by Melanie Rawn
The gentle mist had stopped, but sunlight still flirted across the sky between clouds. He knew it was past noon, and wondered when the rider would come from Kerluthan to tell him that part of the battle was over. At last a horse appeared from the direction of Swalekeep, so exhausted that it barely cleared the fence. Tilal was about to spur his gelding forward when the rider suddenly hauled back on the reins. After an instant’s imitation of an equestrian statue, during which time a teasing shaft of sunlight hit the gold beads in the darkness of his face, he veered across the field to the woods.
“Oh, Good Goddess,” Tilal exclaimed. “Beautiful! They lost!”
Chaltyn, longtime commander of the Athmyr guard, squinted at the fleeing rider. “You mean we won.”
“Of course. But look at the way he’s killing that poor horse. They lost.”
“Well, it won’t be long now, my lord,” Chaltyn sighed. “He’ll tell them where we are, they’ll march back, and we’ll get this over with at last.”
“A little more enthusiasm, if you please,” Tilal chided.
“If you wish, my lord. We need all the optimism we can get. They still outnumber us.”
But Tilal was peering up at the rise again. “What the—? Look there!”
From where the Vellanti rider had come there now appeared a small figure on a tall Radzyn mare. Tilal stood in his stirrups for a moment, then sank back down in the saddle.
“I’ll blister that boy’s bottom.” But there was little force to the threat; he remembered what it was to be a squire frantic to prove himself.
“My lord!” Andrev was breathing almost as hard as his horse. “It’s done, my lord, they’re most of them dead and the ones who aren’t are wounded, and Lord Draza will be coming as soon as he can, and—”
“What of Lord Kerluthan?”
“He was killed, my lord—that’s when Lord Draza took his people and plenty from Swalekeep and Waes to help. And now they’re coming here, I’m not sure how many but probably a hundred anyway—”
Tilal did a rapid calculation in his head and was appalled. He’d feared their casualties would be bad, but only a hundred left? Kerluthan’s eighty, Draza’s sixty, the two hundred or so reported by Ostvel’s last courier to have marched from Swalekeep. Only a hundred left?
Andrev was still gasping out his news. “—saw Lady Aurar along the way, riding back as if the Storm God was after her, so Princess Chiana might know soon at Swalekeep, my lord, but her guard is still inside the residence. Do you think she’ll try to escape? With all her people set against her, I mean, and ready to kill her if they see her?”
“I don’t know, and right now I don’t much care. What are you doing here, anyway? I gave you orders, Andrev.”
“I know, my lord, and I’m sorry, but—”
“No, you’re not, but we’ll discuss it later.” He saw Gerwen riding toward him, a look of tense excitement on his face. “Chaltyn, take him back to Swalekeep.”
“No! You can’t!” Andrev cried. “I fought back there. I had to, to get here! You can’t send me back!”
“‘Can’t’ is not a word one uses to princes. Chaltyn? Take his reins yourself, take him across your saddle if you have to, but get him out of here.” He kicked his horse forward to meet Gerwen, already knowing what news the Medri brought.
“No!” Andrev shouted behind him. “I won’t!”
“Yes, you will, my Sunrunner lad,” Chaltyn replied, “or I will take you onto my saddle and carry you. Our prince expects his commands to be obeyed, and that’s one thing—but you are who you are, and our prince has a healthy respect for your grandmother, believe me.”
Tilal grinned at that. Neither Chay nor Maarken was much threat, but Tobin made princes cringe.
“My lord,” Gerwen said simply, “they’re coming.”
“Then let’s make them welcome.”
• • •
With all the noise of people and horses that filled Swalekeep, the fierce, clean howls of wolves set free were louder.
The cats screamed only once before they ran.
Their cage was larger now. The whole of Swalekeep with its maze of streets and maelstrom of smells was open to them. The first sweet burst of freedom took them beyond the residence walls in six different directions. But then buildings loomed, and carts and crates, and patches of greenery and trees. And horses. And people.
