by Melanie Rawn
They were completely alone; she spoke as freely as he while pouring herself another cup of mulled wine. “I’ve decided to bear my tragic loss with dignity in public, and do my crying in private. Try some of this cheese? It’s really rather good.”
“It seems there’s no shock to wear off.”
“You don’t appear exactly grief-stricken, dear brother.” She sipped her wine, watching him from over the rim of the wooden cup. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks glowing with the warmth of the fire.
“But you’re not even surprised.”
She laughed softly. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”
Camanto gritted his teeth. “All right, then,” he snapped. “Why?”
“I didn’t think it would be quite like that,” she admitted. “I thought he’d be fool enough to fight, and during the battle. . . .” She finished with a little shrug and another smile.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Arnisaya gave him a tolerant look. “Really, Camanto. I helped my darling husband arm himself this morning.”
• • •
The gates of Swalekeep were wide open in the evening gloom, ready as always to admit travelers. Not that there were many in this season of war, when even the sparse wintertime trade had ceased altogether. But there was welcome here nonetheless. As the little group of two men, two women, and three sleepy children rode past, the gatekeeper called down friendly advice to try the inn on Oak Knoll Lane. Reasonable rates, his aunt’s famous cooking, and clean beds.
The taller of the men offered thanks by waving a gloved hand, and turned to his companions. “Oak Knoll is on the east side of the castle square, but from there you’re on your own,” he said with a smile. “It’s a long time since I was in Swalekeep, and the streets were laid out by a drunkard.”
“We’ll find it, or something else to suit,” the other man replied. “Speaking of drink, are you certain you won’t join us for a wine cup at least?”
“To thank you for your help,” one of the women said. “If not for your sword, those brigands would have killed us.”
“So much for the High Prince’s Writ,” the second said, rocking her infant daughter before her in the saddle.
“Hush,” the elder chided. “Once he and the good Lord of Goddess Keep have rid us of these savages, the countryside will be safe again.”
“I do hope so,” the tall man answered gravely. “As for thanks, none are needed. I was glad to be of service, and glad of the company these last two days. Goddess blessing to you all.”
“By Lord Andry’s Rings, the same to you, friend.”
Parting from them, he rode ahead to a side street marked by a tall pine tree in a gated garden, his fingers clenched around those rings.
It had been a miserable journey from Goddess Keep. The Father of Storms had spared him nothing—fierce wind, pelting rain, fog so thick he could barely see his horse’s ears, even snow flurries yesterday morning. But except for the thieves, there’d been no trouble. He had used the shape-changing trick all through Ossetia where he might be recognized, and had taken on a Vellanti beard when he skirted the Kadar River where burned farmhouses and barns bore silent witness to enemy passing. There was no way to hide his limp when he dismounted; his leg, though healing well, still hurt almost all the time. Yet the only disguise really necessary in all the eleven days he’d been riding had been the long leather gauntlets that hid his rings and armbands.
Now, however, he set his mind to the acquisition of a reddish tint to his brown hair, and a hazel cast to his blue eyes. Not too much difference, and easy enough to maintain without too much effort. Pity he couldn’t work the same magic on his all-too-obviously Radzyn-bred horse. But Swalekeep was populous enough, and Oak Knoll Lane distant enough from his own destination, to minimize the chance that he would encounter the farmer and his wife and widowed sister again. He had worn his own face around them, and it would not do for that face to be recognized here.
His chance-met companions, riding to where they hoped food was, had not known they had been defended by the Lord of Goddess Keep. In truth, it hadn’t taken much more than a few swings of his sword to discourage the brigands. A good thing, too; while he knew what he was doing with it, he didn’t know half as much as they assumed he did. It had surprised him to be so successful—and so admired for something he’d never pictured himself doing.
