by Melanie Rawn
Audrite’s fine eyes narrowed dangerously. “It was a mistake to give him so large a chamber, but I thought it might make him less vocal in his complaints. I’ll talk to him, Ruala.”
“No, but thank you,” Ruala said. She folded a parchment diagram detailing the placement of shelters around the lake and handed it to the steward. “I’ve relied on you too much. And there’s more than one way to hood a hawk.”
She had a good idea of where Nemthe would be: in his assigned chamber, once more adding up and moaning over what he had lost. Because Ruala and her husband were close to Pol, she had thus far been treated to seven recitations of Nemthe’s woes. Each estimate of loss increased until she was beginning to realize that his claim to reparations would eventually total the yearly incomes of the Desert and Princemarch combined.
But Ruala did not immediately climb the stairs to Nemthe’s room. She went instead to the inner garden, where many Dorvali exiles could be found every afternoon sighing over their plight. Ruala didn’t blame them; they’d lost everything but their lives, and she supposed they found some comfort in communal misery. At least the daily gathering had the advantage of keeping them and their complaints in one place and out of everyone else’s way.
She made her way through knots of children playing with toys her steward had found in an old coffer upstairs. Eventually she spotted her quarry, who sat in the shade of an awning with his fellow silk merchants. Master Tormichin’s pure white hair wreathed a face of grandfatherly benevolence and a mind of singular ambition. No fool, Ruala intended to use the former to engage the latter—for his ambition was to outwit his rival Nemthe at every possible turn.
Not all the men rose when she approached. Ruala wasn’t offended. Unlike most highborns living in remote castles, her experience of commoners was not limited to her servants. All her life she had known the proud and independent folk who lived in the Great Veresch and came sometimes to spend a few days at Elktrap Manor with her grandfather, Lord Garic. The merchants of Dorval, though independent due to wealth and not isolation, were akin to the people of the Veresch in spirit if not tradition.
She distributed a polite smile among them, then made her green eyes their widest and sweetest. Trying this trick at the age of thirty-seven—really, you’re getting too old for it, she chided herself. It doesn’t work anymore on men under sixty. Thank the Goddess that Tormichin is nearly eighty!
“Have you any idea where Master Nemthe is?” she asked the old man. “I’ve been trying to find him and I just can’t. It’s most vexing.”
Mention of his rival took some of the charm from his face. “I don’t keep track of him, my lady. Have you tried his chamber?”
“Oh, of course he’d be there! My thanks, Master Tormichin—I’m just not thinking straight these days.”
“And small wonder, dear Lady Ruala,” he said kindly. “You’ve done the work of fifty ever since we descended on you.”
“It’s the least I can do. I—” She broke off and swayed a little on her feet as if exhaustion had finally overcome her.
“My lady!” Master Tormichin exclaimed, and rose to lend her a large, square hand in support. She righted herself, leaning on his arm. “There, better now? You’ve been doing much too much,” he scolded. “Let someone else worry about that idiot Nemthe for you.”
“I must speak to him right away.” She drew away from him, leaving one hand delicately on his arm. “I haven’t time for a silly faint—”
“Then allow me to accompany you, my lady,” he offered.
“Would you?” Turning the full force of her eyes on him, she made a mental note to tell Chay that whenever he had dealings with this man in the future, he should send a pretty woman.
Tormichin gallantly escorted her inside, past the ornately framed mirror that had belonged to Riyan’s mother, and to the stairs. He chatted about this and that, working in a compliment or two for the color of her eyes—“Green as the pearl coves at twilight, and concealing even sweeter treasure.” When they reached Nemthe’s chamber, Tormichin pounded a fist on the door.
“Open up! The Lady Ruala is honoring you with a visit!”
Nemthe appeared at once, scowling, ink stains on his fingers confirming her guess about his obsession. Dark eyes glared suspiciously at Tormichin, though he bowed politely enough to Ruala.
