal registered that the older man was offering up the weapon, was turning the hilt toward his king and resting the sharpened edge against his own forearm, Hal recognized the blade. It had been his father’s, long ago. It had belonged to King Shanoranvilli, one of the treasures of the old king’s line, supposedly passed from father to son. “Your Majesty,” Puladarati intoned, ignoring the stunned look that Hal knew painted his own face. The duke glanced toward the restrained Tasuntimanu, his eyes sharp as daggers. “I failed you, by letting that ... that traitor gain access to your person in the dark of night. I’ve failed your father and let fall the faith he placed in me. I am not worthy to bear his gift. I am not worthy to serve you, Your Majesty.”
“You –” Hal was still having trouble breathing, still finding it difficult to piece together the fragments before him. His hand pulsed where it was burned, and he was only now able to fill his lungs against the shooting pain in his side. Shaking his head, he reached out and settled his unburned palm upon the hilt of the silver-chased dagger. In a flash, he could picture his father, imagine the old king giving up the blade to his most trusted of retainers. “Puladarati, I thought that you... that you and Tasuntimanu.… I thought –”
The leonine councillor’s eyes widened for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “And I thought that you were a rebellious boy, who was reluctant to take advice from his elders. Even when those elders mistrusted some of your closest councillors. Even when those elders appointed themselves to watch over your councillors, to stay close to the danger.”
A hot wave washed over Hal’s face, a steaming mixture of shame and gratitude, all coated with searing relief. “My father chose you, Puladarati. I should have known.…”
“Aye. And if all princes listened to their fathers – ” Puladarati grasped Hal’s arm, holding him upright against the sudden darkness that swooped across his vision. The old man’s three-fingered grip was as firm as iron. “Steady, Sire! Here. Sip this. It’s wine.”
“Your Grace –”
“Drink, my prince. It wasn’t so long ago that I was your regent – I can still force this down your throat, if you don’t follow my orders.” Hal heard the gruff affection in the man’s voice, saw the smile in his full beard. The first sip of wine brought a steadiness to Hal’s breathing, a balance to his whirling head.
“Very well, Duke Puladarati.” Hal looked to his other soldiers, to the other loyal men who surrounded Tasuntimanu. “I’ll drink it down. But not until you get that cursed traitor out of my sight.”
Puladarati bowed and gestured a command to the soldiers. “My pleasure, Your Majesty. My most extreme pleasure.”
Chapter 14
Rani’s breath plumed as she looked out over the Amanth Plain. Campfire embers still glowed softly, and there were occasional jangles of harness and exclamations from soldiers who should have been asleep. Glancing at the stars, Rani could see that it was nearly midnight. There were precious few hours before sunrise, before sunrise and Teleos’ return to open water with the Little Army.
Crestman’s cloak was a welcome warmth across her shoulders. As if the young soldier heard her thoughts, he eased close beside her and whispered. “Not much farther. Their guards should stop us soon.”
“Are you certain this is the right thing to do?” Rani scarcely mouthed the words. “How will they react to strangers, arriving in the middle of the night?”
“Not well.” Crestman shrugged, settling his hand on his dagger. He had retied his hair as the foursome huddled at sunset, newly come to shore after Teleos’ ship had put into a harbor just south of Amanth. The clout stretched the skin beside his eyes, and he looked far younger than he had on the ship three nights before, when he had argued with Teleos about the fate of his soldiers.
That battle clout kept Rani worried; she feared that she and her companions would be taken for Amanthian agents as soon as they reached the Morenian camp. What would happen if the guard refused to take them to Halaravilli? What would happen if some over-eager soldier decided to rid his king of an Amanthian threat, acting before Rani could identify herself?
But what would happen if they stayed here till dawn, doing nothing?
Rani raised her chin and exhaled sharply. The steam from her breath rose like a beacon in the starlit night. “All right, then. Let’s greet Halaravilli ben-Jair.”
She led them into the camp with more confidence than she felt. Ten steps. Twenty. A hundred. She could make out a crimson banner farther down the road, barely stirring in the night-time breeze. She knew there was a lion on the pennant; if the moon were closer to full, she could pick out Halaravilli’s sigil. Another ten steps. Another twenty.
“Halt!” Even though Rani was expecting the command, she jumped, biting off a shriek. “Who dares disturb the camp of King Halaravilli ben-Jair?”
“It is I, Rani Trader, a friend of the house of Jair. I come with allies to help His Majesty, King Halaravilli.”
In the space of a few heartbeats, torches were brought. Soldiers shouted orders, and rough hands seized Rani and her companions. They were hustled through the awakening camp, chivvied forward with the pressure of sharp steel points. Rani consciously kept her hands visible in front of her; she ordered her steps to calm smoothness. She would not give these nervous men any excuse to harm her.