The bandits, and the reason the family had left their home on the Kadar River, had angered him. He could almost wish for Rohan’s Medr’im to ride the princedoms and keep honest people safe. He could do nothing about the shortages of food that would only get worse as winter wore on, and worse still come spring. The land lay fallow, crops rotting in the fields and no new crops planted for ten to fifteen measures on either side of all the great rivers: the Kadar, the Pyrme, the Catha, the Faolain. In other places, farmers had dared and sometimes been ordered by their athr’im to harvest in autumn and plant in early winter. But it took bravery to work the fields when one never knew if the Vellant’im would thunder over any hill at any moment.
Ossetia would have to feed Gilad next year, Andry thought as he tethered his horse outside a rickety inn near a break in Swalekeep’s wall. The middle of Syr would do all right, and Grib had seemed to his eyes to be fairly well-off. But the food that was there was not being brought to where it was needed. Traffic on the rivers was nonexistent; trade caravans feared the roads. Pol, he told himself as he went inside and asked for a room, would be spending a large portion of his wealth keeping people fed.
“A fine room, left at the top of the stairs. Now that Prince Tilal is gone and his army with him, I’ve a few beds to spare again.”
Andry froze with his fingers around his coin purse. “Gone?”
“Yes, and with only the promise of payment for housing his soldiers.” The man spat onto the floor and beckoned Andry to the staircase. “It’s said Lord Ostvel will make good on it as soon as accounts are presented. But he’ll use Meadowlord’s treasury to do it with, and where’s the honor in that? It wasn’t our own people I gave room and dinner to.”
“Think of it as receiving back some of the taxes you’ve paid Prince Halian,” Andry suggested as he limped up the steps.
“Now there’s a thought.” The innkeeper grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t mistake me, I’m grateful to Prince Tilal for driving those whoresons away. We got little enough defending from our own prince, Goddess give him rest.”
He gave a start, and the shifting weight of the saddlebags slung over his back nearly toppled him. “Halian is dead? When? How?”
“Where have you been? Died defending us after all, he did, riding out in secret to help Lord Draza. No one saw him die, but everyone saw how his head had been bashed in. A fine Burning it was, the Fire called by the Lord of Goddess Keep’s own son. Though the smell of so many began getting through the oils and herbs toward dawn, if you know what I mean.”
“How many dead?” Not Andrev; he was safe. He had called Fire.
“Too many,” the innkeeper intoned sadly. “Our own prince, and the lord and his pretty lady from Waes, and young Kerluthan of River Ussh.” He pushed open a door. “She fled into the night with her son, after they set the wolves and big cats on us to hide their escape. Will this do for your comfort, then?”
Andry nodded, not even seeing the room. No need to ask who she was. “So she’s gone. Where? Has anyone set out after her?”
“Prince Tilal went south to catch the rest of those bearded barbarians.” He paused as if tasting the phrase, then nodded as if he approved it for use the next time he told the tale. “But no one knows where she went. You must’ve had a long ride, not to have heard any of this. Well, unless you’re a Sunrunner or within hearing of one, news is slow at the best of times. These days it’s hard to come by even with a Sunrunner around.”
Another worry added to his list. Though he’d been aware of the disruption in faradhi communications since autumn, it appeared to be getting serious.
He’d have to warn Torien at Goddess Keep soon.
The innkeeper was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. “So, my friend, where have you come from?”
Andry dropped his saddlebags onto the bed. It gave off the smell of molding straw. “Ossetia,” he answered truthfully. “I’ve kin up north.”
“You’re no farmer nor fisherman, not with that sword.”
It wasn’t the ceremonial one, all set with jewels, he’d worn this autumn. He hadn’t made that mistake again. This was a plain, strong blade that meant business. “I was wounded near Goddess Keep. My lord gave me leave to ride here to help if I could. What else has happened? You seem to know what’s going on.”
“Those as are in my calling usually do,” the innkeeper chuckled. “There’s not much more, though, but for the Princess Alasen coming down the Faolain from Castle Crag with more troops for her lord. I saw her ride in the other day. It’s said she looks like her cousin, and if the High Princess was half the beauty she is, Rohan was a lucky man.”
“It’s in the eyes,” Andry said absently. Alasen, here in Swalekeep. He had not been in the same place with her since . . . since he couldn’t remember when.
“Then you’ve had the privilege of seeing the ladies?”
