It was Rannon I cared for, but part of loving a princess is loving her people as well. There were duties that I would be expected to perform during the Spring Passage, parties that I would be expected to attend. With word of Bryce so fresh in my ears, I felt even the thought of such duties as a yoke around my neck. And I feared that yoke would chafe until my impatience exploded in anger.
Rannon would have understood my leaving Timmuzz, even at this time. She would have known that the need to find my brother was no slight on my love for her. Her father was a different matter. Already he had doubts about me, not particularly from personal animosity but just because I was the man who was going to marry his daughter. And he did not think that I, or any man, was quite good enough to do so.
As well, Rannon had told me that there were nobles of the empire, some of whom wished to press their own suits for her hand, who were urging her father to send me away. I imagined he still wavered in his decision, wishing his daughter had chosen another, but not quite willing to put aside her desires. It could only harden his heart against me if I left the city before the festival, if I failed to carry out my first real duties as a future prince of Nyshphal. And yet, of course, Bryce was my brother. I had to find him while the trail remained fresh.
Temporarily, however, thoughts of Bryce were pushed aside amid the excitement of our arrival at the palace. Word had reached Hurnan Jystral, Rannon’s father and Emperor of Nyshphal. He greeted us himself, at gray granite steps marking the entrance into an inner courtyard of silver fountains and black marble walkways. The tension that tightened his shoulders beneath the gold and scarlet cloak of his office showed his concern for his daughter. But I had already seen how much he loved her.
In any gathering, Hurnan Jystral would have been branded a leader of men. He was taller than I, several inches over six feet, and broader at shoulders and chest. His eyes were a blazing sapphire blue, set deep within an almost predatory face. His hair was just beginning to gray. He was a powerful man, in more ways than one, and was very aware of his position and its demands. But he loved his daughter.
I had learned about Hurnan Jystral from Rannon, had learned how he was born to be king in the coastal city-state of Teleur, and of how an invasion from the sea had taken his father’s life and driven him and his mother from their homeland. Hurnan had been six at the time. At seventeen he took back his father’s lands, and much, much more.
He raised a peasant army from the western uplands, stiffened their ranks with wild clansmen from the southern range of the Katari Mountains, and he rode back into Teleur at the head of thousands. The original invasion had been followed by others. Everyone had wished to carve a piece of the Nyshphalian roast. But Jystral beat them all, fighting on many fronts over half a decade. By the end he held most of the island under his sway, though he had done as much unifying as conquering. Nyshphal was as close to a democratic empire as existed on Talera.
This had all taken place nearly thirty-five years ago, but today—standing tall over his retainers with his eyes darting quickly to his daughter to see if she had been injured—must have been one of the few times in Jystral’s life when he had looked so vulnerable. His wife was years dead, and, though he had a son, Rannon remained the most important thing in his world.
“How is it that my daughter leaves home aboard her own flyer and returns on a firewood barge?” Jystral demanded, his voice a harsh contrast with the pale worry of his face.
He was looking at me. But it was Rannon who answered, who explained to him the details of the raid, leaving out only the part about my brother’s involvement. Jystral’s body reacted with anger, fists and eyes tightening. His words when they came were calmer, though honed, like the edge of a freshly sharpened hunting knife. He grasped the arm of an imperial officer standing nearby. I saw the man wince under that grip.
“Send the air-guard,” Jystral said through lips that barely moved. “Find where the attack was launched from. Bring me the bodies.”
The officer hurried to obey and Jystral turned his attention to Diken Graye—our prisoner. Copper-helmed soldiers stepped forward at a gesture from the emperor.
“Take this one to interrogation,” Jystral ordered, motioning toward the scarred mercenary.
“I don’t think that’ll help,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I knew that Graye would not be tortured. Not in Nyshphal. But he would be grilled to the point of exhaustion, with no sleep and no respite. Most crack under such pressure. I didn’t think Diken Graye would. The whole thing was a waste.
Jystral did not believe that. Clearly. He frowned at me, a speculative light in his eyes.
“And what would you wish done?” he asked.
“Free him in my custody,” I said.
Of all those there, including myself, the emperor alone did not seem surprised at my words. The others were. Rhandh the Vlih snorted through widened nostrils, his face a study in open disgust. Even Rannon seemed troubled that I would speak on behalf of someone who had tried to kill us. I could not say why I defended the man. I only knew what I felt, that we would be better served by treating Diken Graye honorably than by making him a criminal. But my wish was denied.
“No,” said Hurnan Jystral. He turned away.
I glanced at Kreeg. Only he had not questioned my motives. He never did. Ever since the lava mines of Andertalen he had followed wherever I led, had carried out whatever task I asked of him. I looked at him then, and saw that he was ready to defend me if need be, even against the might of Nyshphal. I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary, but I had already reached a decision about what my actions must be. And I did not think Hurnan Jystral or his daughter would be happy about it.
* * * * * * *
It was not until much later that night, though, before I had a chance to speak to anyone about my plan. Rannon had been whisked away soon after our arrival at the palace, and I’d not even seen her the rest of the night—though I wanted so badly to tell her what I must do. Then, at the bell tolling the eighteenth dhaur, I was summoned to the quarters of the Emperor of Nyshphal.
