by Steven Poore
“The letters are written,” Rais told her. “Haemon will leave in the morning, at first light. Now, will you tell me what is troubling you?”
“Did I say something troubled me?”
“You hardly needed to,” the prince said. He grunted as he lowered himself to sit next to her without waiting for an invitation. “You’ve looked more sour than my brother’s second wife for the past few days.”
“Rais, I might be responsible for the deaths of everybody here if I cannot find a way to hold back Jedrell and his god. I have no time for jokes and smiles.”
“More’s the pity. I rather like your smile.”
Cassia glanced over at him. Usually it was difficult to say how serious his words were, or how much meaning he placed behind them, but this time he seemed to have dropped the courtly pretence that had irritated her so much in Hellea. The tone of his voice had changed, as had the way he carried himself. Now he looked exactly as he sounded: a young man, handsome in the way the heroes of her father’s tales were handsome, his eyes beguilingly dark. He was not Meredith – he never could be – but there was a warmth to his smile that Meredith had never possessed. Once again she had the strange feeling of standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall one way or the other into an abyss.
“Rais. Please.”
He shook his head. “No, Cassia. Listen to me. You have not been the same since we left Hellea. I thought we travelled this road together. But if you carry on down this path alone, as you do now, you will be beyond despair before we ever reach the North. You cannot bear the weight of this alone.”
“But I cannot ask anybody else to bear it for me.”
“Or with you?” The corner of his mouth quirked. “We are already here with you, Cassia. Of our own will. For the most part, anyway, if you do not count that old innkeeper. You do not have to ask. We are your friends.”
His smile was infectious, she realised for what might be the first time, when it was not aimed to irritate her. She lowered her head so he could not see the way her cheeks burned. “If you truly mean that, then I am proud to call you my friend. I don’t have many.”
None that she could still call living, she thought. She caught herself and shook her head, reprimanding herself for her negativity. This was what Rais was attempting to dispel, and the gods knew she needed his help.
“Better,” Rais said. “Now you smile like my brother’s daughter. Torcilides dotes on her.”
For some reason it was easy to imagine Rais himself as a child. Especially with that smile, the sort of smile that might be forgiven absolutely anything. Cassia forced herself to relax a little. To focus upon the here and now, rather than what lay in wait for her in the North.
“Do you know, it is not as cold as I thought it would be here in your Empire,” Rais continued. “From what I heard, I believed it would be miserable and grey, and the people as sour as the bread they bake throughout the winters. But I have spent a little time with Teon and his fellows, and they are not such a dull people after all. I think in time they may even come to be likeable.”
This time Cassia could not help but laugh. “Is everything you ever say calculated to make yourself sound better, Rais? I’ve never heard such vanity, not even in the old stories of Pelicos when he carried the dragonscale mirror!”
“I would not say such things if they were not true.” His affronted tone was pure affectation, Cassia was certain of it. His next words proved it to her. “Well, mostly true, anyway. But it does not hurt to colour the truth in one’s favour. You should know that, as a storyteller yourself.”
She shook her head at how easy it all seemed to him. As if life itself was a performance, a series of rituals and displays to entertain the people who lived in his city.
Rais wagged a finger at her. “More truth. Teon, and Haemon, and Rumik– all of them, in fact – they will see me in one of two ways. As a Galliarcan, or as a prince and commander. In one light, I am everything they hate and fear, a sly heathen come to steal away their livestock and sell their children to the hordes. You will have told those sorts of tales yourself, Cassia – no, don’t try to deny it. But in another light, I am everything they want to be themselves. A hero, a leader of men, presenting them an opportunity to gather glory to their names and their families. What do you think they might fear more? Galliarca, or the risen North?”
Sobered, she opened her mouth to reply, and hesitated. She had not thought in such terms before.
Rais shrugged. “An unfair question, since you are from the North. But perhaps you can see that it is better for me they should fear the North, just as they were taught in their cribs. They know the tales of the High Kings, and how the land was watered with blood, and the bones of their forefathers were ploughed into the fields. And I have heard them tell those stories around their fires every night so far. They say nothing of my homeland – not in such a fashion.”