Slowly, steadily, she turned her head and saw that her three colleagues marched behind her. Crestman had adopted her example, keeping his hands in plain view, well away from the hilt of his short sword. At Rani’s glance, he moved up to walk beside her, setting his eyes directly ahead, as if he were marching to his death. Mair, on the other hand, had an amused smirk on her lips. She might have been nothing more than a Touched girl, playing out some midnight game in the streets of the Morenian capital.
Monny made Rani nervous, though. He kept glancing at his guards, darting his gaze about as if he were preparing to attack one of the soldiers. He had been told the truth about their return, and he had vowed to fight Sin Hazar under the command of his captains, Crestman and Mair. Nevertheless, his hands twitched open and closed, and Rani feared that he would make some nervous guard act without thinking.
Mair must have seen the danger as well; she dropped back until she was even with the boy. Once sh
e had the child’s attention, she extended her hands before her with ostentatious ease, setting an example of studied innocence. Monny scowled, but then he followed suit. He was no fool. He had received his orders, and he would comply.
Rani was no longer shivering by the time the foursome reached the center of the Morenian camp. Rather, her blood beat hot in her cheeks, as if her face were a beacon that beamed to the gates of Sin Hazar’s city. She heard the growing murmur in the camp about her as men awakened their fellow soldiers. Her name traveled from stranger to stranger – Rani Trader, Rani Trader. There was the occasional addition of other names - Rai, or Ranita, or Ranimara, and one or two of the soldiers seemed to recognize Mair. But most of the attention was for Rani.
Beside her, Crestman began to hold back. Surely, she had told him that she was known to the king, that she had lived in the palace in Morenia. But he had apparently not absorbed that part of her story. The captain of the Little Army began to look at her sideways, awe flicking across his face.
Rani, though, did not have time to reassure Crestman. Before she was ready, before she had decided what she would say to Hal, she found herself in front of an ornate tent in the center of the camp. Lion banners hung at either side of the entrance. More than a dozen men stood on guard, hands on bared swords. Their protective presence was bolstered by six giants who stood at attention beside the entrance of the tent, iron pikes planted by their sides. The heavily-guarded tented could only belong to King Halaravilli.
By some blessing of the Thousand Gods, Rani knew the leader of the king’s guard. “Birilano,” she said, inclining her head as if she had happened to encounter the soldier in a garden outside the palace.
“Lady Rani!” He sounded astonished, more surprised than even her sudden appearance could account for. His amazement was rapidly explained as he blurted out, “We were told that you were dead, my lady!”
Sin Hazar. The Amanthian king must have spread lies to account for Rani’s lack of letters to Morenia! No wonder Sin Hazar had thought that he could banish Rani to Liantine. No wonder he had been so certain of his plot!
“No,” Rani murmured, beginning to understand just how underhanded her opponent was. “I’m still very much alive. And here to see His Majesty.”
“King Halaravilli sleeps, my lady. There was a ... commotion in the camp earlier tonight, and he did not find his bed until late in the night.”
A commotion? Well perhaps that explained the extra guards, the added excitement among all the soldiers they had passed. Before Rani could frame a courteous reply, Monny pushed his way forward. “Well we haven’t slept either, soldier. The lady requests an audience with her liege!”
“Monny!” Rani and Mair both grabbed for the boy, even as a pike was lowered in his direction. Mair pulled the squirming red-head back to her side, tugging at his arm for good measure. Crestman looked daggers at his soldier but did not speak.
Rani cleared her throat. “Birilano, this child is rash, but he does speak the truth. We urgently need to speak with King Halaravilli. More than seven score lives hang in the balance. Lives of children.”
A flicker of emotion crossed the old soldier’s face, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady. Duke Puladarati gave the strictest orders. It would mean my commission if I let you pass. We can send for the duke, though. If he grants you permission –”
Before Rani could structure some civilized plea, Monny twisted free from Mair’s grasp. The child darted past Rani, howling like a cat in season. Oblivious to swords and pikes, he hurled himself at the entrance to King Halaravilli’s tent.
The soldiers reacted immediately. Rani was thrown to the ground, one man straddling her back and two more pinning her arms. She yowled and tried to twist away, but she was firmly pinned. She saw that Crestman and Mair were similarly captured; one of Crestman’s captors took the added liberty of throwing a gauntleted arm across his windpipe, stretching his neck back until his eyes rolled up into his head.
Monny was seized at the threshold of the tent. One soldier grabbed him from behind, snapping an arm across his throat. Two more leveled pikes at his belly, and three swords were lowered with deadly precision. For all the weaponry focused on him, Monny gave no sign of heeding the danger – he continued to howl wordless threats, squirming and twisting and fighting to drag himself closer to Hal’s tent.
Rani struggled to draw a breath against the soldier who straddled her, trying to fill her lungs enough that she could cry out an order to the boy. Before she could make herself heard, though, another voice rang across the plain. “Hold!”