Hurnan Jystral awaited me there, in a room far more spare than one would expect of such a wealthy and powerful man. There were burnished shields on the walls, and tables of rare samphur wood, but the decorations and pieces of furniture were few, with much space left for the emperor to pace. As he paced now.
I entered, escorted by bronze-armored guards, but then was left alone with the father of the woman I loved. He stopped pacing and stood for a moment staring at me. His face looked drawn and tired. Yet, beneath the exhaustion I could still see the anger that had seethed in him earlier this day.
“We are at war,” he said. “Or soon will be.”
“And who is our enemy?” I asked.
He shook his head, though his eyes narrowed as he glanced at me. “Would that I knew,” he said harshly. His hands clenched into fists. “I would destroy them.
I did not speak.
“We must lay plans,” he continued after a moment, speaking more calmly while watching my face. It felt as if I were being tested for something.
“And as my daughter’s betrothed, you must be involved,” he added.
“I won’t be here,” I said suddenly.
Perhaps I could have found a more polite way of saying it, or a better time. But then, I have never been known for my tact.
Jystral’s eyes went cold.
“You would abandon Rannon and her city in its hour of need?” he growled.
I shook my head. “I’m no general. No strategist. You don’t need me here except as a sword. And you have many of those. I believe that my brother—”
He snapped. “Your brother! What care I for your brother? What care I for you except that my daughter loves you? Perhaps foolishly.” His voice rang with a barely contained fury that I did not fully understand.
He stalked toward me, as if he w
ould attack me there, and stopped inches from me. But I did not flinch, and met his gaze with mine. He had not let me finish what I’d started to say about my reasons for wanting to leave, but I would not beg him for that privilege. My muscles tensed. Heat poured into my face.
“You will remain in the city,” he told me, his voice tight and harsh. “You will take up your duties as consort to my daughter. You will be part of our planning for the city’s defense.”
I looked him in the eyes, my own anger starting to break free. Barely was I able to control it.
“No,” I said. “I will not.” Then I turned on my heel and walked out on the Emperor of Nyshphal.
Behind me...only silence.
I was not comforted.
CHAPTER SIX
A THIN ROLL OF PARCHMENT
After the confrontation with Rannon’s father, I returned in a heated anger to my apartment within the great sprawl of the palace. Kreeg awaited me there. Valyan would normally have shared the suite with us, but his wounds were being tended. Only the ex-fighting slave stood nearby to hear my curses ebb and flow.
“What do we do?” he asked during one of the ebbs.
I looked at him as I struggled for control. My thoughts needed to be clear. But another long moment passed before I trusted myself to speak.
“We leave this place,” I told him finally.
“To Trazull?” he asked.
“Yes. To find Bryce. Get our gear ready. And check on some saddle birds. I have to see Rannon.”
He nodded, turned to do as I had bid, and halted again as the bronze-banded door to the apartment swung open and Rannon stepped inside with Rhandh the Vlih at her shoulder.
“Ruenn,” she said, running to me.
I would have taken her in my arms but she caught my wrists instead, her dark blue eyes searching my face.
“My father! You!”
“We had a disagreement,” I said.
She shook her head. “More than that. He’s furious. He told me....” She kept watching my face as she let a slim hand reach to touch my chest. “He told me that you were a coward. Or worse. That—” Her gaze dropped. “That you didn’t love me.”
My heart hurt itself against my ribs as she spoke. There was something very wrong here, something worse than mere anger behind Hurnan Jystral’s words. It was as if he had been poisoned against me and I did not know how. Or when.
I caught Rannon’s hand, held it.
“And do you think me a coward?” I asked. “Do you think that I don’t love you?”
“I’ve seen you fight,” she answered. “You are no coward.” But I noted with a sickness inside that she did not respond to the more important question.
Then she glanced at Rhandh and Kreeg and her message was clear. They obeyed it and left us alone.
After the door closed, Rannon looked at me with no smile on her face and said, flatly: “My father claims to have proof that you are a traitor to Nyshphal.”
A knife would have been kinder than those words from the lips of the woman I loved. I could not help but defend myself.
“Just because I wish to find my brother?” I blurted. “In finding him I will serve Nyshphal. He is somehow mixed up with those who are attacking us. I can—”
She stopped me with a hand to my mouth. And shook her head again.
“No. It is no longer about the search for your brother. My father knows of Bryce’s involvement with our enemies. Though I did not tell him. And, he has this.”
From the belt of golden wire that gathered her linen gown at the waist, she withdrew a thin roll of ivory parchment. I took it, unfolded it, glanced at the symbols incised on it in dark ink. There were two messages on the sheet. The second was in Nyshphalian script and I could see that it translated the other. The first message was in English, and I read it with a growing horror and sense of despair. Then I looked up at Rannon and started to speak into her saddened face.
At that moment, the doors were thrust back and guards poured quickly into the room, imperial guards in bronze breastplates and scarlet cloaks, with their hands on the hilts of bastard swords. At their head stood Kuurus Jystral, Rannon’s brother.