Chiana clung to Aurar’s silver dragon. Aurar no longer had need of it. She was dead—a cleaner death than Halian’s, but by the same hand. Rinhoel had used the bloodied knife to cut the chain from her throat. Now Chiana held the token, and so tightly that she was sure its imprint would be forever in her palm.
She had emptied her jewel coffers into a saddlebag. She had suffered herself to be wedged onto a horse in front of a burly guard who grabbed her waist so tightly in one arm so she could barely breathe. Now she shut her eyes to the dizzying passage through the darkening city and out the north gates. But she heard the enraged cries of the wolves and mountain cats, and the screams of their victims. And those sounds were her only pleasure.
• • •
Andrev’s furious hurt had changed to petulance by the time Chaltyn handed him over to Ostvel. Andrev was ignored. He trailed along behind Ostvel as the residence was opened to them at last.
Ostvel went directly to Princess Chiana’s private rooms. In the bedchamber he found Prince Halian. The man’s head had been smashed open by the iron poker that lay beside him. There was blood everywhere.
Andrev had seen dead people today. He had never seen a murder. A short time later, entering Prince Rinhoel’s suite, he saw another.
This one had been done with a knife in the throat. She had bled, too. All over the thick Cunaxan carpet and her own leather riding clothes and her wind-disheveled hair.
Andrev couldn’t help it; he ran for the open door to a white-tiled room and was sick into Prince Rinhoel’s own gilt sink.
Ostvel wished he could do the same. “Chaltyn, have someone take her outside to where they’ve put Halian. We’ll burn them both tomorrow night.”
“Yes, my lord. This accounts for the prince, and Lady Aurar. Chiana and Rinhoel are long gone.”
“Yes. And a lovely ride to them, through the night with another storm blowing in.” He gave the room a last glance, then turned for the door. “We all need beds tonight. Find a steward or whoever runs this place and have it seen to, please.”
“I’ve got our own people working on making the barracks into an infirmary. And there’ll be dinner waiting when the prince gets here.”
“That’s my duty,” said a shaky voice from the bathroom door. Andrev picked a careful path around the corpse as he walked to Ostvel’s side. “I’m all right now, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“And ready to be a squire again? Good. You locate the steward, then, and—” He stopped as a wolf’s plaintive howl echoed through a nearby street. “Goddess. I thought they’d all escaped.”
“One was killed, my lord,” Chaltyn said. “A cat that mauled a little boy.”
“Have somebody herd that poor animal to a gate or a breach in the walls. Not you, Andrev. Find us a place to sleep.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ostvel had his own search to conduct. A servant led him to Princess Naydra’s room; empty. Down the hallway were the chambers belonging to Princess Palila. The door was locked, but easily forced open. He found that rather pathetic.
Two children and an old woman huddled on a small couch beside the fire. The boy, no older than four, looked up as Ostvel entered. The woman followed his gaze, and Ostvel was shocked to see that it was Naydra. But the girl, who could only be Princess Palila, went on staring into the flames, shivering inside the circle of Naydra’s arms.
“It’s all over,” Ostvel said gently. “The enemy is gone.”
“And the Vellant’im?” Naydra asked with bitter emphasis.
He nodded.
She turned to the little boy. “Are you hungry, Polev? Why don’t you run t
ell the cooks to make us some dinner? Wouldn’t some soup be nice, and a good hot cup of taze?”
When Polev had left them, Naydra held Palila closer and said, “I must tell you things I don’t want him to hear. After I got back, I started searching for Rialt and Mevita. It was a long time before I found them. It was too late.”
Ostvel bent his head. “Yes. I understand.”
“I didn’t know how to tell him,” Naydra murmured. “But I didn’t have to tell Palila about—” She stroked the tangled hair. “She saw it, my lord. She saw her brother, and her father.”
“Rinhoel?”
