Firefoot walked into his hand, pressing him away from the direction he'd been going. Yarro let the horse nudge him about twenty paces. Then the horse quit walking. Yarro took a couple more steps on his own, then realized he couldn't feel the horse's shoulder under his fingers any more. He stopped and turned around.
Firefoot's bright hide gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The horse was standing still, watching him. Yarro wondered if horses could see better in the dark than people.
"You want to stop?" he asked the horse.
The horse didn't answer, but Yarro shrugged and walked back to him. "Here, then?" The horse snorted and lowered his nose to touch the ground. Yarro leaned down to peer at whatever had caught Firefoot's attention. It was a few wisps of grass. He ought to take the horse's saddle off, he supposed. He hadn't bothered replacing the halter that had chafed at Firefoot's ears, but he'd thought he needed a saddle to hold onto. Not to mention he needed to tie his pack to something.
"All right, hold still," Yarro mumbled. He got the saddle off Firefoot's back and dropped it to the ground, wrinkling his nose in disgust. It was wet underneath. He yawned and fumbled a piece of bread out of his pack. "Do you have enough grass?" he asked Firefoot, who still didn't answer. But he thought he heard the sound of grass ripping in the horse's teeth.
Yar sat down next to the saddle. It smelled of leather and horse. He wrinkled his nose again but didn't move away from it. He could use the saddle as a pillow, maybe. He wrapped himself in his cloak and tore off a bite of bread. After a few more minutes, he was fighting off yawns between every bite. He washed down his last bite with a gulp of water and curled up, tucking his hands and feet inside the thick wool of his cloak.
The longer he lay there, the colder he felt. He hadn't realized how much heat Firefoot had provided while Yarro was on his back. And just moving must have kept him warmer, too. He shivered, his body wracked with yawns so deep they shook him, but too cold to fall asleep. A single almost-sob escaped him, and then he remembered that he'd brought a blanket too. He fished it out of the pack and wrapped it around him, cloak and all. It eased the worst of the cold. He wasn't completely warm, but he was able to stop shivering.
Yarro at last closed his eyes and slept.
***
If Azmei hadn't been watching for the boy and his horse, she would have missed them in the dark. As it was, she might have anyway, if not for Firefoot's greeting whicker. She stopped walking, shortening Sandy's lead and bringing his head down.
"Hello?" she said softly, but there was no response. She peered through the darkness and finally made out the huddled shape of Yarro sleeping on the ground, curled tightly into a ball. If the idiot boy was so cold, why hadn't he built a fire? Shaking her head, Azmei led Sandy off some distance and found a camping spot for herself.
By the time she'd scraped together some kindling, she had familiarized herself with the makeshift camp Yarro had claimed. Camp, she thought, was too generous a word for it. The spot itself was fine—off the road by about thirty paces and sheltered by a rise in the ground and several bushes. But what had he been thinking, to simply curl up on the ground without bothering to tether his horse? She shook her head and bent to breathe life into her fire.
Perhaps the guards at the gate hadn't given Yar the same lecture they had given Azmei about bandits and the dangers of the wild. She wondered idly if it was because he wasn't female. But no, she'd heard them start in on the man behind her as she was riding away from the city. Perhaps he just hadn't paid attention. It was more than possible, considering the daydreamy way he seemed to go through life.
Once she had gathered more sticks for later and started boiling water to brew some tea, Azmei found a good stone to prop her pack against. She spread her blanket on the ground and sat on it, keeping her cloak on and pulling the blanket up to cover her legs. She was far enough away from Yarro's camp that he probably wouldn't even notice her in the morning, in the unlikely event he should be up and moving before she was. She doubted he would be. He couldn't possibly be used to traveling as far as they had come. They were only two leagues or so outside the city, but it was enough that he would be feeling it tomorrow.
The water was beginning to spit and hiss, so she dropped in a ball of compressed tea leaves and took the pot of water away from the heat. She would nestle it in near the fire to keep the liquid warm and it should last her most of the night. She hadn't had much chance to sleep late into the day these past three years, but she had discovered she didn't mind that so much as long as she had at least a few gulps of hot tea to start her morning.
