by Melanie Rawn
“Through a bay swarming with Vellanti ships?” He shook his head.
“It’s only a day’s sail. If they hugged the coastline—”
“No. We won’t send them away. It wouldn’t be right.”
Jolan finally spoke up—but not with words Valeda wished to hear. “I hadn’t considered it that way, Torien. In that sense, we can’t send them away, you’re right. But that doesn’t address the question of feeding them.”
“The Goddess will provide,” he said once more, and started for the door.
“Lovely!” Valeda hissed at Jolan. “You’d have us all starve for political expediency!”
“And you’d have us lose a priceless chance to gain loyalty throughout the princedoms for your personal expediency! My husband was too polite to say it, but I’m not. You despise Jayachin and want her gone.”
“Too right! You know what she’s after, don’t you?”
“Andry?” Jolan shrugged. “She can have him, for all I care.”
“Oh, really?” She pointed to the high table. “I gather you’d enjoy watching her sit up there dispensing wisdom and justice as athri of Goddess Keep?”
“Andry’s not a fool. He’d never—”
“Everyone outside the walls uses ‘my lady’ when they talk to her now.”
Jolan was nothing if not jealous of faradhi rights. It took six rings to earn the courtesy of “my lord” or “my lady.” Valeda watched this sink in and believed she saw her ally returning to her.
She was sure of it when Kov burst in the door—nearly hitting Torien in the face with it—and blurted out, “Lady Jayachin is here to see you, my lord!”
“Wonderful,” Valeda muttered. “It only needed that to make our day complete.” Crossing the flagstones beside Jolan, she went on more loudly, “You mean Master Jayachin, don’t you, Kov?” Her tone said that he’d better.
The boy turned crimson. “Uh—yes, my lady. Master Jayachin.”
“I thought so.”
They met the unofficial athri in Andry’s audience chamber. Jolan insisted that Torien take the chair reserved for the Lord of Goddess Keep. She loved her husband devotedly, but in practical terms his was not a forceful enough presence to quell Jayachin’s pretensions. When the Waesian merchant was admitted to the room, Valeda saw her note the placement of persons within it—Torien in Andry’s chair, flanked by the two Sunrunner women—and the fact that Kov denied her the title she craved.
Every word Jayachin spoke confirmed the drain on Goddess Keep’s resources. More tents were needed to replace those made uninhabitable by the recent storm; more food was needed; more barrels to collect fresh water; more blankets; more soap; more firewood; more, more, more. With nearly four thousand people to provide for from stores meant to supply six hundred, Jayachin wanted more.
Do you expect us to conjure these things out of thin air? Valeda wanted to shout at her. She held her tongue. Jolan, standing at her husband’s right hand, was easy to read for once: she was weighing the abstract of political expediency against the reality of this woman’s demands. Jayachin was losing.
Torien heard her out, asking no questions along the way. Valeda approved; it was what Andry would have done. The so-called athri grew nervous as her list of needs met with silence. She began it again, adding explanations to lend weight to what she must know were impossible requests. Torien let her get halfway through it before he lifted one hand to quiet her.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry that this recent storm has been such a hardship. We’ll do all we can to help.”
Valeda nearly groaned aloud.
Jayachin nodded, smiling her relief. “Thank you, my lord. But it occurs to me that some of the difficulty could be alleviated.”
Don’t ask her how, Valeda begged silently.
“In what way?” Torien said.
“Those who live in the precincts of Goddess Keep have returned to their cottages,” Jayachin pointed out. “The rooms where they stayed within the walls are now available, are they not, for—”
“And you’d be the first to move in!” Valeda snapped, outraged beyond caution. “Why don’t you come right out and ask for the Lord of Goddess Keep’s own chamber? It’s empty, too!”
Jayachin gave a pretty show of shock. “My lady!”
Torien had gone rigid in the sunburst chair. Valeda had no fear of a rebuke—though she’d earned it by making this open warfare instead of the nice, polite, infuriating chess game it had been thus far. Torien would never reprimand her in front of this woman.