“What? Oh, I’ve heard they both have green eyes, like Prince Tilal and most of the Kierstian line. Princess Alasen is with her husband at the castle?”
“No, she rode out this very morning, for Dragon’s Rest. She took twenty or thirty with her as escort, with Lord Draza in command.” He chuckled again. “But if you ask me, it’s she who does the commanding!”
Andry managed a smile to cover a rage of disappointment. “Highborn women,” he replied with a shrug. “Well, now that I’m comfortable, have you a place for my horse? I can pay, and in advance,” he added, taking out another few coins.
When the innkeeper left to arrange a stall and fodder, Andry sat on the windowsill and stared out over the roofs of Swalekeep to the castle towers. Andrev had been there. He had no doubt that his son was with Tilal’s army; as a squire, his place was at his lord’s side. And just last night Alasen had slept in one of those rooms. At her lord’s side.
But why had she gone to Dragon’s Rest? And where was Chiana?
He was tired, and his leg was aching worse than usual, or he would have made the connection much sooner.
• • •
The moons would rise around midnight. Long before that time Camanto left the warmth of the hearth, but not for Amisaya’s bed. She had hinted and more than hinted on her way up the ladder to the sleeping loft. He had ignored her. He could not bring himself to sleep with a woman who had deliberately made herself a widow.
After dressing in heavy clothes, he left the cottage by the back door. He had to pause a moment to catch his breath at the brutal slap of the wind in the moonless night.
It was a short, steep walk to the bridge, which he crossed quickly. He wasn’t seen. Several measures down the road, he was abruptly challenged by a sentry wearing Pol’s badge of a white wreath on a violet field.
“Camanto of Fessenden, desiring speech with Prince Laric,” he replied, holding open his cloak to show he carried no sword. “Will you be so kind as to take me to him?”
“And why should I do that, even if I believed you?”
Camanto wrapped the thick wool about him once more, shivering. “Look at it this way. If you don’t, and I really am who I say I am, would the prince appreciate your having made his decisions for him?”
The man smiled, unperturbed. “No one appreciates that, but my prince doesn’t pay me to bring strangers wearing Fessenden’s badge within arm’s reach of his kinsman.”
Camanto had forgotten the telltale cipher on his tunic. Pol evidently did pay his guards to use their eyes; a nasty habit. “Very well, I understand. But do remember to give your own lord his proper title. For the past eighteen days, Pol has been High Prince.”
The sword came up reflexively. “You’re a liar.”
“You’ve been traveling a long time, with no faradhi to ride the sunlight for you. How can you be certain?” He stomped his feet in the snow, trying to restore circulation. “Can you at least take me to the nearest fire? I’ve met Prince Laric, he knows me. Wake him up and let him get a look at me from a nice, safe distance. He can catch up on his sleep some other time. I’ve other news besides Rohan’s death.”
“It can’t be true. He can’t be dead.”
“He is, Goddess help us all. He died at Stronghold, which is now ashes blowing through empty stone walls. Pol is at Feruche, last I heard from our own Sunrunner at Fessada. Can we please find someplace warm? You can tie my hands if you like, only let’s get out of the cold.”
Both suggestions were followed. He put up with the one to gain the other, even though the rope had been cleverly tied beneath the high cuffs of his gloves so that his fingers couldn’t get at them. But the campfire waiting at the end of the long walk through the woods was worth the discomfort.
So was the sight of Laric, crouched beside the flames with a cup of taze warming his hands. He glanced around at hearing footsteps beyond the yellow circle of firelight on the snow. As Camanto stepped from the shadows, Laric’s brows knotted over the large, fine dark eyes he’d inherited from his mother.
“Prince Camanto? Yes, I see it is. Though I can’t think why.”
He gestured, and the ropes were swiftly untied. After bowing an apology, the guard backed away a few steps—but not so far that he could not just as swiftly overpower Camanto if need be.
“Thank you,” Camanto said, rubbing his sore wrists. “I’ll do my best to forget it.”
