by Melanie Rawn
“No, I meant what did you do?”
“Oh, that. I linked with you a little—not much, just enough to include you in the working so what shielded me also shielded you. What you felt was what you are, answering to the use of power.”
“I’ve been around Sunrunners,” she breathed. “I never felt—”
“I should’ve said our kind of power. My lady, there’s no hint of faradhi in you. If there had been, you would have felt something around Sunrunners. But you’re not, so you didn’t.”
“You’ve said what I am. What are you?”
“We have a long ride ahead of us, and we’ll have to hurry. I’ll tell you on the way.”
“You will tell me now, Branig.”
The young man nodded. “Very well. The faradh’im have begun to form two factions: those loyal to Lord Andry and those who look to High Princess Sioned and her son. The same thing happened to us after Lady Merisel defeated us. One side brought about Lallante’s marriage, Mireva’s plots nine years since—and this war, for all I know. They want the old ways back, and the old power. I am not one of them, my lady. We want only to live without fear and without hiding what we are. Prince Pol has shown himself tolerant. We feel we can trust his protection, so we will fight for him. But even if that were not the case, how could we stand by during this horror? This is our land, too. And we’re dying right beside the rest of you.”
“And yet you say you need me.”
“You are Diarmadh’reia,” he replied simply. “That is a powerful thing among our people. And now I think we must start. We’ll ride south, as you said, so as not to be obvious. Then we will turn west. With another of the Goddess’ smiles in our direction, we ought to be in Prince Tilal’s camp before dawn.”
• • •
They were, and Tilal’s astonishment on recognizing Naydra was equaled only by hers that she had actually gotten there alive. No Vellanti patrols had challenged her passage; she and Branig might have been alone in all the world.
When she had been given mulled wine and a comfortable seat in the prince’s tent, she said what she had come to say. Then Branig asked if there was a place where she might rest until full light, when they would leave.
Ostvel eyed him pensively. “I appreciate your care of the princess, but I’m at a loss to understand your devotion to our interests. Without offense, may I ask exactly who you are besides the court tutor?”
“Only that, my lord,” he replied. “And well aware of who ought to win the coming battle.”
Naydra was staring into her wine cup. Ostvel caught Tilal’s eye, glanced at the exhausted princess, and saw the younger man arch a brow slightly.
“I see,” was Ostvel’s only comment, but as Branig escorted Naydra to Ostvel’s own tent, vacated for her use, he said to Tilal, “I don’t believe him any more than you do.”
“I don’t have much interest right now in who he is or even who he claims to be. I trust Naydra. Do you?”
“Yes.” Ostvel shifted on his camp stool, wishing for a softer pillow beneath his saddle-sore behind. While he was at it, he wished for his own hearth, with a roaring fire in it, and his own bed—with his wife in it.
“It’s too bad about Lady Cluthine,” Tilal murmured. “And intolerable about Rialt and his wife.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“Siege?”
Ostvel shook his head. “Even with the warehouses fouled—and I think I detect the hand of a certain silk merchant’s son there—Swalekeep can still feed its populace and the Vellant’im for a while yet.”
Tilal shrugged. “All the same, it’s not nice to make war on people whose only fault is that their prince is an idiot and their princess a traitorous bitch.”
“Granted. But we’ve only two choices. Attack the Vellant’im or attack Swalekeep. Which do you think Chiana wants most?”
Tilal chewed his lip. “Isn’t there a third alternative?”
“Attack nobody?” Ostvel snorted with laughter.
“Certainly not. Attack everybody.” And Tilal grinned.
Chapter Ten
“Timing,” said Draza, “will be everything.”
Kerluthan, staring hard at the map spread on Ostvel’s camp cot, was more blunt. “You’re going to take a beating downriver if this doesn’t work the way you plan.”
Smiling at him, Tilal said, “That’s why you’re going to lead the cavalry.”
Kerluthan looked surprised, then proud. “Thank you, my lord!”
“So,” Tilal went on, “if we all know what we’re about, let’s get to it.”