She poured some tea into a heavy clay cup and settled back against her pack. She would sleep for two hours or so, then wake to check the fire and her surroundings. In the meantime, she let the heat of the fire lull her into a doze.
She woke again to the sound of screaming.
"Sleeping gods!" she swore, jerking to attention. It was Yarro, and he sounded like he was being murdered. She struggled out of her blankets and ran towards his camp, drawing her sword. As she approached, she couldn't see the source of danger. She dropped into a half-crouch, slowing her pace to give herself time to find the boy's attacker. But there was nothing.
His horse snorted and shifted away as she got to the camp, but the only thing disturbing the horse was Yarro's screams. He was tangled in his blankets, flailing as if struggling against an unseen enemy. His eyes were closed.
Azmei sheathed her sword in annoyance. A nightmare, that was all. But what should she do now? Should she wake him? It probably wasn't the best idea to let him keep screaming, since there might be other ears out there to hear. But she didn't want their next encounter to be colored by fear.
Still. It was cruel to let him keep suffering. With a sigh, Azmei crouched an arm's length from his feet and grabbed one to shake it. "Yarro!" she called softly. "Wake up, friend! Wake up!"
It took longer than she'd expected for him to rouse from his dream. When he did, he went still except for his heaving chest, staring up into the dark sky.
"It was just a dream," Azmei told him.
"It's never just a dream," he mumbled. Then he seemed to realize he was talking to someone else. He pushed himself to his elbows, staring at her for a moment and then jerking his gaze down. Azmei glanced down to see what he was looking at—her hands, which were propped on her thighs. "Who are you? What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm Aevver Balearic," she said. "We met yesterday, remember, friend? At the horse market. I'm camped not far away. You woke me with your screams."
"Aevver Balearic," he repeated. He shuddered and stared at her hands a moment longer. "Horse market. I remember." He wouldn't meet her gaze.
"Would you like to come share my fire, friend?" she asked, making her voice as gentle as possible. "I have tea. It might soothe you after your nightmare."
"No," he muttered. "Leave me alone."
Perhaps it was too much to expect manners from a boy who'd been mistreated as Yarro evidently had. "Very well. I'll leave you alone," she said, and rose from her crouch.
"Are you following me?" he blurted.
Azmei raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to answer the question, or leave you alone?"
"Answer."
"I am traveling to Rivarden," she said, deciding on her story at the last moment. "I don't like boats. They make me sick. So I'm not taking the canal."
Yarro looked over towards his horse. "Where's Rivarden?"
Was it possible the boy was traveling on his own with no knowledge of geography? "South of here some distance. In the desert. There are fewer people there than Meekin, but it's an important place. Have you heard of the Rivarden Push?"
His face closed. "No. Go away. I want to sleep."
Azmei laughed. He was so absurd! "All right. Pleasant dreams, friend."
She went back to her camp and poked the fire back into life. Yarro might not want a cup of tea, but she could do with one.
Chapter 15
Arisanat glanced over
Baron Arkad's sparring ring and groaned. He had hoped he would be here alone, where he could run through his exercises and be done with it. But no, Razem and Hawk were sparring together, observed by a dozen or more soldiers, who were enthusiastically cheering any time one of the men scored a touch.
He would just sneak away and come back—
"Aris!" The prince sounded altogether too pleased to see him. Why did Razem insist upon being so friendly to him? Arisanat couldn't forgive him, not for failing to destroy the Strid, so he would rather not find Razem likeable.
Arisanat turned, hoping his face didn't show his reluctance. "My prince."
Razem waved him over, leaning against the fence and grinning at him. "I'm winded. Can't keep up with Commander Hawk here. Come chat with me while I catch my breath."
Arisanat glanced at Hawk quickly enough to see the other man make a face. Hawk couldn't possibly have the stamina Razem had. Years in prison, hobnobbing with the enemy, eating their food, wouldn't have given him much time for practice. Arisanat snorted softly but crossed the sand-and-sawdust practice ring to where Razem stood. Hawk went the other direction and began chatting with a group of soldiers.