But what he said made Valeda first blink, then struggle against a grin.
“You know,” he murmured in his quiet, musical voice, “I think we can do better than that. If Prince Arlis can be prevailed upon to lend us a few ships, and I’m sure he’ll be willing, then very soon you can be back home in Waes.”
“You must long for your own hearth,” Jolan added with sweet sympathy.
Jayachin longed for nothing of the kind, and turned all the colors of the rainbow in the effort to control her reaction.
“You mustn’t worry about the Vellant’im,” Torien went on, and repeated Valeda’s own words about holding close to the coastline for safety. Jayachin’s complexion settled to a sickly greenish-white that did not become her. “We’ll send to the Sunrunner at New Raetia this afternoon,” he finished. “You’ll be notified of when to prepare for the journey.”
Valeda allowed herself a smug smile. So much for the athri of Goddess Keep. “Don’t try to thank us,” she urged. “We understand.”
Jolan said, “I’ll do the Sunrunning myself. Last night’s rain has cleared nicely. If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”
Another voice—breathless, high-pitched, and frantic—squealed a warning an instant after the door crashed open. “My lord! Oh, my lord, they’re coming! The Vellant’im are sailing for Goddess Keep!”
Valeda swore under her breath. Crila, youngest and newest of the devr’im, had had the watch that morning. Her youth was reflected in the panicky way she blurted out the news; her inexperience, that she did so in front of Jayachin.
The master merchant recovered herself. This was the best thing she’d heard all day. “The Vellant’im! Quickly, my lord, we must sound the horn and gather everyone inside the shelter of Goddess Keep!”
“Oh, yes,” Crila gasped. “They’ll be here tomorrow or the next day at the latest, we must get ready for them!”
“Calm yourself,” Torien ordered. “They’re running away from Prince Arlis, no doubt. But we gave them a lot to think about the last time. I doubt they’ll try for Goddess Keep again.”
“Make sure they don’t,” Jayachin said. “Call your devr’im together and—”
“It doesn’t work like that!” Torien stared at her as if finally seeing her for what she was. A little late, Valeda reflected sourly, and ground her teeth.
“Are you going to wait until they’re marching across the fields? Use your powers, Sunrunner! Don’t even let them land. Slay them in their ships!”
“We will defend Goddess Keep. We will not attack. We—”
“—swore an oath not to kill with your gifts? You killed neatly enough the first time the Vellant’im were here! What’s the difference if they come to you for the slaughter or you take it to them?”
“You’re not faradhi. You can’t understand.”
“I understand that the enemy will come and people will die! People Lord Andry charged me to protect! I am his athri and in his absence—”
Of its own accord, Valeda’s hand went to her belt knife. “You intend to give the orders?”
Jayachin hesitated. Valeda hoped she’d risk it and give Torien an excuse to slap her down. But she was more cautious than that. “I’m sure Lord Andry would hope that his athri and his chief steward would agree on the correct course of action.”
“You have no authority within these walls,” Torien reminded her, and Valeda wanted to kick him. A person with power did not warn others that they were po
werless; he left it to his subordinates to state the obvious. Valeda had already done so, obliquely. Repeating it was a sign of insecurity in power.
Jolan knew it, too. In her best forbiddingly pedantic voice she said, “Whether they mean to make for Goddess Keep and another attack or join the rest of the Vellant’im elsewhere is as yet unclear.”
Her husband took the hint. “Master Jayachin, we don’t know what they’ll do. We will watch and make our own plans. But there will be no ingathering. Unless you think your four thousand would prefer to spend the next ten or twelve days packed inside Goddess Keep, waiting for an attack that might never occur?”
Jayachin bit her lip and shook her head. But it was as much a pretense as her shock at the mention of Andry’s own empty chamber. Watching her take her leave and stride from the chamber, Valeda knew a time would come when she would not be silent, when she would not meekly depart.
“I hope they do attack,” Jolah said once the door was closed. “After we’ve dealt with them, we can use their ships to send her home in.”
“Only if we make sure hers sinks,” Valeda agreed.
