by Melanie Rawn
And then he did something quite unexpected. Curling one leg up as if to gain his feet, his fingers flashed to his boot top and brought out another knife, instantly poised to fling into the woman’s chest. She backed off a step, her jaw dropping. Andrev laughed and scrambled up, bowing an apology.
Andry nearly laughed, too. So someone had told him about Rohan’s trick, had they? Clever lad!
But humor washed away on a surge of anger and despair. That second knife—and perhaps a third, in his other boot—might mean the difference between living and dying if he was caught up in a battle. Goddess, that a child his age should have to defend himself in earnest, against an enemy who would kill him without remorse even though he was only a child.
This was not what Andry wanted for his sons and daughters. And when he looked in at Feruche, the rage and sorrow grew even more bitter. For there was Tobren, a year Andrev’s junior, walking with her cousin Chayla on the way to the infirmary to treat the wounded. They carried coffers of medicines and surgical instruments as if the handles had melded to their fingers. Children, all of them merely children, forced by grown-up circumstances to grow up too soon. Both girls looked twice their years—poised, serious, and so weary.
It was one more reason to swallow his pride and give Pol all the help he could, even though Pol didn’t want it. Well, he could endure that; his cousin wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t turn Andry away from Feruche. And what did it matter if they had to choke down each other’s presence and powers? There was too much at risk, too many faces grown too old too soon.
He slid away from Feruche, skirting a cloud bank in the Veresch, and followed the sunlight to a place high over the great web of rivers in the south. He saw no Vellant’im—not even when he descended to the places they’d been, not even when he glided the length of the Pyrme and Catha rivers from Syr to the sea. Hiding from faradhi eyes? Possibly. But that hadn’t worried them much before. Where were they, all the hundreds who had laid waste to the land on either side of the rivers, burning and killing and leaving corpses to rot?
There were forests, and roads through the forests, that his vision could not penetrate; charred shells of manors and castles where they might be taking their ease. But surely he should have seen at least a few. They could not simply have vanished.
He knew where some of them were: sailing for Goddess Keep. Torien was watching them, too. Andry approached him and felt the overwhelming relief in his chief steward’s colors as they touched on sunshine.
Andry, where are you? They’ll be here soon—
You’ll have help enough. Elsen’s on his way from Summer River, and his sister Norian is coming with her husband to help—him, I might add, not you. But you won’t need them. You know how to do the work.
I’m glad of your confidence, but I’d be happier if you were here to do it yourself. Can you tell me where you are?
On the way to Feruche, freezing my fingers off. Evarin’s with me. I suspect Valeda will be too, eventually. Don’t worry about us. Or about Chiana and Rinhoel, either. They’re at Rezeld Manor by now, waiting for something that isn’t going to happen.
He explained his little diversion, and Torien’s colors of amber and ruby and sapphire began to brighten. Pol’s cherished father-by-marriage will join them shortly, so there’s another one we won’t have to concern ourselves with.
You’ve been busy! Goddess, I’d love to see their faces when the twenty days run out and neither Vellant’im nor diarmadh’im appear!
Set somebody to watch, somebody who’s good at a Fire-conjure so we can all share the laugh this spring.
Jolan—she’ll enjoy it. Andry, do you really think this will be over by spring?
The Isulk’im think so, I’m told. If you listen to their signs and portents, the war will last three seasons—or three years. Symbols are a little ambiguous at times, as Lady Merisel said. But I prefer to believe in the seasonal interpretation. Do you think we could get through three years of this?
I don’t know if I can get through three more days of Master Jayachin. Although I must say she’s been behaving herself recently—no more demands to have everyone packed into the Keep until the Vellant’im go away.
Hmm. Why don’t you give her an assistant? She’ll enjoy having a Sunrunner apprentice at her side to increase her consequence.
She’ll also know any “squire” we send her will be a spy.
But she won’t dare refuse, so what she knows doesn’t matter. Give her Kov. He’s got a nice, honest face, and he’s reasonably clever.