A servant handed the prince a water skin. Razem drank deeply and shook his head. Arisanat wiped away the sweat droplets that hit his face.
"Were you looking for me, cousin?"
"I—yes, your highness." That was a better excuse for coming down here than the truth. "I overheard Baron Arkad telling his chamberlain we would be here a week."
"We could all use a rest, couldn't we? The food will be much better than what we've had in the last few villages."
Arisanat pursed his lips. He didn't fancy the idea of staying with Arkad another week. The man made him nervous. He saw too much. Arisanat liked him well enough, but he didn't feel safe around him. Not to mention the way Arkad hung around Hawk, talking to the man as if he were an equal.
"Spit it out, Aris. I know you've got something on your mind."
"I just—wouldn't it be better if we got to Rivarden as quickly as possible?"
"Why?"
Good question, Arisanat thought. He couldn't exactly admit that he was uneasy about Arkad's perspicacity. He rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh. "Don't tell me you're enjoying this? How can you? Gods, Razem, you and I both know you don't want peace."
"My father does." Razem took another long drink. When he lowered the water skin, he was silent for a moment. "Hawk seems to believe peace would be better."
"Than winning the war?" Arisanat blurted. "Why are we the only two who realize how stupid it is to hope for peace?"
The silence stretched out between them. Arisanat glanced to either side, wondering if someone had come within earshot. But Hawk was still talking to his soldier friends, and everyone else had maintained a polite distance from the prince. Arisanat turned back to stare at his cousin. "Gods, not you too! Raz, I thought I could count on you!"
He did, too. That was the damnable thing. Arisanat had believed he could count on Razem's hatred of the Strid. He'd been fool enough to believe he and the prince were in agreement on that. He'd founded his plans on the notion that Razem would continue his intransigent position against Strid.
"Even Arkad seems to think—"
"Spare me Arkad's opinion," Arisanat broke in. "This is dangerous. We must get you away from all of these Strid-loving peacemakers before you lose your mind entirely."
Razem managed a weak smile. "Perhaps we've all lost our minds," he mumbled. "I need to finish my exercises now that I've got my wind back. Want to join me, since you're here? Might as well take advantage of the practice ring."
Arisanat was torn between whether to fight the change of subject or to turn and leave. But that might offend Razem, now that the invitation was issued. Arisanat could argue with the prince without risking offense, but walking away... He swallowed and shrugged. "I'll need a practice sword."
Razem signaled for someone to bring them practice blades. Arisanat felt his face flush.
They sparred. Arisanat had never matched himself against Razem before, but he'd known for years that the prince must be better than he. Princes were expected to prove themselves in combat, after all, and Razem had come to the Kreyden as commander some six months after Venra's death.
Around the same time that you murdered his sister, flashed the malicious thought, and Arisanat flinched. Only a luckily-timed feint from Razem prevented him from looking like a madman. Stop thinking, he told himself. There was no reason for him to begin feeling guilty now.
Any guiltier than he already did, at least.
Razem beat him handily. At least the soldiers weren't shouting encouragement or cheering either of them. They'd wandered off to their own tasks, for the most part. Arisanat was uncomfortably aware of Hawk watching from the ringside, but at least he was silent until the end.
"It was well fought," Razem told Arisanat, smiling at him and holding out the water skin.
Arisanat shook his head, but he took the water. "It wasn't. I'm an engineer, not a swordsman. You don't have to spare my feelings."
Razem sighed but didn't answer.
"You pull your strokes," Hawk said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through their conversation like a blade. "Are you afraid of killing the prince? He's skilled enough to turn aside your practice blade, my lord. If you must fight, you should fight whole-heartedly."
Arisanat glared at him. "I don't recall asking for your opinion, Commander Hawk."
Razem gave him a sharp look, but his voice was mild when he said, "And what is my weakness, Hawk?"
"You signal your moves whenever you play to the left," Hawk said without hesitation. "It could cost you your life, highness."
"As a soldier," Arisanat said coldly, "your job is to make certain the prince is never in danger of that." He shoved the practice blade into Hawk's hands, ashamed at his rudeness but unable to resist. "Razem, please consider my words. Arkad's estate is in the middle of nowhere. The food might be better here than the villages, but at least let's get back to a city with real civilization."