“My lady. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She walked into the room—this was her castle, after all—and turned to face him, hands clasped before her. “I’ve come to ask you to reconsider, Master Nemthe. There are so many people coming from Stronghold—”
“Impossible, my lady. Look at this—this closet!” He waved an arm to indicate the accommodations—two beds, four rolled-up pallets on the floor, a table, two chairs, and three narrow windows overlooking the lake. “It’s outrage enough that my wife and daughters have no privacy, but to have my apprentices in here with us—apprentices, mind you, who used to sleep in the kitchen—” He snorted. “As if I was no better than an apprentice myself, crammed in here and compelled to eat from the common stewpot!”
“I’m sorry for that,” Ruala murmured, meaning it—though not in the way Nemthe interpreted. Skybowl’s cook was increasingly distraught as his stores dwindled with so many mouths to feed and more coming. She had sent to Elktrap, but it would be days before supplies arrived.
“Our friends from Dorval are very important to us—” she went on, then stopped as if fearing she’d said something offensive. Nothing could have been further from the truth. These silk merchants knew full well the value of their goods and their good will. Ruala bit back an untimely giggle as Nemthe almost preened, and added hastily, “For friendship’s sake alone, my lord husband and I are pleased to offer our keep for your comfort—even though it’s so small. . . .”
“Yes,” Nemthe said frankly. “It is.”
Tormichin’s jaw had dropped long since. Now he picked it up and drew breath to do battle. Ruala gave a helpless sigh and sank down in the nearest chair, preparing to watch the old man do the rest of her work for her.
“Do you mean to tell me, you ungrateful swine, that you refuse to move your lazy carcass out of this room? How dare you! After the gracious kindness shown you by this sweet lady, the welcome she gave us—”
“What could she do—turn us away?” Nemthe asked bluntly. “Here I am and here I remain! I won’t give over to a passel of common soldiers who lost a fight they should have won! Do you expect my wife and daughters to sleep in the stables or the caves at Threadsilver? They’ve suffered enough!”
Ruala made note of the cave idea.
Tormichin was so angry his fringe of white hair seemed to bristle. “You selfish, thieving—what do you know about suffering? And how dare you try to cheat those brave, wounded—”
“Give up your own snug tower room, then! And how dare you accuse me of theft! Feeble-minded old whoreson—”
Ruala almost shook her head in amazement. How either of them could imagine the wounded climbing up all these stairs was beyond her.
Present animosity had been forgotten in favor of old grievances. Tormichin snarled, “Thief! I know damned well you switched that figured blue silk of mine for your own inferior goods in 722, and then passed off mine as your own!”
“A lie! And don’t think I don’t know who was responsible for that leak in my warehouse roof in 728! A hundred bolts of my finest, ruined beyond—”
“Oh, please!” Ruala exclaimed, jumping to her feet. Belatedly recalling her chosen role, she gripped the back of the chair as if to keep herself upright and said, “Master Nemthe, Master Tormichin, they’ll be here by tomorrow morning! What am I to do?”
“With this room, nothing,” Nemthe snapped, then remembered to whom he spoke and tacked on a quick, “—my lady.”
Tormichin advanced on him, looking nothing like a grandfather now. Ruala considered him a splendid model for a stained glass of the Storm God.
“You conniving filth, you’ll leave this room if I have to ca
rry you out of it myself! And your whining wife and three ugly daughters along with you!”
Nemthe sucked in a breath. Ruala said swiftly, “I’m sure Lord Maarken will be most grateful if you would give up your room to him, Master Nemthe.”
It was a name only slightly less momentous than Chay’s as far as these men were concerned. And it had nothing to do with Maarken’s position as Battle Commander; he was the heir to Radzyn, and Radzyn controlled the silk trade.
Nemthe’s throat worked convulsively, as if trying to swallow a large lump of something exceedingly vile. Through gritted teeth he managed, “I would be—happy—to vacate this chamber for Lord Maarken, my lady.” It was clear that no one else would be acceptable.
“And I mine, for Lord Chaynal,” Tormichin added smoothly, and Nemthe’s expression positively curdled.
“Oh, thank you,” Ruala said in a rush, and made her exit. Quickly.
Rohan’s law! she told herself as she hurried to her own chambers where she could laugh herself silly. Never do yourself what you can get someone else to do for you!