“Stop it, both of you,” Torien said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “I think we’d better send for soldiers. If the Vellant’im land, we can keep them out—but they can also keep us in. Jolan, you take Summer River. Prince Velden won’t help us, but his son Elsen has a conscience, I think.”
“Kadar Water is closer,” Jolan said. “Four days’ ride.”
“Kolya is Tilal’s man, and you know what Tilal thinks of us.”
“I’ll try anyway.”
He nodded. “I’ll send to Athmyr myself.”
“Have you lost your wits?” Valeda demanded. “To Princess Gemma?”
“She’ll enjoy rubbing Andry’s nose in the fact that we need her help.” His dark Fironese face—a diarmadhi face, though almost no one knew it—hardened with resolve. “This is Goddess Keep. It’s our right to demand the protection of any prince or athri we choose to call on—and it’s their duty to respond.”
“Athri!” Valeda spat. “Goddess, I’m sick of that word! If Jayachin uses it one more time in my hearing—”
“She’s useful in her way,” Torien replied.
“An annoying way,” Jolan corrected. “I’ll go see what the sun’s like over Grib. Tell Fesariv at Athmyr that he still owes us a bottle of wine.” She bent to kiss her husband’s brow, and left.
Valeda watched Torien sag back in Andry’s chair. “You know Gemma will refuse.”
“I hope she won’t, but I suspect she will.” Shifting, he complained, “Andry’s right, this thing is Hellishly uncomfortable.”
“Then why are you asking her? Why admit our weakness?”
“Because Andry will never forgive Tilal for taking Andrev as his squire.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Don’t you?” He looked up, a tiny smile quirking his lips. “Gemma’s refusal will be legal excuse for revenge-served up on a golden plate with wine sauce.”
• • •
Tilal had seen this land once before. Just after its creation he had seen it, smelled it, been sickened by the sheer brutality of what had been done to it. His father Davvi had flinched whenever anyone alluded to it; even his quick-tongued and quicker-tempered brother Kostas had been unable to find words for it.
But someone had given a name to this place in the thirty and more years between. Haldenat. The meadow dead with salt.
A rich Syrene field, fully two measures around, had been sown with salt and flooded with a diverted tributary of the Faolain River. Haldenat was Roelstra’s work, Tilal reminded himself. His nostrils twitched and his eyes stung at the bitter, rotting stench of a breeze that had been soft enough a few measures back. By rights, Roelstra’s work ought to bear Roelstra’s name.
“We’ll move on,” he told Chaltyn, and the older man nodded vigorously.
“It’s getting late, but I wouldn’t spend a night here if it meant my life.” Squinting at the western hills, he added, “We can manage another few measures, my lord, before full dark.”
“I don’t care if we have to go on all night. I won’t be within smelling distance of Haldenat.”
It was full dark and more by the time the stink was only memory. Andrev had used the last of the sunset to find the Vellant’im, two days’ march down the river. Deciding to flank them, Tilal had lost some ground, but he was betting they’d make for the Faolain and cross to the Desert, where their High Warlord and the main army were.
Chaltyn had given over his place to Andrev now. Tilal had stopped thinking of the boy simply as Andry’s contribution to the war effort. They’d been through a great deal together since Andrev had sneaked out of Goddess Keep. Besides, it was impossible not to like him, with his earnest pride and eager honesty and a wide smile that revealed a crooked front tooth. He had something of the look of his grandfather about him; once he had grown out of adolescence he’d have Chay’s devastating effect on women, too. That tooth would always lend a boyishness to his face, though. But from the look in his eyes recently, he’d already left boyhood behind.
“Those trees, do you think?” he asked suddenly, and Andrev glanced over at him. “Shall we go have a look?”
A fingerflame suddenly danced off to one side to light their way. Tilal’s mouth quirked.
“Who’s been giving you lessons on sunlight? Hollis?”
“Yes, my lord. I made Tobren show her my colors. But she won’t teach me much more than this,” he complained. “If I knew about moonlight, I could be of better use to you.”