“She was in his rooms. I’d told her I’d put the little dragon back for her. Polev was fretting, and wanted to play with it. She’d taken it, you see. But I hadn’t put it back. I gave it to Prince Tilal.” She began to rock the girl slowly back and forth. Palila stared into the fire. “She heard Rinhoel’s voice coming from her mother’s rooms. She went in, and opened the bedchamber door a little, and saw.”
“Gentle Goddess,” Ostvel breathed.
“Polev came to get me when she returned here. She told me what happened. But she hasn’t said anything since.”
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d better stay here, my lady. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
“Thank you. I think that would be best. I’ll keep both of them here with me.” She looked up again. “Oh, and you’ll find a man downstairs, in the cellar. He’s dead, too.”
“He—?”
“The one who slit their throats. I was too late. He was just coming out when I—he hadn’t even cleaned off the knife. So I killed him.” Naydra gave a chilling smile. “I didn’t even have to think about it. I know what I am. Branig told me. I called Fire, and he died of it.”
Ostvel knew what she was, too. He had always known.
“I’m afraid the body is a little messy,” she added.
He didn’t doubt it. He’d been there when Sioned had done the same thing to the corpse of Naydra’s sister.
Ostvel bowed wordlessly and left her. As he started for the cellar stairs, he wondered what Pol was going to say when he found out his friend was dead, and his aunt had discovered her power.
Chapter Twelve
Two exhausted men on two plodding horses entered two castles at roughly the same time that evening. Tilal, riding through the gates of Swalekeep after one Hell of a day, was greeted with cheers and, a little later, word that Halian, Aurar, Rialt, and Mevita were dead. Pol, farther east and north where it was already dark, ordered the three Cunaxan lords close confined and guarded, kissed his wife and daughters, and went upstairs to what he suspected would be his second battle in two days—this one with his mother.
He found her kneeling placidly before the fire in her bedchamber, stirring a pottery jar of mulled wine. Meath was nowhere in evidence. Sioned didn’t even glance around as he closed the door.
“So you had a lovely time, did you?”
“If you mean did we win, yes.”
“I know. I heard it in your step. The way a man walks when killing has wearied his body but renewed his spirit. Congratulations. Have some wine.”
He lowered himself into a chair near the hearth, sprawling saddle-stiff legs. She ladled out two cups and handed him one.
“Drink up, High Prince. A toast to Prince Zehava, whose dream you’ve made real.”
“Not yet. Birioc got away.” He took a large swallow so quickly that it didn’t have time to burn his tongue. “Tallain is chasing him down.”
She shrugged philosophically. “Well, what’s one Merida, more or less? It’ll be a generation before they can breed enough fighters to try again.”
“This will be their last generation,” he replied, and drank to it.
“Is that your dream?” She settled on the rug, a bent knee supporting her elbow. “A trifle limited, imaginatively speaking.”
His temper began to fray. “Mother—”
“Oh, don’t tense up like that. After a long ride and all that waving your sword around, you’ll be sore enough as it is. Finish your wine and go to bed.”
He watched her fill her own cup again and asked quietly, “Do you put Meath through this, too, or is it a privilege granted only to me?”
Sioned arched her brows. “Feeling sorry for yourself, I take it.”
“Only trying to understand you.”
“Not worth the mental exercise.” She drank again, long fingers cradling the cup. “Tell me about your triumph, Pol. You need an appreciative audience. Come, darling, regale me with the tale of your slaughter.”
“Stop it.”
“No, truly, I’m fascinated.” She turned a wickedly dancing green gaze on him. “I enjoy a good killing. Surely you knew that about me.”
He stayed silent, watching her, wondering why he’d come up here tonight. He knew what she did every evening. They all did. If he wanted her help, he wouldn’t get it. If he wanted to help her—she wouldn’t let him. He knew that. He wondered why he was here.
“It was a pretty trick, you know,” she went on. “Very neatly done.”
“You saw?”
“Not the battle. After. Of course, I wouldn’t have let them live. But the one you lit like a candlewick—now, that was much more my style.” She saluted him with the wine cup.
“Stop it,” he said again, wearily.
“Why? I thought you wanted applause.”