“Sometimes you surprise me, Rais,” Cassia told him.
“Only sometimes?” He looked put out. “I shall have to try harder.”
She laughed. “Please, don’t. You are trying enough already.”
His smile widened again. “Thank you, I think. I meant what I said before though, Cassia. You do have a pretty smile.”
The precipice was there again, the ground pulled from under her feet without warning. Rais was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, as much as that of the small campfire. It would be so easy to allow herself to fold into the crook of his arm. The comfort and reassurance she had so far denied herself – surely she deserved it now more than ever? More than anybody else.
And, after all, was Rais so unpleasant? He was a fool, and a pain, but he had helped her. She would not be on this road without him. He was a prince – a real prince, and he said that he liked her.
Cassia shook her head. This was not the time. Her mind was uncarded wool, and just as much use. “I’m tired, Rais. Too tired.”
His hand touched her shoulder, gently pulled her in toward him, and she found that she could not resist. Could not, or would not – the difference was unimportant for now. Her head came to rest against the base of his neck. Despite the manner of their march, his skin still smelled of the spiced oils Cassia had come to associate with her time in Galliarca. She breathed it in, and she could almost see the stalls piled high on either side of the streets of the mede.
She lay like that for a long moment, merely breathing while Rais held her close. Breathing in his scent and feeling the slow rhythm of his heartbeat next to her own skin. It felt natural to return the embrace.
Perhaps he was right; perhaps she was no longer alone in the world. Rais understood her. It was more than Meredith had done. Baum had never given him the chance. But he would have learned in time, she was certain of it. A small part of her wondered if he would have held her in the same way Rais did. A surge of regret and anger threatened to spoil her new-found peace.
Rais must have felt the tension in her body. His head dipped and he pressed his lips to the top of her head. A warm, gentle kiss through the matted strands of her hair. She had not believed him capable of such tenderness. Surprised, Cassia lifted herself up to stare into his eyes. There was warmth in them, but not just warmth. Fire, too.
Oh.
He bent to kiss her and her thoughts became pollen on the wind. Her world contracted to the heat and soft pressure of his kiss. For a second she could not react – she did not know how to react – and then impulse took over. A raw hunger, an appetite she had never felt before now, swept through her. It demanded to be fed. Assuaged. It must always have been there inside her, but she had never known. Cassia pulled herself as close to him as she possibly could; her fingers questing to find the curves of his back and the ridge of his spine, mirroring the way the prince touched her.
But even now she could not help but think that Meredith’s lips would not have been so warm. His embrace would not have been this passionate. For an instant she visualised his bare torso, positioned inche
s above her own body in the yard of the Old Soak. That was the closest she had ever come to breaking the stone wall of his affections.
She broke the kiss with a gasp. She needed air. When the storytellers told of how a kiss took Gelis’s breath away, Cassia had never imagined they would be so right. Rais’s mouth followed the line of her jaw, moving to her neck. The pulsing of desire drowned out even the war drums of the North. Cassia’s stomach lurched, just as it had when she was first launched into the skies on Craw’s back.
As Rais moved further down her neck, his hands explored her body. With one he caressed a thigh, his touch so light that her skin prickled. The other hand moved up, under her shirt, just beneath her breast. A firmer touch, less tentative, more assured.
Her senses returned with a shudder. Oh gods – what was she doing?
Cassia twisted away from his embrace. It was not an easy thing to do. “Rais. Please – no. Stop.”
The prince lifted his head, seeking her lips again, but she pulled back further. Faint confusion creased his brow. “Cassia?”
“This is not what I want.” The words were not easy to say, either.
Rais stared at her. There was another emotion behind his surprise. “Do you say that with your head or with your heart?”
“Both,” she said without hesitation.
“Then your lips give the lie. As do your arms.”
Cassia caught herself looking down at her hands, and felt colour rise into her cheeks. He could read her too easily, she thought. She disentangled herself further, relieved that he did not resist.
“You cannot say that you do not desire,” Rais said. “But I think the truth is you do not desire me.”
