Sword of Waters

by Hilari Bell

  The sword came to her hand like the weapon it was. She hadn’t noticed, when she’d pulled it from the sign, that its balance was so good. The slightly offset nicks worn by the iron links still marred its edge, but that edge was sharper than she’d expected. She could fight with this sword.

  Arisa snorted at her own imagination. In the fight she was about to tackle, a sword would do her no good at all. Not as a weapon.

  She found a sheath that fit it, and slung the sword over her shoulder as well. It was long enough that it would drag on the ground if she buckled it around her waist.

  When she grasped the door above the broken bolt and looked out, the corridor was empty.

  It took only moments to open the terrace doors and hurry down the steps into the shadows. She tucked the sword and shield into the first set of bushes thick enough to conceal them. It wouldn’t hide them long. As soon as Holis remembered them the hunt would be on—of course, he had a few other things on his mind.

  Arisa hurried back to her room, where she pulled her knife from the bureau and saved a minute by cutting off the torn and filthy costume.

  Once she’d put on her old coat and britches, she slipped the knife’s sheath onto her belt and filled a small pack. No food— she’d have to buy that later, and work for it when her money ran out.

  She hesitated a moment over the deck of cards, but in the end she thrust it in. They’d tried to tell her the truth—it wasn’t their fault she’d refused to see it. She needed all the guidance she could get, for this.

  Finally, she grabbed a strip of leather and tied back her hair. She’d braid it when she got a chance. Her face, in the candlelit mirror, was as ordinary as it always was, but the eyes that stared back at her were as cold and focused as a hawk’s. Her mother’s eyes.

  How could she have failed to see it? To guess? The Falcon had never given up on a fight in her life—why had Arisa thought she’d give up on this one?

  She closed her eyes and turned away.

  Her mother was going to give up on this one.

  She would find her mother and make her listen. She would give her something to trade for her life and freedom—something of more value to the shareholders than one boy’s life. She would make her mother see that Justice Holis wasn’t another Pettibone, that Deorthas would be safe in his keeping, and in Edoran’s after that. Once the Falcon understood that, she’d abandon this senseless war, and accept the exile they could buy with the sword and shield. She would. She had to. Because if she didn’t, none of it had ever been real.

  Climbing down the vines outside her balcony was almost as easy by now as going down the stairs, and it seemed that Holis was still focused on finding the Falcon; except for the throne room and the corridor leading to it, the windows of the old wing were dark.

  That made it easy to retrieve the sword and shield from the bush where she’d hidden them. Easy to carry them across the lawn. Soon she would reach the trees, where no one would be able to see her. Treason was easy, when you didn’t care.

  But she did care. She hated knowing what Justice Holis and the others would think when they learned she’d taken the sword and shield. And Edoran… She wasn’t sure what he’d think. He was a strange kid. Maybe strange enough to understand the truth.

  But even if he thought her a traitor, she couldn’t let it stop her. There was no law, no cause, no disgrace, nothing that mattered more to Arisa than saving Weasel from her mother, and her mother from herself.

  She would fix this, whatever it took.

  Arisa strode into the shadow of the woods, and vanished.

  THE ADVENTURE CONCLUDES IN THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE TRILOGY,

  CROWN OF EARTH

  ENJOY A SNEAK PEEK HERE!

  They had Weasel.

  “I’ve already sent out troops,” said General Diccon. “If they haven’t left the city, we’ll stop them. If they have, we’ll be right on their heels. We’ll catch them. We’ll probably have them back by morning.”

  He sounded as if he believed it, but one look at the girl’s white face told Edoran that she didn’t—and she knew her mother better than any of them.

  The crowded office stank of burning lamp oil, sweat, and betrayal. Holis was talking to the stupid peasant boy the Falcon had used as her messenger, trying to persuade him to reveal where the Falcon had taken the kidnapped prince. Or rather, the boy she thought was the kidnapped prince.