The parchment fluttered from my hand.
“Arrest Ruenn Maclang,” Kuurus shouted. “For treason against the empire and its princess.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BETRAYER
“Arrest Ruenn Maclang,” Kuurus had shouted.
And I stepped suddenly back from Rannon, heart speeding with shock, glancing from Kuurus to his sister—the woman I was to marry.
Where was Kreeg? Why hadn’t he warned me?
Rannon’s eyes met mine. And I understood where Kreeg was. I understood why Rannon had brought her Vlih bodyguard with her and why she’d sent him from the room with my friend. Rhandh’s job had been to get Kreeg out of the way.
I saw it. I knew it. From Rannon’s eyes. And the knowledge ripped me like a talon.
The guards started forward, in step, not yet with weapons drawn. Rannon’s face grew haggard under my gaze, a dampness welling in the lush darkness of her lashes. She started to speak.
“He was supposed to—”
But I did not listen. I drew my sword, brought it out with a whickering sound. Light flashed from the mirrored steel. The guards saw, tore their own blades free of the lacquered sheaths that swung from scabbard-hooks at their belts. They socketed their shields into place on their arms.
Rannon gave a tiny despairing cry. She leaped forward to grab at my wrist.
For an instant I hesitated, wanting to fight, wanting to hurt—not Rannon but some surrogate for her. But she was there in front of me, a wild blueness in her eyes. Her hair was too soft.
I turned and ran. Toward the window. Shutters of tharspa wood covered that opening against the night’s chill. I went through them, shoulder and hip taking the impact, the thin slats of wood exploding outward in a rending shatter of sound.
The guards were close. I heard them shout. I heard Rannon. But I was dropping through debris and air. A dozen feet below lay one of the many small, protected gardens that dot the inner workings of Hurnan Jystral’s palace. I tucked my limbs close to my body, the blade of the sword beneath my left arm, hit a cropped sward with knees bent, and rolled before springing back to my feet.
Voices from the apartment above hurled orders at me like arrows. I ignored them. Ran. I leaped a row of sweet blooming goldenswords, dashed between bushes rich with hanris berries. A short wall welcomed me. It was barely six feet high—no need to keep people out when they already had to be in the inner court to reach this place—and I went over it easily.
Beyond lay a covered walk that sliced straight between the wall of the garden and the rising granite shoulder of the central keep. There were more apartments here—those of the royal family...and their guards.
I turned left along that brick-lined walkway, racing toward the backlit glory that marked the chapel of Sevarian, the major Nysphalian god. Behind the alabaster pile of that chapel stood the darkness of the stables, with the outer wall of the palace rising on the other side.
It was to the stables that I headed, thinking of the horses there, and of the saddle-birds. Thinking of escape. Rannon had betrayed me, had been in on the plan to have me arrested. And now I was running. As if what that piece of parchment had said concerning me was true. But I didn’t care. Rannon should have believed in me. She should have....
My feet slowed. I pulled to a stop with the chapel looming over me in marble splendor. In the distance I heard the sound of the guard being rousted. Soon the grounds would teem with hunters.
I thought of the stables again, thought of moments ticking away. My fists clenched. I tasted anger, smelled it in my own sweat.
“No!” I muttered to myself.
I turned away from the path to the stables and strode up the steps o
f the chapel, pushed through the doors and made my way down into the nave. A monk came hurrying toward me, to inform me that the chapel was closed for the evening. He didn’t yet know that I was an outlaw. I didn’t tell him before I punched him in the face and knocked him cold.
I trussed and gagged him, then stuffed him in the open space beneath his altar where curtains of costly silk would hide him from casually searching eyes. I regretted having had to hit him, but he had something I needed—his clothes.
I took his robe and his hood and slipped them on. They fit tightly, but they hid my sword and face. And with his garments I donned the respect due him as an attendant upon Sevarian.
It was well that I hurried. The robes were just settling around my ankles when there came the stomp of boots on marble and the doors thrust back to reveal a dozen guards with drawn steel. Half of them started down the aisle. They didn’t notice me at first, and when they did they stopped instantly.
Their leader was young, a devout man it seemed. He made no attempt to look into his monk’s face. He could not have seen it anyway.
“Forgive the intrusion, honored Phrer,” he said, bowing. “But we search for an outlaw. A dangerous man. Have you seen anyone?”
I placed my hands on the copper altar and inclined my head. “I have not,” I said. “But only moments ago I heard running feet outside the chapel. I think it was toward the stables that they headed.”
The leader nodded, eyes brightening in the candled dimness.
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you, Phrer.”
He turned abruptly, pushing his men ahead of him back down the aisle. In moments the chapel was empty, the air silent as the dead. I waited for the silence to enter me, waited for it to freeze my rage. And when my heart felt as cold as the copper of the altar under my fingertips, I left the chapel in my cowled robes and strode through the palace grounds toward the central keep and the dungeons beneath. By now, Kreeg was probably there in one of the cells. Diken Graye certainly was. And I didn’t intend for either of them to stay behind when I left Nyshphal forever.
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