* * *
"DO YOU REALIZE," said Jame, shifting to a more comfortable position on her sack of potatoes, "that it's only been about twenty-six days since we left Tai-tastigon? That was the third of Winter. We were in Peshtar on the seventh and eighth, in the Anarchies by the eleventh, and in Karkinaroth by the twelfth or thirteenth. That means we spent about fourteen days in the palace. Amazing. You still haven't told me how you passed the time."
Marc glanced up at her from the bales of fodder on which he was stretched full length, with Jorin curled up asleep beside him. For a moment, Jame was afraid he would point out that she hadn't told him much either.
At first, there hadn't been an opportunity. People last out of a palace that has just collapsed for no discernable reason are apt to be asked questions. Since neither Jame nor Marc had cared to answer and Lyra was in no shape to do so, they had hidden in the ornamental garden on the slope while citizens swarmed up to gape at the destruction. When the crowd was large enough, the four fugitives had quietly descended to the city under its cover and found a pleasant inn that would put them up for the rest of the night.
In the morning, Lyra talked incessantly; but the other two found that an odd reticence had seized them both, at least about their new relationship as Highborn and Kendar. They could discuss their current situation, however, and did. It seemed to both of them that they had better get to the Cataracts as quickly as possible. The best solution was a supply barge bound down the Tardy to Hurlen. Since the island city was stocking up for a possible siege if the Horde broke through, barges were leaving Karkinaroth's wharf every other hour. The three Kencyr had bought passage on one of these and were nearing the end of their journey now.
It had been a pleasant two days in some respects. The barge surged along, first through green fields, then between canyon walls, towed by its draft horses. Three were harnessed to it by cables on either side, massive, placid beasts trotting heavily along worn paths on either bank. The faster the river ran, the more vital they became as brakes. At regular intervals, they were changed—one at a time, still going at a trot—by relief riders from post stations. Roughly every two hours, the travelers met an empty barge being towed back upriver. When one came in sight, they could see the other bargemen scrambling to reach the nearest stanchion so that they could moor their tow cables high enough not to foul the descending horses.
Lyra had enjoyed every minute of the journey. She had recovered so quickly from Odalian's death that Jame at first wondered if the girl was half-witted. On consideration, though, she decided that Lyra had simply never been taught to think seriously about anything except, perhaps, marriage contracts. For the past two days, the girl had been running all over the barge like a flame in her tattered red shirt, getting into more trouble than seemed possible in such a confined space. The crew plainly couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw her overboard. At the moment, she was up in the bow, shying apples at the horses.
Jame wished she had Lyra's lightheartedness although not her terrible aim. The voyage was almost over. Soon she and Marc would probably be back in the thick of things with little opportunity to talk—and there were things they did need to discuss.
Now or never, she thought, and, as casually as she could, asked Marc about his stay in the palace.
"Fourteen days?" he repeated. "Odd. I was going to say that it felt like less than that, but thinking back, it felt like more too. Well, my lady, it was like this: I woke up in a peculiar room. Its floor didn't reach to the wall, and there was something down there in the pit that made an ungodly noise, like an idiot trying to curse."
The cage without bars, Jame thought, but didn't interrupt. Maybe, as he went on with his story, he would forget that he spoke to a Highborn.
"I don't know how long I was there," he said thoughtfully. "Time doesn't seem to behave properly without a sun or moon. All I know is that I got very hungry and thirsty. Jorin had tracked me there. The poor kitten sat in the doorway and cried until he could only squeak. I thought I would sleep a bit to scrape together some strength and then try to jump across to him, but when I woke up, he was curled up beside me. Someone had shoved a plank across the pit."
Bender, thought Jame, or perhaps even Tirandys. But still she said nothing.
"So we crossed. I shoved the plank into the pit out of sight just to give whoever put me there something to wonder about. Then we wandered around a good bit, don't ask me where. It was all so gray, so . . . dead. Eventually we got back into the palace and went looking for the temple. When we found it, I broke in." He hesitated, remembering. "All the priests and acolytes were there."
"You said, 'Dead, they're all dead,' " Jame burst out.
He stared at her. "Yes, I did, but how . . ."
"I heard you, or rather I heard what Jorin heard. Interesting." She bent over to stroke the ounce, who stretched luxuriously without opening his eyes. "I didn't realize the link could work that way. And were they?"
"Dead? Yes. Very. I'd say at a guess that they were shut in without food or water and, as they weakened, the power of the temple started to work on them. There wasn't much left by the time I got there. When I gave them the fire rites, they went up like dry straw. After that, the kitten and I wandered around some more, trying to pick up your scent. I think we crossed it a few times, but that damned house kept shifting. It was all very confusing. We did find the kitchens, though, and Lady Lyra. Eventually, that boy you call Graykin found us."
He fell silent. Jame looked down at her black gloved hands, gripped tightly together on her knees.
"It's never going to be the same again between us, is it?"
"No, lass. How could it?" Suddenly he rolled over and put his hand over hers. "Now, now, cheer up. It's just that we've got to strike a new balance—and we will, eventually. Just give it time."
Jame looked up with a tentative, almost shy smile.