All right. But she does her scheming inside her own head, in silence. He’s not likely to find out much.
He won’t have to. She’ll feel his eyes—our eyes—watching her. That’ll be enough.
Andry asked after his other children, received word that all was well with them, and left Goddess Keep far behind. He glimpsed Arlis’ fleet sailing around Kierst-Isel, not fooling himself for an instant that the prince was coming to defend Goddess Keep. He reminded himself to make life interesting for Arlis after this was over, and finally returned to the snow and cold of the Veresch.
“Well!” Evarin said by way of greeting. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
“There was a lot to see.” He took back his reins and added, “And some things I expected to see and didn’t. I’ll tell you as we go.”
• • •
The tent he inhabited was a fine one, taken from the storerooms at Radzyn Keep and delivered only a few days ago. Spacious and high-ceilinged as a castle bedchamber, its sky-blue wool kept heat in by night and its silk-meshed windows let in cooling breezes by day. Two large carpets woven in grass-greens covered the floor. The furnishings—a bed with a feather mattress big enough for two, several folding chairs, a portable stand with mirror and ceramic washbasin glazed in blue, and a map table—were carved of pale, polished wood and fitted in silver. It was Lord Chaynal’s own tent, he who was Battle Commander of the Desert; naturally, its luxurious comforts now belonged to the High Warlord of the Vellant’im.
He sat in one of the cushioned chairs, drowsy in the afternoon warmth, bare feet rubbing idly back and forth over the thick pile of a carpet. His eyelids drooped a little as he studied the trinket in his palm. Some decoration at Dragon’s Rest was now missing a piece. A dragon.
He smiled, well-satisfied. Events would now center entirely on the Desert. Soon enough the entirety of his forces—but for those who would make life nervous for the accursed faradh’im at Goddess Keep—would mass here outside the remains of Stronghold. Even now his armies were moving by stealth back across ravaged lands, their feints completed, the princes and athr’im either dead or terrified into shutting themselves in their castles where they would be no trouble to him—and no help to the Azhrei. They moved within the trees, and under clouded night skies, and as far as any watchers would know, most of them would simply have vanished.
But they would all be here on the appointed day. And then let the Azhrei bring whatever poor army he could muster against the might of all the Vellanti Islands.
He knew the priest had failed at Skybowl. It didn’t matter, except that perhaps it might make the new young Azhrei think himself powerful. And that was a good thing, for it would be that much more of a shock when he was proved wrong. But the loss of the fools who followed the priest mattered not at all, and it was just as well that they lay unburned and buried by Desert sand. An example to others that as strong as the priests made themselves out to be, the High Warlord was stronger.
The survivors were limping south to Stronghold. They would be in terror of his wrath, frantic to atone for their mistake. They had failed at Faolain Lowland, and now they had failed at Skybowl. Now he would give them something simple to do, something ten women armed with blunt knives could accomplish.
And they would return successful this time, and be on their knees to him for his wisdom that had let them succeed at last.
He held the brass dragon in his fingers, lips pursed and gaze
narrowing, his body and even his breathing stilled as he considered the information this token symbolized. Then, with the sudden explosive grace of a hunting cat, he rose and went to the map table.
In due course, after application of pen to parchment, he placed the dragon on a drawing of a section of the Veresch. Three words were written on it: Skybowl, Feruche, and one other. The dragon perched just above that last word. Here.
• • •
Yarin did a bizarre thing that evening. He allowed Tirel to sit in on a meeting of what he called the Regency Council. He did not allow Idalian to attend the boy—and the squire spent the whole time pacing his chambers and chewing his underlip almost raw.
But Tirel returned whole and healthy, if furious. “All they talked about was spring planting! What in Hells do I know about farms?”
“Don’t swear,” Idalian said. “You’re going to be Prince of Firon one day, you have to know about things like farming.” Suddenly he paled. “You didn’t say anything foolish, did you?”