By early evening the tale of Nemthe’s recalcitrance had spread. Not wishing to be seen in the same shameful light, the others were falling all over themselves vying for which highborn would get their chambers. Ruala’s steward had promised Walvis and Feylin four times, and young Prince Daniv at least six.
“Lovely,” Audrite sighed happily as they sat over taze that night. “I admit I wondered why you bothered with that old fool Tormichin. You gained something else, too, I think. Nemthe only said what they’re all thinking about why Stronghold was lost. But after the way he said it, none of the others will mention it for fear of sounding like him.”
Ruala propped a foot on her chair, rubbing at a scuff on her boot. “That’s just it. They are all thinking it—and at some point Pol’s going to hear it. Will the Vellant’im march on Skybowl next? Can he keep us safe?” Hesitating a moment, she darted a glance at the older woman and said, “I hope Nemthe does say something to Pol.”
Chadric, who had been listening in silence, turned from the windows. “You want us to leave,” he said softly.
“No! Not you.” Ruala shook her head firmly. “You’re not afraid. But they are—and there’s no room for their kind of fear in this war.”
“It’s not their fault. They feel helpless.” He shrugged tired shoulders. “I understand that.”
“So do I,” she admitted. “They’ve lost what they had. I’m still in possession of what’s mine—and I intend to keep it. But I can’t concentrate on that if I’m worried with feeding them and keeping them from each other’s throats. It sounds cold, but there it is.”
“It’s only practical, my dear,” Chadric told her.
“They’ll be safer elsewhere, anyway. Let Nemthe offend with his accusations and demands. If I know Pol, he’ll make it impossible for Nemthe to do anything but leave, and make him think it was all his own doing.”
“I think you misjudge Pol’s subtlety,” Audrite cautioned. “Dearly as I love him, he’s not his father.”
“Then we’ll have to do it for him.” She stretched the knotted muscles of her neck and sighed. “Oh, by the way, I do owe Master Nemthe for what might be a good idea. What about using some of the caves at Threadsilver? They’re not convenient to the keep, but they’re snug and can hold quite a few people.”
Chadric exchanged a smile with his wife. When Ruala looked puzzled, he said, “You’ve never read Lady Merisel’s histories? During their less successful years, the Sunrunners hid out with the Isulk’im in dragon caves all through these hills.”
“Put Lord Kazander and his people in Threadsilver,” Audrite suggested. “They’ll feel right at home!”
• • •
Rihani knew he must have fallen off his horse in the middle of battle; he could think of no other reason why he was flat on his back when there was work to be done. Killing to be done. His cloak wrapped him in soggy folds—damn the Vellant’im for attacking in the rain—and he struggled against it, trying to rise. His wounded thigh ached, but not too badly. What defeated him was a terrible weariness that made him fear he’d received some other hurt. What was it he’d heard at Catha Heights about head injuries? They could make one sleepy, and one must not sleep or one might never waken again—
He forced his eyes open. Light hurt, dim and faraway as it was. It must be nearing dusk. When had he fallen? Turning his head, he froze at the sight of a dark face, brown of hair and eye, and with a straggly beard. With a cry of fear and hate he flailed out at the man, the enemy, the murderer of his father’s brother.
The man saw the blow coming a measure off and evaded it easily. “Rihani! Come on now, your fever’s gone. I thought you’d given up hitting anything you could reach.”
“Saumer?” he breathed, then collapsed back into the pillows. The face above him was as familiar as his own, but for the one alteration. “When did you grow that?”
“What? Oh, this.” Saumer grinned and stroked his upper lip. “There hasn’t been time to shave. Besides, you should see your own. Can you sit up? They tell me you ought to eat something.”
The thought made him queasy. “No—not just yet.” But he did push himself upright, and was exhausted by the effort. When his vision cleared of tiny black dots, he looked around. He lay in an ironwork bed set in the corner of a wide, tapestried chamber. A candle branch burned on a far table where a servant girl sat sewing. It was all very placid and pretty, but he had no idea where he was.