The prince was watching him with an unpleasantly speculative expression, but he laughed at this. "I have considered them, Aris. Very well, we'll on to the Desert Jewel. Not tomorrow; Kho'll need more time to resupply his army. But the next day."
***
The night before they were to leave Baron Arkad's estate to continue to Rivarden, the baron threw Hawk a feast. He'd forgone it when they arrived, saying they were all too tired to enjoy it, and there would be time later. Hawk wasn't sure he was going to enjoy it any more now that they'd rested a few days, but he resigned himself to being shown off yet again.
He took his time dressing, amusing himself by thinking of possible excuses to miss the feast when he was the guest of honor. He could claim a sudden stomach trouble—brought on by Arisanat's sour looks, suggested a cynical voice in the back of his mind. Or perhaps he could contrive to fall down the steps just enough to give himself a mild concussion? But no, they would only prolong their stay while he recovered, and Arkad would likely have the feast anyway.
"Perhaps I should throw myself from the tower and be done with it," he muttered, and stalked out of his rooms to join the others.
The feast was not as painful as he had been dreading, but while Arkad managed to avoid the singing of ballads, warlike, lamenting, or otherwise, he hadn't been able to stop Razem from waxing eloquent about Hawk's courage in captivity, the stalwart faith he kept with his king and country, and what a blessing from the gods it was that Hawk had returned to them. Hawk barely managed to keep a straight face throughout the entire speech.
When they were finally free to disperse to their own amusements, Arisanat was the first to shove his chair back. He stood and turned his back on the crowd, so only Hawk and Kho could see the fury that contorted his face.
"Do not suppose the prince's pretty words means you are trusted, Commander Hawk. I am watching you, and I, at least, am not so easily fooled as my cousin. I know y
ou for the cowardly turncoat you are, and I will see it proven."
Hawk stared at him, unable to quite cover how deeply the words cut. He swallowed and lowered his gaze to Arisanat's shoulder, trying to master himself. "I am sorry you feel so strongly, my lord," he said softly. "I will endeavor to be living proof of my loyalty."
Arisanat snorted and stalked off. To Hawk's surprise, Kho snorted too and stood, his chair scraping loudly on the marble floor of the banquet hall. His dark face was twisted in an emotion Hawk couldn't quite read. Anger? Impatience? Disgust? Kho met Hawk's inquisitive gaze with one of withering scorn and strode out of the hall.
It was too much. Hatred from Venra's brother was hurtful, but could be borne. But the treatment Hawk had been receiving at the hands of the man who had once been his dearest friend? That could no longer be tolerated. Hawk muttered a hasty excuse to the prince, who was thankfully involved in a conversation with Arkad and had missed the confrontation. Then he scrambled after Kho.
The black man had long legs. They and his temper had carried him down a long passageway and out into a long, covered portico. Hawk stopped, breathing hard, when he saw Kho standing with his head down, fists clenched at his sides.
"Emran, what is wrong?" he demanded.
Kho swung around to face him. "You," he said in disgust. "You and this sickening lack of self-worth you have been displaying from the moment you got back."
Hawk squinted, wishing the lanterns lining the portico weren't so dim. He couldn't read Kho's expression. "I...I don't understand. I am truly fortunate the prince and first lord have been so accommo—"
"Spare me the platitudes!" Kho laughed in disbelief. "Sleeping gods witness, I cannot tell if you truly believe that, or if six years in a Strid dungeon have made a wittering sycophant of you."
"It was a fairly nice room, actually. Not a dungeon at all." Hawk was surprised to find it was difficult to answer mildly. Kho thought he was being sycophantic?
"That isn't the point!" Kho's voice was low and furious. "Jacin, you were once in command of this whole damned district. You pointed and said Go there and men went there and died there. And what's more, they were happy to die for you. They fought for the Desert Hawk, not for Tamnen or the wealth of the mines or anything like that. The king knew it. Hells below, even the Strid knew it! You were so brilliant they could only defeat you by treachery!"
Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) Page 17