This brought a twist of amusement to the man’s lips, as if he held himself from saying, Forget or remember as you wish. I am Pol’s man. No other prince mattered, and none other but Rohan could so much as make him lower his gaze.
Laric rose. “You’ll forgive my suspicion, my lord, but what are you doing here? Your brother is determined to keep me this side of the Ussh. If you’ve come to reiterate, you’re wasting your breath.”
“As it happens, I don’t agree with my brother. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Edirne is dead—a fall from his horse earlier today.” Camanto went to the warmth of the fire, gratefully accepting a full mug of taze. He drank, the unsweetened liquid burning his tongue. “My lord, I’ll be blunt. Your wife’s brother has Balarat, and if you don’t get there soon, he and his diarmadhi friends will have the rest of your princedom as well. I don’t like the Fironese—no true-born prince of Fessenden ever could. But I like Yarin of Snowcoves even less, and sorcerers not at all. If they take Firon as they mean to do, their allies the Vellant’im will find help there no matter what happens elsewhere.”
Laric’s frown had vanished. He was frankly gaping at Camanto, eyes wide and jaw hanging slightly open.
“I came tonight to tell you that if you wish to cross the Ussh here or anywhere else, feel free to do so.”
It was a while before the other prince spoke. “And if I do, and march north to Firon?”
“The army Edirne led was raised by me, and is loyal to me. You won’t be challenged again. Only move soon, while my father is too busy mourning my brother to look. He’s even less fond of you Fironese than I am. By the way, you needn’t do it all on foot. I also have some influence in Einar. Lord Sabriam’s wife is a friend of mine.” He let a tiny smile indicate how good a friend Lady Isaura was. “A ship will be readied for you on my order when you reach Einar.”
“Assuming I believe any of this, what are you after in return for your generosity?”
“I told you,” Camanto replied impatiently. “I don’t want sorcerers and bearded savages on my northern border when I rule Fessenden. And I will be the next ruling prince, now that Edirne is dead.”
“You appear brokenhearted over your loss.”
He smiled again, but without humor this time. “Don’t insult the man who’s going to help you win back your princedom. I’m not
known for purity and goodness, Laric. But I’ve never been called a fool.”
“No. Your brother had that distinction. I don’t much like you Fessendens, either.” Laric gestured to the fire and hunkered down beside it. “I’ve been without news a long time. Tell me everything you know.”
“Then you trust my offers, if not me personally?”
Laric shrugged. “In the absence of another source of information, I must believe you. Or at least work with what you tell me is true. I’ll find out soon enough if your offers are genuine. Besides, I have more soldiers than you do.”
Camanto sat down on a folded blanket, and his smile this time was of honest humor. “If you believe that to be the ultimate advantage in battle, you’re going to have a terrible time at Balarat.”
A nearby guard swore softly. But Laric was smiling as he said, “I’m not particularly knowledgeable about war, never having had occasion to practice. But neither have you, Camanto. I lied just now. I have far fewer troops than you. Yet in all the days you’ve been shadowing me across the river, you never took the trouble to count.”
Now the guards snorted with laughter. Camanto stiffened for a moment, but in the next he was chuckling, too. “I think I begin to like you, Prince of Firon.”
Dark eyes met his over the flames. “Prince of Fessenden, I couldn’t care less.”
• • •
Sioned knew very well why she was discouraged from helping tend the wounded. Hollis was exquisitely tactful, as usual, with plenty of reasonable words to say about resting, not troubling herself, there were enough people to take care of everything. The simple fact was that Hollis didn’t trust her to so much as bandage a sword cut.
The servants had taken to watering the wine they brought her each evening—probably at Pol’s, order, or Meath’s. Stupid, interfering, judgmental idiots. What business of theirs if she drank too much? She knew very well what she was doing. Wine was as effective a painkiller as any of Chayla’s herbal concoctions. Infinitely more pleasant going down, too.
She wished she had some right now. But it was only midafternoon. If she started too early, when it came time for serious drinking tonight she would have to down a truly scandalous amount in order to get to sleep. There were levels to getting drunk, and she knew them all. But hers was the curse of an iron head.