  They hadn’t intended the kidnapping to go so far. Arisa had been certain that hiding the sword and shield would stop her mother’s plot. But it had all gone wrong and the Falcon’s men had taken Weasel, who was neither their leader’s daughter nor the prince. If Diccon’s troops didn’t catch them…

  “What do we do if they aren’t back by morning?” Edoran demanded. “What if she escapes, with Weasel as a hostage?”

  Justice Holis was controlling his expression in front of the Falcon’s messenger, but Edoran could see the grimness beneath the mask. “As a hostage… I’m afraid Weasel only matters to me. If he’s returned alive, unharmed, I might be able to commute her sentence to life imprisonment.”

  He didn’t seem to notice that Arisa flinched, but Edoran did. And judging by his sudden frown, General Diccon saw it too.

  “But I can’t even promise that,” Holis went on, “since I’m not the only one who’ll be involved in that decision.”

  Edoran’s heart contracted. He was talking about the horde of shareholders and courtiers who’d swarmed through the palace ever since his father’s death. Before his father’s death too, but then it hadn’t mattered because his father could control them. After the king died, Regent Pettibone had controlled them, and it had mattered a great deal. But there was nothing a five-year-old prince could do about that.

  Holis had taken over the regency when the Falcon killed Pettibone, but he didn’t yet have the kind of political power Pettibone had wielded. He might never have it, because he didn’t want it, and Edoran had almost loved him for that alone. Now he saw the downside to that lack of cutthroat ambition, because the nobles who’d have to approve Holis’ judgment on the Falcon wouldn’t give a tinker’s curse if Weasel lived or died. They’d set terms of surrender that the Falcon would refuse—she’d always struck Edoran as the fight-to-the-death type, and her daughter was the same. She would refuse, and Diccon’s troops would attack, and the worthless clerk who’d allowed himself to be kidnapped in Edoran’s stead would be the first to die.

  “No.” It came out sounding remarkably firm, considering that his hands were clammy and his heart was pounding. “I’m involved in that decision. In fact, I’m going to make it.”

  “Your Highness.” Holis looked pained. “The shareholders—”

  “Can rot!” Edoran rose to his feet. “General Diccon, you have till tomorrow’s dawn to capture the Falcon and return her and her hostage to the palace. If they aren’t here by sunrise, you will meet me in the courtyard with a troop of sufficient strength to guarantee my safety. Then we’ll go after the Falcon, and when we find her I will personally oversee the negotiations for her surrender. Is that clear?”

  The general looked appalled at the mere prospect. “Yes, Your Highness, but—”

  “I command this.” If he stayed, if he let them argue, they would win. Edoran turned and walked out. Maybe the deliberate stride that was all his wobbling knees could manage would be mistaken for confidence, or authority, or something. But he had to get out. He had to get out of that hot little room where his best friend was being condemned to death out of political necessity.

  Political necessity resulting in death was nothing new to Edoran—though before Weasel came, when he’d had no friends, it hadn’t seemed as important as it did now.

  Edoran stalked away, ignoring the guard who stood outside the office door—who must have failed to close that door after his prince, for General Diccon’s voice echoed into the corridor. “Well, I’ll be hanged. The little runt sounded like a king!”

  Heat flooded Edoran’s face, bu
t he kept walking. Pretending that he didn’t hear the whispers, didn’t know what people thought of him, was even more familiar than the fear that his own murder might suddenly become politically necessary.

  Only four months ago the speech he’d just made would have signed his death warrant.

  As long as you’re of use to me, the old regent’s voice murmured in his memory.

  But after Holis had taken the regency from Pettibone, that fear had slowly subsided. Holis’ political power was weak enough that he couldn’t rule Deorthas unless he did so in Edoran’s name. And… he really didn’t seem like the murdering type. He kept telling Edoran that he was a prince—maybe he meant it. But whether he meant it or not, he had to keep up the pretense of Edoran’s authority or his own would fail.

  If I stand firm, if I insist, they have to do it.

  If they didn’t, if he caved in, then Weasel might die.