Tirel slumped sullenly into a chair. “I was good. I remembered what you told me. I didn’t say anything. But I wanted so bad to tell them Uncle Yarin killed our Sunrunner and wants my Papa dead—and me, too!”
“Considering that these are the people who are helping him take Firon from your father, that wouldn’t have been very smart. I know it’s hard to keep waiting. But Prince Laric will come, never think he won’t.”
“And then they’ll fight and maybe Papa will be killed anyway—and you know what they’ll do to you and me!”
“Yarin’s too afraid of the High Prince to do anything like that.” Goddess, how he wanted to believe it.
“I want to do something now!”
“We can’t,” Idalian snapped. “And don’t even think about it or I’ll tell them you’re sick and can’t leave your room.”
Tirel scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Nobody even remembered my birthday.”
“I did,” the squire said more gently. “And so did Nolly in the kitchens. She made you a special dinner, everything you like—”
“It’s not the same.” He sniffled. “Papa said this year I could have a horse—a real horse, not just a pony. And Mama—sh-she said—”
Idalian scooped the child up and hugged him fiercely. “Don’t cry, Tirel. It’ll be all right. You just have to be brave and clever a little while longer. And when your papa gets here, we’ll make Yarin pay for what he’s done. Tell you what, if Prince Laric doesn’t get him in battle, then you and I will have at him together. I think he’d look a lot better without lips, don’t you?”
Tirel gave a little hiccup of laughter. “Nose!”
Exhausted with tension and tears, the boy was asleep the moment he was tucked into bed. Idalian was awake much longer, hunched before the hearth in the outer room with a blanket over his shoulders. Despite the fire it was bitterly cold. He shivered in a sudden draft from the opening door.
“Take the dinner tray back down, and next time remember to knock.”
“I’m not here for that,” said Aldiar behind him, and he turned quickly. “I came to tell you that Prince Laric will be at Snowcoves in eight days, ten at the most.”
“How nice of you to let me know.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
Idalian very nearly smiled. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re Lord Yarin’s kinsman, you have the best information.”
The thin face acquired blotches of color across the cheekbones. “You don’t believe me. What do I have to do to prove it to you?”
“Could you?” The squire shook his head. “I’m more interested in why you’re telling me to begin with. What could I possibly do about this?”
Aldiar’s fingers fretted the braid of his belt—a strange plaiting of gold, silver, and bronze wrapped twice around his skinny waist. He pulled in a deep breath and blurted, “Take the prince out of the castle as soon as you can.”
This time Idalian laughed. “In the middle of winter? Where to? Oh, I know! A conveniently isolated spot where a convenient accident can be staged, making Tirel and me conveniently dead.” He rubbed his chilblained hands before the fire and yearned for the Desert. “Sorry, I’m not in a mood to be convenient.”
“Listen to me,” Aldiar hissed. “It’s not just Laric, it’s Prince Arlis as well. They’re coming in ships filled with his troops. Yarin can’t command an army half that large to defend Balarat. You must get Tirel out of here. If you stay, they can’t storm the castle. Yarin will dangle him over the battlements with a sword at his throat until Laric withdraws. Don’t you see, you’ve got to leave!”
Idalian surged to his feet and grabbed the boy’s bony shoulders. “You’re on Yarin’s side, you’re of his blood. You’re telling me this so I’ll do something stupid and get myself and Tirel killed!”
“Yarin doesn’t want you dead! At least, not Tirel,” he amended, and wrenched out of Idalian’s hold. “He needs Laric’s son to hand—I just told you why! But he knows he’ll have to get past you to get to Tirel, and that makes you dangerous.”
“I don’t believe any of it,” Idalian stated—but only for Aldiar’s benefit. It sounded all too terribly logical. “And I don’t trust you a finger’s width.” Which was true.
“Father of Storms, you’re the thickest man I’ve ever met! Have I offered to sneak you down the back stairs? Did I present a plan all ready and waiting? Have I asked how you’ll get out? I don’t want to know anything about this! I don’t care when or how you leave, as long as it’s soon!” And with that he slipped back out the door and closed it behind him.