The map was rolled, the two young lords departed, and Ostvel deigned to express himself with a vast sigh.
“That’s two,” Tilal said.
“I beg your pardon? Two what?”
“Two sighs. Also a grunt and three grimaces. Would you care to elaborate?”
“Goddess, to be their age again,” Ostvel said. “Draza thinks he’s going to have a wonderful time. He probably will. And Kerluthan is straining at the bit to prove himself the warrior his father wasn’t.”
“I just hope he doesn’t get so involved in his charge that he won’t be where I need him when I need him there.”
“If he isn’t, your sweet lady wife will have him for dinner.”
“Roasted on a spit, with mushroom gravy,” Tilal agreed cheerfully. “Speaking of wives, yours will use my hollow bones for wind chimes if anything happens to you. Must I make it formal, Ostvel?”
“No.” Another sigh. “I’ll just watch.”
“You and Andrev.”
“He won’t much like that.”
“At least he’s a squire who’s sworn to follow orders. I thought you’d put up a fight. Thank you for being sensible.”
“It’s not sense. It’s age. Believe me, the one doesn’t come with the other. My brain has been through as many winters as my body, but doesn’t seem willing to acknowledge it.” He flexed his fingers inside gloves that afforded scant warmth in the damp and chill.
“I’ll have you in Swalekeep by tomorrow evening and you can take a good hot soak.” With a tight grin he added, “In Princess Chiana’s very own tub. They say it has solid gold spigots.”
“And an indelible ring of slime. Thank you, no. Not unless Andrev can rinse it out with Sunrunner’s Fire.” He stretched and stood up. “I know you won’t sleep, but at least lie down and pretend for a little while. It’s good for morale.”
“Chay used to tell Rohan that, back when we were fighting Roelstra.”
“I know. That’s why I said it.” Ostvel ruffled the younger man’s hair, smiling. “It also happens to be good advice. Follow it.”
When he was alone, Tilal extinguished the lamp, encouraging belief among his people that he was serene enough in his mind to sleep. But if sleep was impossible, serenity was a joke. He knew what might happen tomorrow.
He’d been using everything learned from that long-ago campaign against the armies of Princemarch and Syr—Good Goddess, thirty-three winters ago, almost exactly. Though he’d been only a squire, his service had required constant attendance on his prince. And so he’d been privy to plans and conferences and late-night talks between Rohan and Chay, in a tent not so very different from this one. Sometimes his father had been there, too. Davvi had not been a soldier, but he had led his troops as a prince should, and fought bravely. Tilal had been proud of him for that, but prouder still of the Prince of Syr he’d become.
I’m like him, I suppose. I’d rather rule my princedom in peace. But I’m the better soldier. And Kostas was better than either of us, the way he sliced through the enemy like a knife through soft cheese. But those of us who were taught by Rohan don’t find much to be proud of in being that kind of prince.
Kostas would call that nonsense. He told me once that if we forget how to make war, we make ourselves weak. Easy targets. And I suppose that’s true. But I don’t enjoy this, even though it has to be done. It makes me tired and sad. Like it did Father and Rohan
—and, after a while, even Chay.
Now, standing in the silent half-dawn, he could imagine them seated here, taking a moment for quiet thought before the next idea was presented, discussed, accepted, rejected, or set aside for later consideration. Tilal had tried the same method, but Ostvel knew little about war, Draza even less, and Kerluthan was the type who drew his sword first and thought about it several days later. If at all.
He envied Pol. Maarken and Chay were with him; Walvis was within reach of sunlight. All I have is what I remember. What I learned. I hope it’s enough.
“My lord? Are you asleep?”
He spun around, peering at the drawn tent flap. “Princess Naydra? Please, come in.” He relit the lamp, fumbling a bit with the flint. Manners instilled first by his mother and then by Sioned took over; he offered her wine, a chair, another cloak against the cold.
She refused all of it. “I need nothing, my lord. Actually, I’ve come to give you something.”
He found himself holding a little gold dragon with ruby eyes.