  Edoran quickened his pace through the maze of hallways, ignoring both the courtiers’ startled looks and the quaking in his guts.

  His new valet must have heard something; he’d opened the gilded doors of the prince’s suite and was peering out, waiting for him.

  “I need you to go to the stable,” Edoran told him curtly. “Inform the grooms that I’ll need Ginger, saddled and ready, in the courtyard at dawn tomorrow. And Rudolphus, too. I may need a remount if I’m going to keep up.”

  The valet gawked at him. Edoran hadn’t yet figured out who he was spying for, and at this moment he didn’t care.

  “Now!”

  “Ah, of course, Your Highness. Might I inquire—”

  “No,” said Edoran. “I gave you an order. Obey it.”

  The valet departed, and Edoran just made it to the privy before vomiting up the remains of his early dinner. Stress had always affected his stomach, but there wasn’t much to come up. It was almost midnight now. Swapping costumes, helping Arisa hide the sword and shield from her mother’s men, interrogating that worthless boy—it had all taken far too long. He and Arisa had spent more than an hour locked in a closet!

  He winced at the memory of her weeping. She was the craziest person he’d ever known, but she loved her mother, and Weasel was as much her friend as he was Edoran’s. More.

  Some part of Edoran had wanted to hate her for taking that extra share of Weasel’s attention, but even he could see that wouldn’t be fair. And in her strange, half-wild way, she’d tried to help him. Was there any way he could get the Falcon out of this when he saved Weasel?

  He’d be willing to try, for Arisa’s sake. The Falcon had wanted to take over Deorthas, but it sometimes seemed to Edoran that everyone he knew was trying to take over Deorthas, and she hadn’t threatened to kill him or anyone else… so far.

  If she killed Weasel, all bets were off. But that wouldn’t happen. Edoran wouldn’t let it happen, even if he had to throw screaming fits to force them to listen.

  By the time his valet returned, he’d stripped off Weasel’s costume, donned his riding clothes, retrieved the smallest bag he could find from the little room where his clothes were stored, and started packing. He’d been in that room only a couple of times in his life, though its door opened off his own bedroom; it took him almost five minutes to locate the cupboard that held the luggage.

  “I have conveyed your orders to the grooms,” his valet announced. “Ah, might I assist you with that?”

  “Please,” said Edoran, gratefully abandoning his attempt to fold a shirt. “I’ll be traveling rough. I don’t know for how long. Just riding clothes. Nothing fancy.”

  “Packing for at least a week? Indeed.” The valet nodded, went into Edoran’s closet, and came out with one of the large trunks he’d already rejected.

  “Not that,” said Edoran. “I’ll be traveling on horseback, with an army troop.”

  He wasn’t about to allow General Diccon to refuse to take him because he had too much luggage.

  “Very good, Your Highness,” said his valet. “Your luggage can go in the carriage.”

  “We’ll be traveling fast,” Edoran repeated, trying not to snap at the man. “There won’t be any carriage.”

  “But there must be, if Your Highness is with them,” said his valet serenely. “How else could I, and your cook, and the groom accompany you? How else could your foodstuffs be carried?” He smiled indulgently at Edoran’s foolishness.

  “I won’t be taking any servants,” said Edoran, through gritted teeth. “I’ll eat whatever the soldiers eat. We have to travel fast!”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” The valet folded an embroidered vest neatly into the trunk. “Do you know if you’ll be stopping at inns? Or will you stay at the shareholders’ manors?”

  Edoran finally dismissed the man, coming close to the screaming fit he’d planned to use only as a last resort. He managed to cram one pair of clean britches and several shirts into a small bag, along with his underclothes and the toiletries he’d need to keep himself clean. He could find someone to wash and press them after he’d caught up with Weasel.

  Perhaps he should have worn the burglar costume Weasel had given him—it was both comfortable and practical—but his own riding clothes felt more… familiar. It had been Arisa’s idea to disguise herself in Edoran’s costume, to be kidnapped in his place, since her mother’s men would never dare harm her—but she’d been too big for Edoran’s clothes. They’d fit Weasel perfectly, even though both he and Arisa were only a year younger than Edoran’s fifteen.