Saumer saw his confusion in his face. “River Run. You don’t remember?”
Rihani shook his head. Lank brown hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it away, suddenly aware of how filthy and sweaty he was. “You said I’d had a fever. How long?”
“Since yesterday morning, when Prince Kostas’ ashes blew into the river. Don’t you remember that, either?”
“I think so.” He frowned. “You wanted me to take fire to him myself—”
“Kinsman, and senior prince present,” Saumer agreed. “But you dragged me with you anyway. We stood with him all night, the army all around us, and his people here and from the keep at River View. I thought for a while that it was going to rain—it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d had Sunrunner’s Fire for the burning, but—anyway, in the morning the wind came up and blew you over.”
Rihani remembered some of it now, mostly the early part of the night. When he’d lit the four corners of Kostas’ shroud, it had been as if fire had ignited in him, too. He remembered locking every joint in his body to keep standing—and how the fire had seeped through him all during the night until by dawn it burned his bones to ashes, too.
“And here you’ve been ever since, flat on your back in bed,” Saumer concluded. “Sure you don’t want something to eat? It’s good soup.”
“Goddess, no!” Rihani exclaimed, which made his friend laugh.
“If you’re strong enough to yell, you must be getting better. Which is a good thing, because I’m going to have to leave soon.”
“Where to? And why just you and not me?”
“Because you’re going to High Kirat and tell your aunt Danladi exactly what happened. I sent another messenger to tell her about the burning, but I think you ought to go stay with her for a little while. Let her ask the things she can’t ask of a stranger.” Saumer’s broad-boned, pleasant face had hardened past his seventeen winters; with the beard on his cheeks and the experience of battle in his eyes, he looked twice his true age. Rihani suddenly knew what he was thinking—that there had been no one to answer Saumer’s own questions about his parents’ murder on Kierst-Isel.
Still. . . . “I’m not going. If you can’t wait until I’m well enough to ride, then I’ll catch up with you later. My uncle left both of us in charge of his armies, and—”
“And nothing. I’m leaving, you’re staying—and then you’re riding to High Kirat, not back into war. Like as not, you’d open that wound again.”
“You’re not the senior
prince here—as you pointed out! I am. And—”
“Don’t wave your heir-to-Ossetia banner at me!” Saumer warned. “I may be the lowly younger brother of the ruling Prince of Kierst-Isel, but I’m a damned sight better at war than you are!”
There; it was out in the open at last. Rihani had to steel himself from a cringe of shame. There had been a skirmish on the way to River Run. When a Vellanti raiding party had appeared a measure away, Rihani froze—but Saumer had instantly organized a force to meet them. Although he’d participated in the fight—had been terrified not to—he’d hated every moment of it, every drop of enemy blood that he later cleaned from his sword.
He had tried to communicate some of this to Saumer late that night. They had sat alone over a small fire, sharing confidences as they’d done for years now as Kostas’ squires, as friends. Though Saumer had tried to understand, he was neither ashamed of his warrior’s skills nor of enjoying the use of them in battle.
“It’s a good occupation for an extra prince,” he’d explained with a shrug. “Leading his elder brother’s armies, if necessary—and if they trust each other! I’d planned to ask Arlis if I could go to Remagev after my knighting, to learn about this Medr’im idea and adapt it to Kierst-Isel. Goddess knows we still have people along the old border who need watching.”
“I wonder if my little brother Sorin will turn out like you,” Rihani had mused, absently rubbing his bandaged thigh. “It sounds like a good partnership you’ve got with Arlis. I hope Sorin and I can work together the same way.”
“My brother and I wrote back and forth about it quite a bit. I wish I knew how he’s doing. . . .” Saumer gave another shrug. “Don’t worry too much about what happened today. It’s not your future role, leading armies.”
“Goddess, I hope not.”
“You could do it if you had to. You’ve shown that. But it’s not what you were meant for.” Saumer poked at the fire with a twig. “The guts of it is that I don’t particularly want to risk my life and my troops, but I do it, and try not to think too much about it. Thinking is the duty of a ruling prince, not his little brother.”