“It belongs to Rinhoel. I borrowed it—well,” she corrected with a little smile, “stole it. It’s a Vellanti token of safe-passage through their lines.”
“Like the one you say Aurar used?” He turned it over in his fingers, admiring the workmanship. “I’ve seen ones like it, but I didn’t know what they were for. You may need this one to get back into Swalekeep.”
“No. Branig will see to it. I want you to have this. I feel certain you’ll think of a way to use it to better advantage than I.” She smiled again, weariness carving more lines into her face. “I’ll make sure that chambers are waiting for you and Lord Ostvel in Swalekeep. Good night, my lord.”
“My lady—” he began, but she was gone. He looked down at the dragon. The eyes glowed in the lamplight, but he saw neither threat nor evil. In fact, he mused, ruby was the gem of success in war.
• • •
His arms lashed tightly behind his back, Rialt stumbled up countless steps, prodded by the man-at-arms behind him when he tried to stop and catch his breath. The cellar’s icy damp had clogged his nose, and a dirty cloth had been shoved halfway down his throat. He followed the broad-shouldered guard, trying not to suffocate, not to lose his balance again, not to look at the painful brightness of the torch. But he was as starved for light as he was for warmth.
They emerged from the cellars into a windowed stairwell. He had worked the cloth out with his tongue and spat it on the floor. Tottering over to an open casement, he drank in fresh, cold air and the sight of the sun. It was barely dawn outside. A few people hurried to their duties in the stableyard; a breeze fingered the trees and blew overnight clouds south. After his years at Dragon’s Rest serving a Sunrunner prince, he automatically felt better at the prospect of a clear day. But he was no faradhi, and there was no help for him in sunlight.
“That’s enough,” one of the guards said. “Hurry it up. His grace doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He approached with the gag, and Rialt shook his head.
“Not necessary,” he coughed.
The other man shrugged. “Even if he yelled, nobody’d hear him in the back halls. Leave it.”
“Thank you,” Rialt said, meaning it. He was taken down an empty corridor, up servants’ stairs, and by a privy entrance to chambers belonging to the ruling Prince of Meadowlord. Halian, who never got out of his bed much before noon, was dressed, brushed, and waiting impatiently. He wore slate-gray trousers and a handsome wool tunic to match, embroidered in gold oak leaves.
“Untie him,” the prince ordered.
The rope was removed. Rialt massaged circulation back into his arms, gradually warming in the overheated room. He longed to spit out the foul taste in his mouth, but one did not spit in the presence of princes. Neither did one ask for a cup of the fragrant mulled wine on a nearby table—not when the prince in question was glaring in fury.
Halian dismissed the guards with a gesture. When they were alone, he said, “Why is my niece dead?”
Rialt started. “Cluthine? My lord, I—”
“Dead!” he shouted. “A Lady of Meadowlord, daughter of my own dear sister Gennadi—they showed me her body where the knife went into her heart!”
Twin fireplaces blasted heat from either side of the chamber, but Rialt shivered again. “Your grace,” he began, “I don’t—”
“You do! And you’ll tell me why!” Halian approached, eyes flashing. “Tell me, you traitor, or I’ll have the same thing done to your wife!”
Terror unmanned him for an instant. But with the next breath he was livid with rage. “Look to your own wife instead! She’s the traitor here!”
“Do you think me a fool, to be distracted from your crimes by more accusations? You tell lies about my son, threaten my daughters and now my wife—” The prince fisted one hand under Rialt’s nose. “I asked you a question and you’ll tell me the truth, by the Goddess!”
“By the Goddess, you are a fool!” He batted Halian’s arm away and went to the nearer hearth to warm his shaking fingers. “You don’t even know what questions to ask!”
“Answer me!”
He swung around. “Answer this! Why haven’t the Vellant’im attacked? Where does Aurar go when she rides out alone? Who are these people Chiana and Rinhoel have met in secret? Why imprison me and my wife? Why fortify Swalekeep’s walls on the west, where Tilal is camped?”
“Forti—? What are you talking about?”