  Soon he was ready to leave, but dawn was still hours off and his eyelids were beginning to droop. For some reason he always woke up at sunrise, but he needed to be down in the courtyard when the sun was coming up, not fumbling into his clothes and splashing water on his face. He didn’t want to summon his valet and have the man try to pack for him again. Was there any servant he could trust to wake him before dawn?

  No. There was no one he could trust.

  In the end Edoran spent the rest of the night, fully clothed, in a chair in his sitting room, dozing off and then waking when his stiff muscles protested. It was more than an hour before sunrise when he gave up on sleep and picked up his pack and the fur-lined cloak he’d selected for traveling in late winter. The rains that had drenched the city for the past few weeks might have abated but it was still cold, and if they traveled away from the coast there might be snow. It wouldn’t fit in his satchel, but it could be tied on the back of his saddle if he grew too warm. If he’d forgotten anything, he could borrow it from some trooper once they were on the road.

  Edoran’s heart lightened as he let himself out of his rooms and crept down the long corridors to the main doors. The palace was silent. Not even the servants who cleaned the hearths and brought hot water were stirring yet. The palace had seemed large to him as a child, but this was the first time he’d encountered it when it was… empty.

  He felt like a character in some fable, as if when he reached the courtyard he’d find it overgrown with vines, signifying that a hundred years had passed, or that all the servants had been turned into mice while he slept in that uncomfortable chair. But when he opened the doors, only the normal darkness of night transformed the familiar park and garden.

  An hour and fifteen minutes till dawn. He knew it without even glancing at the sky, for he always knew when the sun would rise and set.

  The troop captains were probably waking their men right now, and they’d be packing—unless they’d done that last night? Edoran had never dealt with even the palace guards, much less the common army soldiers. That would change soon, for General Diccon would bring them here at dawn. No matter what he might think of his prince’s command, he had to obey it.

  The Falcon had believed that Diccon was loyal to Prince Edoran. Edoran could have told her that the general was loyal to Deorthas, and couldn’t have cared less about Edoran himself.

  The grooms would be bringing his horses soon too. Ginger, chosen for her easy paces, and Rudolphus, for his stamina. If the grooms were late… could Edora
n saddle a horse himself? He never had, and when he’d watched it looked pretty complicated. But surely the stable roused early. They had his orders. The horses would arrive.

  The sky had gone from black to slate gray. They were probably saddling his horses right now. And the troops would be readying their own horses, for their prince had given them an order and he hadn’t backed down or caved in. So they had to obey.

  The sky grew brighter. Birds began to sing in the trees of the park. Edoran could hear muffled sounds from the palace, where the lower servants had started working.

  But it wasn’t dawn yet. The horses and the troops he’d ordered weren’t late. Not quite. Even if they were late, they had to obey his direct command. He was the prince! As long as he held firm, what else could they do?

  The sun rose, light flooding the courtyard. Sometimes men were late. Especially starting a journey that might last for an unknown amount of time, at sunrise. They were probably in the midst of frantic preparations, the officers shouting that they were keeping Prince Edoran waiting, that if they didn’t get a move on, when he turned twenty-two and became king he’d fire the lazy lot of them. He would, if they didn’t get here soon. They had to come soon. What else could they do?

  The sun rose higher. No one came into the courtyard. No frantic grooms, hurrying up with his horses. No troops. No general, apologizing for the delay. Edoran couldn’t even see any servants peering through the windows, though he’d bet they were there, enjoying his humiliation. He’d fire them, too, when he became king, and have Diccon hanged! Or at least thrown in jail.

  He imagined the weeping grooms walking through the front gate, carrying bundles that held all their worldly goods. Diccon, begging his king for mercy.

  Weasel, who’d started his life as a pickpocket, had always been terrified of going to jail.…