“I want to know what you’re thinking. I don’t unless you tell me. I’m not Father. I can’t read you the way he did.”
“Let’s unwrap the velvet from it, shall we? What you mean is that you won’t be your father. How deeply would it shock you to be told that neither of us ever wanted you to be?”
“Then what do you want?”
“Honestly?” When he nodded, she said, “To be left alone.”
“I can’t do that. I need you.”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Pol.”
He sat forward. “And we’ll go on having it until—”
“Until what?” She smiled, a brittle mockery of the smile he remembered. “Hatchling dear, do you intend to claw at your old mother until she fights back? Is that the plan?” Her laughter was worse: tolerant, frightening. “You’re right, you don’t know what I’m thinking. Go to bed, Pol.”
Pol threw his empty wine cup into the fire. It shattered against the stone. He knew it for a childish gesture, but couldn’t help it. Sioned didn’t so much as blink.
“What do you want?” he cried. “I can’t give you back Father! I can’t be him for you—all-wise and all-powerful and losing this damned war! I need your help!”
“To do what? You’ve eliminated the threat from the Merida. Soon enough you’ll go out and kill all the Vellant’im, too. You don’t need anyone but yourself to do any of it.” Dipping the ladle again, she paused to pick a pottery shard out before she poured into her cup. “Still . . . war is easy, isn’t it? A simple, direct passion. Some people find it sublimely satisfying. Kostas did. I think fighting the Vellant’im made him happier than anything else in his life. Your grandfather Zehava seems to have been the same. When there weren’t any more Merida to fight he didn’t know what to do with himself.”
Pol nearly held his breath. She was talking to him, really talking, the way she’d exchanged thoughts and musings with Rohan.
“Roelstra, now, he wasn’t like that at all. He got others to do his fighting for him. His passion was power, and amusing himself with it.” All at once she smiled that terrifying smile again. “Ianthe was just like him. But she was stupid. She let me live.”
“She—” The rest of it strangled him.
“I suppose you thought the supreme moment of her life was giving birth to you. Think again. The days she kept us here were the finest she ever knew. Me without a son, Rohan with no heir but the bastard of a woman we both despised—Goddess, how she laughed! I heard her then—and for years afterward. . . .”
An expression of vague bewilderment crossed her fa
ce. A swift gaze darted around the room, but whatever she looked for wasn’t there. The Feruche that had been, perhaps.
“She let me live, Pol. A quite literally fatal mistake. I killed her as surely as if I’d held the sword myself.”
Who did kill her, then? he wanted to ask, but didn’t dare interrupt.
“Do you know who you remind me of?” she went on. “Andrade. She saw opposition as a personal affront, just as you do.” She straightened her back to regal dignity and intoned, “‘Who are all these fools, that they don’t recognize that I know what’s best for them?’” Then she shook her head, slouching easily over her drawn-up knee again. “No, you don’t see arrogance like that but once in a lifetime. But I give you one thing, Pol. You don’t manipulate people quite the way she did. You don’t use their feelings. You learned that much from Rohan, anyway.” Looking up at him where he sat in the chair, she added, “After a battle, you see the survivors and how they can be used to win the next one.”
“But that’s just it!” he exclaimed. “What I should be seeing is how I can help them return to their lives, to rebuild the world we used to have before all this—”
“Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that. What I meant was that you never see the dead.”
Stung, he countered, “Father saw nothing else.”
“Don’t you believe it,” she retorted. “He grieved for the dead—but he also sorrowed with the living. It’s a distinction which might escape you. But it’s what made him a man people would walk through Hell for—because they knew he’d never ask it of them.” When she drank this time, a few drops trickled from a corner of her mouth. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “And that, my precious, is why you are not the prince your father was.”
“Well, I’m all you’ve got,” he said bitterly. “You’ll just have to make do with inferior goods.”
“‘Inferior’?” Sioned laughed again. “I take it back. You are almost as stupid as Ianthe. I’ve talked for—what, three cups, four?—and you still don’t understand.”