Monny cut off his howl in mid-scream, and Rani sensed the soldiers above her bowing their heads. “What nonsense is this? Why can’t my guards follow a simple order and let me sleep?”
Hal stood in the doorway of his tent, tunic rumpled and cloak thrown back over hastily-strapped-on armor. His great sword pointed before him, the gleaming point directed at Monny’s throat. “Who is this?” Hal demanded. “What child has invaded this camp?”
“Your Majesty,” began Birilano. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I tried to keep them from awakening you! I knew you’d issued orders –”
“Who are these people?” Hal took a threatening step toward Monny. “What’s your name, boy?”
“I’m Monny,” the child announced. “Rani said that she needed to see you, and these men said she couldn’t. Your Majesty,” the boy added, clearly as an afterthought.
“Rani!” Hal lunged forward, planting the tip of his sword against Monny’s throat. A drop of blood welled up, black in the torchlight. “What do you know of Rani?”
“My lord,” Rani managed to squeak at last.
Hal whirled upon her, and even from a distance, she heard his breath catch in his throat. He dropped his weapon as if it were a snake, using his hand to trace a holy sign across his chest. “Tarn save us from ghosts who walk among us!”
“No ghosts, Sire!” Rani’s words lit an ember of longing in Hal’s face. She pressed on. “Sin Hazar has lied to you, Your Majesty. Only one of his many crimes.”
“Rani. Rani Trader.”
“Aye, Sire.” Hal’s hands flicked in a command, and the soldiers who had pinned Rani dragged her to her feet. She managed a shaking curtsey. “Alive and at your service, Sire.”
For a long minute, Hal was unable to speak. Rani could see that exhaustion had carved the flesh from his bones, exhaustion or worry or fear. Dark circles stood out beneath his eyes, as if someone had rubbed pitch beneath his lashes. For just an instant, Rani flashed back to the Hal who had been her inquisitor when she had been required to answer for her sins back in Morenia, and she wondered where that boy-king could have gone. The youth who stood before her now was infinitely older, wiser, sadder.
Hal raised a pale hand toward Rani, summoning her to move closer. She met his eyes and took a step, barely flinching when the king’s finger traced the sun drawn upon her cheek. “Rani,” he whispered.
There was a thicket of emotions behind the word. Rani’s heart leaped in her chest, pounding so hard that it made her gasp. She leaned toward Hal, her teeth catching her lower lip as his single inquisitive finger was replaced by his palm. She closed her eyes as she tilted her head, letting his caress linger on her cheek.
Finally, when she felt her knees trembling, when she doubted that she could whisper a reply, she swallowed hard and drew back from Hal’s touch. There were battles to be fought, after all. Children to be saved. Kingdoms to be won.
Nevertheless, she wished that Hal had followed her when she moved back; she wished that she could feel his flesh against her cheek one more time.
Before either of them could speak again, Duke Puladarati pushed his way through the guards. “Your Majesty, I’ve just heard! My lady!”
There was a flurry of activity, and Rani found herself ushered into the tent. Monny was hurried behind her, along with Mair and Crestman. Rani made introductions all around, fighting to be heard over Monny, who was trying to explain to Crestman that
he had not intended to be disobedient, that he had only been trying to get the king’s attention. Rani spoke rapidly, explaining how she and Mair had found themselves with two soldiers in the Little Army, breaching the perimeter of Hal’s camp, but there were too many questions, too much commotion, too many interruptions by the soldiers and Monny and Puladarati.
“Silence!” Hal finally made himself heard above the chaos. “Puladarati! Take these others from my tent. See that they are fed and given warmer clothes. I’ll speak with Lady Rani and learn her tale.”
“Your Majesty.” Puladarati bowed, his grey hair flying. “I’ll see these others attended to, but you should not be alone with Rani Trader.” At Hal’s protest, the former regent raised his hand, three fingers summoning attention. “We still do not know how Rani came to be in these northlands, months ago. Need I remind you that your own falcon master was murdered when Rani disappeared? We do not know that Rani Trader is a friend to your throne.”
“I will not waste time arguing with you, my lord. Leave whatever guards you deem I need, but get these other people out of my tent.” Puladarati grumbled, but he appointed a half dozen soldiers to stay with the king. He made a show of choosing the largest and most sinister of the guards. Only when they had taken up their watchful stance, weapons bared and faces impassive, did Puladarati begin to escort Monny and Mair away.
Crestman, though, struggled to stay behind. “I would stay with Rani,” he growled, reaching by habit for the sword that had already been removed from his waist.
“I’m fine, Crestman,” Rani said levelly.
“But, Rani, there are armed men!”
“Go, Crestman.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the fear – not for himself, but for her safety. She thought of the faith that he had put in her, the faith that had turned him away from his own king, from the Little Army. She forced her voice to a gentle register as she admonished the boy captain, “My king will not harm me.”
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