Idalian was shivering again. He retrieved the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around him again in a vain attempt to get warm. Goddess, it made too much sense. But why did Aldiar warn him? That made no sense at all.
But as he put another log on the fire and crouched beside it, he began to think that if he was careful and clever, he might actually pull it off. Tirel could pester Yarin for the horse Laric had promised, and they could try its paces in the hills. . . .
Madness. This wasn’t called the “dead of winter” for nothing. They were watched all the time.
By Aldiar.
But if he was truly on their side, then he would look the other way, and—
No, nothing made any sense.
Aldiar was right about one thing, though. When Laric finally arrived, Tirel would be worth more than a whole army to Yarin. And the boy would be killed either way—when Yarin won, or the moment it became clear that he’d lost.
Idalian would be dead long before that, of course.
Chapter Twenty-three
Pol’s head jerked up and he nearly dropped the boot in his hands. “He’s what?”
“You heard me.” Feylin’s arms were folded over her chest. “Maarken’s downstairs ordering Daniv to saddle his horse for him. And he won’t drink or eat a damned thing, just in case I’ve put something in it to make him sleep. Which I did, naturally,” she added. “Though I’m insulted to find a friend so untrusting.”
“With good reason for his suspicions! Damn!”
One boot on and the other clutched in his fist, he strode down the hall to the stairs, which he took two at a time. Maarken stood in the middle of the courtyard. What remained of his left arm was in a sling made from one of Ruala’s silk shawls. With his right, he pointed at the dapple-gray Radzyn stud tethered to a watering trough. Daniv faced him, just as angry, digging in his heels so literally that he looked rooted to the cobbles.
“No!” the young man exclaimed, probably for the tenth time. “And don’t try your ‘Battle Commander of the Desert’ line on me, either. I’m the ruling Prince of Syr, and—”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s vulgar to proclaim your titles at the top of your lungs?” Maarken snapped.
Unfazed, Daniv finished, “—and as such, there are only two people at Skybowl who outrank me. And you aren’t either of them!”
“But I am,” Pol said, putting a hand on Daniv’s sho
ulder to indicate approval before he addressed his cousin. “And I suppose no one ever told you how vulgar it is to yell at a prince?”
Maarken scowled. “Not when the prince—including you!—is behaving like an ass! I’m perfectly capable of sitting a horse!”
“Fine. Do so—in about ten days. Until then, go back to bed!”
“I may be missing one hand, but the other’s still here,” Maarken snarled.
“What’re you going to do with it, knock me down? Who’s being the ass now? Daniv, have the grooms put Cadona back in the stables.”
“Daniv, don’t you take a single step!”
“All right, then,” Pol said, “if you can saddle him, you can ride him.”
“You know very well I can’t cinch a girth with only one hand!”
“Daniv,” Pol began, then stopped. The sound of clapping hands made them all turn. Chadric stood nearby, applauding sardonically.
“Charming,” he observed. “I thought we’d taught you two better manners during your years at Graypearl, but it seems not.” He came forward, limping a little. “There’s only one person here whom I don’t outrank, but age lends privileges even when dealing with a High Prince. Daniv, you are excused from this display of bad taste. Pol, I suggest you close your mouth until you think of something useful to say. Maarken, get out of the sun. It’s obviously addling your wits.”
“You’ve got that right,” Pol muttered, then, childhood training dominant even now, tacked on, “—my lord.”
Chadric eyed him, saying, “A word with you, if you please,” and after a slight pause added, “your grace.”
Pol grimaced at the rebuke and accompanied the elderly prince back toward the main steps of the keep.
“Three things,” Chadric said, utterly serious now. “First, he’s not lying when he says he’s all right. Feylin told me he didn’t lose much blood. You saw to that by acting so quickly. Second, he needs to know he’s not a cripple.”