Just then, Lyra darted back toward them, pointing to the north shore and crying out excitedly. The bank they had been running along beside dipped like a curtain falling away. Beyond was a meadow covered with bright tents, bustling with soldiers. The biggest tent of all, set in the midst of the others like a young palace all of gaudy silk, flew Prince Odalian's colors.
Now the tow horses were bracing themselves against the barge's pull. Water peeled in sheets off the sharp curve of the stern. Hurlen appeared ahead, its easternmost island set almost squarely at the mouth of the Tardy. Men waited on its wharf. The horses on either bank had reached the end of their paths, which ran down to the edge of the Silver. All six of them were practically sitting on their haunches, braced, while their riders paid out the ropes. Heavy as it was, the barge lurched in the current. If a rope snapped or a horse lost its footing, the craft might smash into the island or be carried past it down the Silver toward the Cataracts. They were fairly close to the island now. Bargees threw ropes attached to heavier mooring cables across to the wharf. The wharfsmen reeled them in against the current. A thud, a shout, and the voyage was over.
They arrived about midafternoon. Marc and Lyra had assumed that they would go straight on to the Host's camp, but Jame hesitated. From what she heard on the wharf, she knew that Tirandys was still impersonating the Prince, with no one apparently the wiser. In fact, he was entertaining the Kencyr lords in his camp at this minute. Had Graykin betrayed her? She had been uneasy about him from the start, but had assumed that because he had told Marc and Lyra about Odalian, he would also tell her brother. It occurred to her now, though, that Graykin had had to give Marc some explanation or the Kendar would never have let him leave the palace with Kin-Slayer. What explanation would have been better than the truth? But while Graykin had told Marc that she had asked him to warn the Highlord, he hadn't said that he would do it, just as he hadn't promised her.
On the other hand, though, even if Graykin had passed on both the news and the sword to her brother, Torisen probably wouldn't move against the changer until after the battle when he no longer needed the Karkinoran ar
my. In that case, her sudden appearance might disrupt his plans, perhaps fatally. That was too big a risk to take. She suggested that they find lodgings in Hurlen for the night.
This proved rather difficult. Hurlen was generally considered impregnable once its bridges were up, and everyone within twenty miles had flocked there for sanctuary. The travelers did eventually find a room in the southernmost island's single tower. It was about large enough to swing Jorin in, if anyone had wanted to do such a thing, and was well above the masonry level. When the wind caught it right, the tower creaked in all its wooden joints and swayed a bit. One night's lodgings cost them all the money they had left as well as half the pearls off Lyra's bodice.
Several more gems bought them supper: bowls of almond fish stew, luce wafers, and salmon tart, washed down with a flask of river water guaranteed to have come from well upstream. Marc ate in the room itself while Jame and Lyra risked sitting crosslegged on the rickety balcony thirty feet above the Silver. Downriver about a quarter of a mile the rapids began. Just before them, the water rose in a gleaming ridge over the top of the boat-guard, a massive cable stretched across the Silver to stop the occasional runaway barge.
It was dusk by now. Watchfires sparkled on the west bank where the Host camped. Stars began to come out.
"It's still the dark of the moon," said Jame, looking up. "When Tori and I were children, we used to stay awake whole nights sometimes watching for the crescent to reappear. Our old tutor Anar told us that if ever it didn't, that would mean Perimal Darkling had swallowed the moon and all the stars would follow one by one."
"Soldiers say the same, with reason," said Marc. "It's happened before on other worlds, just before we lost them." He snorted. "A cheerful thought for the eve of battle."
"I'm tired," said Lyra. "Who gets the bed?"
There was only one, a straw pallet in the corner.
Jame laughed. "I'm going out to look around, so you two can fight for it. Just save a corner for Jorin."
Normally, the city raised its two drawbridges at dusk, but tonight both were still down as Hurlen offered to serve either camp in any way it could, for one last grab at the soldiers' gold. Very few came from the west shore, but the narrow, lower walks and bridges swarmed with Karkinorans.
Torches flared over rushing water. Bursts of raucous laughter erupted from small, crowded rooms and occasional sharp cries from dark corners. The smells of roast mutton and ale filled the air, but under these was another tang, sharp as sweat, heady as wine. So this was what it felt like, Jame thought, to go among men who knew that by tomorrow night they might be dead.
She and Jorin kept to the upper catwalks. Even up there, a few soldiers did accost them in Southron, which Jame barely understood, with intentions all too clear; but it was still early, and no one pressed the issue. For the most part, they were left alone, suspended above firelight and laughter like spectators at a play.
The stone walkways that connected the two mainland bridges were the closest thing that Hurlen had to a street. Jame and Jorin crossed it. The farther north they went, the richer and quieter Hurlen became. At its northernmost point was the island of Grand Hurlen where the city's upper class lived in a hive of rooms, towers, and twisting passageways so narrow that one practically had to turn sideways to get through. All the doors were shut now and the windows barred, although light shone through the cracks. Jame and Jorin threaded past them toward Grand Hurlen's center, where the island opened out into an earth-filled hollow about two hundred feet across. Grass grew there, and flowering shrubs and dwarf fruit trees, not that much could be seen of them now for the park was currently full of sheep, waiting to play their part in case of a siege.