Rialt told him.
Halfway through the onslaught, Halian groped his way to a chair and collapsed. Rialt never stopped talking—about the murdered Sunrunner from Waes, Aurar’s country excursions, the visitors from Cunaxa and the Vellanti army, the stockpiles of arms, the shipments of foodstuffs downriver. He ended with, “Now I have a question only you can answer. Who brought Lady Cluthine to you?”
“What?” Halian asked numbly.
“Who showed you her body? Did they also show you the little dragon she carried?” Blatant incomprehension greeted his words. “It was to be her safe-conduct if she encountered any Vellanti scouts! Did she still have it?”
“I don’t—I don’t know, how should I know such a thing? You’re not making sense. Vellanti scouts? They’re nowhere near Swalekeep. I don’t understand.”
“That much is excruciatingly obvious.” Rialt poured a large cup of wine and drank deep. “Put simply, your wife and son are conspiring with the Vellant’im. And the Vellant’im are close enough to see the smoke from these hearthfires. By Chiana’s and Rinhoel’s invitation!”
At last he had said something Halian could grasp. “That’s insanity! We have an agreement with them not to attack Meadowlord—just as my father would have wished, to prevent our becoming a battleground again!”
“Good Goddess, man, half the continent is a battleground!”
“But the Vellant’im want only the Desert. They took the coastline and the rivers so no one could come to Rohan’s defense. They don’t want anything from us except our neutrality. Chiana says—”
“I’ll just bet she does! Don’t you see? How could she know what they want unless they’ve been telling her all along?”
“It’s evident from their military strategy.” The prince had rallied, his look condescending. “You’re nothing more than a merchant, for all your title. You can’t be expected to understand such matters.”
“I understand two things well enough—there’s a Vellanti army taking its ease not three measures from Swalekeep, and Cluthine was killed because she was riding to tell Prince Tilal what I’ve just told you!”
It was not the wisest reference; Halian was reminded of his anger. “How do you know that?” he demanded.
“I sent her.” Rialt slumped. “I’m responsible for her death.”
“I knew it! From the moment you arrived in Swalekeep you caused trouble! Your lies twisted her to your own purposes and now she’s dead!”
“I accept the blame.” He met Halian’s gaze again. “How was she killed?”
>
“I already told you! A knife in her heart!”
“But how? Where was she found?”
“What does it matter? She’s dead and it’s your doing!”
“Think, dammit!” he cried. “You saw her body! Was her hair damp, as if she’d been outside? Were her boots muddy? Was she wearing a cloak?”
“Cloak?” the prince echoed blankly.
His absolute stupidity made Rialt half-insane. “If she was killed outside the walls, there’d be mud on her boots and on her clothes where she fell! But if she was killed outside, who found her? Why would the Vellant’im even allow her to be found? They’d want us to think our courier got through!”
“Your courier—a Lady of Meadowlord!” Halian snarled.
“Open your eyes! Don’t you understand who killed her?”
“You did! You admitted it yourself! You sent her to Prince Tilal. The Vellant’im discovered her—”
“I don’t think she even made it to the stableyard.” Suddenly exhausted, sick with guilt, Rialt drained the wine down his throat for whatever spurious warmth it could lend him. “Who brought her to you?”
“My son, of course. He couldn’t bear for anyone else to touch her. He was so fond of his cousin—”
“Goddess forgive me.” Rialt set down the cup. “You don’t see it, do you? No, of course you don’t. Someone caught her with the dragon—”
“On your treasonous errand!” Halian cried, surging to his feet. “You’ll be brought before my justice this morning and—”
“My lord? What’s all this commotion so early in the day?”
Rialt spun on his heel. Princess Chiana stood in the doorway to the outer hall, sleep-rumpled and softly beautiful in her bedgown and heavy velvet robe. All at once she put a hand to her throat, lace cuff falling back to reveal the scars left by a sorcerer’s shattered mirror.
“Oh, no! Have the Vellant’im attacked?”
It was a touch overdone, but subtlety would have been lost on Halian.