“You’re doing just fine as you are. Take it slow, Andrev. With your bloodlines, you’ve more power than most, but that also carries more risk and responsibility.” And a pretty pass he was in, to be giving a lecture on how to be a good Sunrunner to the son of the Lord of Goddess Keep.
Andrev, however, considered Tilal right up there with Chay and Tobin, perhaps a step above Sioned and Pol, and coequal with Andry—who was in arm’s reach of the Goddess. He nodded gravely and said, “I’ll remember, my lord, and be careful.”
The fingerflame lit their way off the road and into the trees. As Tilal had hoped, there was a clearing not far within, protected from the worst of the rain by overhanging branches, perfect for about a hundred people to sleep in relative comfort. The rest would guard the horses, find places under the trees, or walk sentry duty. He was about to say so to Andrev and start back when he heard a twig snap over to his left, and the flutterings of frightened birds.
Andrev doused the tiny Fire at once. Tilal cursed himself for letting the boy use it; everyone knew what the Vellant’im had done to the Sunrunner at Faolain Riverport. The darkness was near-absolute, and the sounds were of soldiers all around them in the trees.
He could feel them coming closer, steps muffled now by the cushiony loam of dead, rain-damp leaves. He reached into his pocket to palm Rinhoel’s ruby-eyed dragon. The wings and tail bit into his flesh until he forced his fingers to relax.
“Hold!” he called out. “Friends!”
A delicate shard of ice touched the left side of his throat. He could barely see the silvery glint of a sword in the darkness. His gaze followed it down to the breathing shadow that held the hilt.
Slowly, Tilal opened his hand to set the little dragon free.
His horse trembled between his knees, shying when a torch flared to life amid the trees. He averted his eyes from it, knowing it would dazzle them, and looked down into a broad, fair, clean-shaven face above a cloak-pin designed with the silver apple of Syr.
Mutual shock kept both men silent for a few moments. Then, without even clearing his throat—if he moved, the sword would clear it for him—Tilal murmured, “Point that thing somewhere else.”
The guard was shaking so hard he nearly sliced off his own fingers putting the blade back into its sheath.
Later, with his troops comfortably settled and with a hot meal inside him, Tilal had come to see the humor of it. Saume
r was still shaking in his boots at what his sentry had almost done. When the young prince apologized for the fifth time, Tilal laughed aloud.
“What are you so upset about? I’m the one who nearly ended up breathing through my neck.”
“My lord, I had no idea. We’ve been without news so long, no one knew you were coming, and—”
“Forget about it, Saumer. No harm done. And you can stop calling me ‘my lord.’ It’s a generation or three back to Kierst for me, but we are cousins. Andrev, any chance of more wine? All this will make a long telling.”
They were in what had been Kostas’ tent and was now Saumer’s as commander of the army of Syr. After cleaning out enemy patrols along the Catha River and halfway up the Pyrme, he had marched across the princedom toward the Faolain. He would stay there a day or two, giving his exhausted troops a well-earned rest, before going to High Kirat. He was furious to learn that he’d missed the Vellant’im fleeing from Swalekeep by less than a day.
Starved for word of his family, his friends, and the war, Saumer listened as between them Tilal and Andrev told him everything they knew. He glowed with pride as they told of his brother Arlis’ victory off the coast of Einar, and fairly trembled with excitement during the tale of the battle of Swalekeep. But that was almost all the good news. The deaths and defeats gradually bowed his shoulders down, and when Tilal finally asked to be told how Kostas had died, Saumer’s golden-brown eyes were wet with tears.
Later still, when Tilal lay in his brother’s camp cot watching candle-shadows on the tent walls, he let his own tears fall. For Kostas, for gentle Danladi, for their son Daniv who was now Prince of Syr at barely seventeen, for his own son Rihani who had acted with such quick courage in killing the assassin. Rihani was at High Kirat now, recovering from his wounds.
Duty fought with fatherhood half the night; Tilal slept only when he had decided that Pol would just have to forgive him. Saumer had proven himself an able leader. He could add Tilal’s soldiers to his own and march after the Vellant’im. Tilal was going to High Kirat to see his son.