Jame leaned against the stone rail. Above, stars shone brightly, but the absent moon seemed to say You may already have lost more than you know.
Could she lose what she had never really had: her people, her place, her brother? What if Tirandys won? He would still have to follow Master Gerridon's orders, but in his own devious way as he strove for his lord's ultimate downfall. She knew the quality of his mind and the strength of his will. Despite his handicaps, he would put up a good fight, better, perhaps, even than Torisen could, considering the enemy. Maybe it would be a good thing if he won, if she let him win . . . but no, of course not. That was only the darkness calling to her again, whispering that Tirandys already thought better of her than perhaps Torisen ever would. She wanted to belong, but certainly not at the cost of her brother's life. Anyway, if Tirandys did win and she fell into his hands again, he would probably either send her back to the Master or kill her; the latter, preferably.
Below, the flock had caught Jorin's scent and was milling about restlessly. Sheep, sheep . . . goat.
She didn't see how she could find out if Graykin had betrayed her short of asking Tori himself, but that wouldn't do. He would be surrounded by people now, including the false prince, and probably in no position to explain the sudden acquisition of a sister, much less one possessing such dangerous information. Assuming Graykin had reached him, though, there was no need for her to try until much later. But if he hadn't, what then? The principal thing was that the Highlord learn about Tirandys before the blood rites, assuming he and the changer got that far. If Graykin had betrayed her, it was to someone who now presumably knew this, too. Would any Kencyr stand by and watch Torisen doom himself in such a way? That should be unthinkable, and yet . . . and yet . . .
Lyra had been talking incessantly for two days. What she said usually had no more substance than puff-pastry, but a rather muddled version of Riverland politics had emerged. It was clear that, as far as Lyra was concerned, Daddy's enemy at the Cataracts wasn't the Horde but Torisen. Forgetting to whom she spoke (if, in fact, she had ever known), she gave Jame a highly partisan account of all Caineron's clashes with the upstart Highlord. My lord Caineron, Jame decided, sounded like a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Yes, but surely even he . . .
Around and around her thoughts went.
"Damn," she said suddenly, cutting them short. It wasn't just all the unknown factors that were muddling her. Running under everything like a scarlet thread was fear. One way or the other, soon she would see her brother again, after all these years, and the thought filled her with near panic.
Jorin had been standing on his hind legs, forepaws and chin on the rail beside her hands, his nose twitching at the smell of the livestock below. Now he raised his blind moon-opal eyes and gave a questioning chirp.
"All right, child, all right." She scratched him behind the ear. "I'm just being silly. Let's go get some sleep."
By now, the number of Karkinorans in Hurlen had grown, and so had the uproar. Men began to shout in the distance. As Jame and Jorin neared the crooked main street, the noise settled into a chant, one Southron word repeated over and over. Jame recognized it from its Easternese cognate.
"Highness!" the soldiers were shouting. "Highness!"
Down the street came the false Prince Odalian. Torisen was walking beside him.
Jame recoiled into the shadow of a tower. She had only seen her brother for a moment, but she remembered every detail. His dark hair, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved . . . it was all utterly strange, utterly familiar, like catching an unexpected glimpse of oneself in a mirror. Even that wry smile he shot at Odalian . . .
Torisen would never have given that look if Graykin had told him who and what his companion was. He didn't know. He didn't know.
Others followed the Prince and the Highlord, some Karkinoran nobles, some Kencyr Highborn. One of the latter caught Jame's eye because he was so much more richly dressed than the other lords and wore his finery so poorly. A thin figure darted out to him from the crowd, spoke a hasty word in his ear, and faded back among his retinue. It was Graykin. His restless eyes swept the street, the bridges, the catwalks, and met Jame's. For a moment, they stared at each other. Then he ducked away and disappeared down the street with the others.
Jame stood very still long enough t
o draw four or five deep breaths. She didn't know which Highborn Graykin had approached, but his intentions had been obvious. And now he knew she was in Hurlen.
"Just once, why can't we have a simple crisis?" she murmured to Jorin. "Stay close." They set off at a run for their lodgings.
* * *
GRAYKIN HAD BEEN in Hurlen for several days, waiting for the Host and wrestling with his conscience. His life had always had a single goal: to gain a real place in the Kencyrath. His Kencyr blood was responsible for that craving. His Southron mother, however, made it very unlikely that he would ever succeed. He knew that perfectly well, but hope refused to die. He had always scrambled for every crumb of encouragement his lord had let fall and probably always would, hating himself more and more.
That was a bitter thought, especially now. For the first time, someone had actually trusted him. Perhaps she had had very little choice, but she had still done it, and refused to call him that hated name. No one had ever offered him those scraps of self-respect before. He found himself savoring them again and again, before he remembered what must follow.
But it wasn't betrayal, he reminded himself fiercely. He hadn't given his word, so he owed her nothing. Graykin knew the forms of honor. In a sense, he owed his lord nothing either because "his lord" had never given Graykin the right to call him any such thing. Even a yondri would have had a better chance of eventual acceptance.
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