She remained silent. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right; at the same time, she did not trust herself enough to say that he was wrong.
At last Rais looked away, shaking his head. “My brothers would call me a fool. And they would be right.”
There was more to it than that, she thought. She sat across from him, her legs pulled up defensively, and watched as he straightened his clothing. He had been certain she would fall for his charms. He was a prince too, and princes were not used to being denied their own way. She knew that from the stories.
“I do not think you are a fool,” she said quietly. “At least, not yet. But I am – a hundred times over.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Who do you desire? Me, or the Heir to the North?”
Now Rais was silent, his mouth thinning to a hard line.
“I am both. You cannot separate the parts of me. I wish you could. I wish that someone could. I need your help, Rais, and I need your friendship. But more than that . . . I just cannot. Not yet. I need myself as much as I need you.”
For a moment – a long, indrawn breath – she thought it might fall either way. Rais’s brothers, like his father, were proud men. They did not back away from a fight, and they would not suffer defeat. Cassia was ready to push to her feet and run if the need came. If Rais decided to take by force what he considered his due. Looking after his interests, Cassia thought sourly. Looking for a way to claim both her and the North.
Rais sat back with a sigh, and Cassia forced herself to relax. “Not yet, you say. Fool that I am, then, I will endure in hope.” He looked across at her, his gaze seeming to penetrate her thoughts. “I am a prince, Cassia, not a monster. But for now I will leave you alone. Good night.”
He was on his feet and yards away before she could gather herself to reply. The night air was cold, despite the campfire, and she shivered. She had not realised how much warmth Rais had brought with him. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The war drums of the North beat at her temples as if to mock her.
“I never said I wanted to be alone,” Cassia said quietly, but she spoke to herself. Rais was gone.
12
This is insane,” Rais said. “You risk losing everything you’ve built up here!”
Cassia kept walking, forcing him to match her pace. The prince’s half-captains had enough manners or common sense to stay well back.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’ve already thought this through. I will not change my mind.”
“I’m not asking you to change your mind. Well, I am, but that’s not the point. Listen to me, please, Cassia.”
“Rais, you are my general. The men will follow you.”
“This is about the other night, isn’t it?”
Now she halted. Cassia had barely spoken to him over the last few days, as her army moved closer to Lychor and Segrea. Feeling ever more isolated, and with the drums beating ever louder in her mind, she had the sense that she was losing control of her own campaign. Things were slipping away through her fingers. She knew she ought to be doing something, but it had taken her all this time to understand what it was. It was not only the drums that called to her – there were voices too. Now she thought she knew what those voices were. What they could mean. The next stage of her journey into the North had fallen quickly into place once she realised that.
Rais, meanwhile, had done exactly as he said he would. He had left her alone. Or almost alone – one of his half-captains was always somewhere nearby, as though stationed to watch her. To guard her. To look after the prince’s interests. Sometimes she thought she caught Rais himself watching her, from a distance. But she had not sought him out and to his credit, he had done the same.
She was not sure what she felt about that.
The forms Meredith had taught her worked to keep her mind focused away from him. She threw herself back into her practice, switching between her staff and Pelicos’s blade until her arms and her shoulders ached. After that she took up Meredith’s sword. The weight and length of it forced her into a different style, making her think about her balance and her positioning. It tired her far more quickly, and she knew she could never approach the skill with which Meredith had wielded the weapon. But she had seen it in the visions of blasted Caenthell that still haunted her sleep. She would need this sword, before the end. It was important.
She was learning to trust her instincts. Some of them, at least.
She shook her head. “Rais, no. It has nothing to do with that. I swear it.”
“Then I don’t understand. You crossed an ocean on the back of a dragon to raise a defence against Caenthell and Pyraete. Now you would turn away from that?”
The prince sounded confused, and not a little desperate. This army was not like his Watch, back in Galliarca. It was made up of completely different elements. Rais was an accomplished horseman, to judge from the tales he told around the fires, but he had never commanded a mounted force. And his infantry was Hellean, not Galliarcan; she already knew how he fought to make the men accept his leadership. His authority rested on their acceptance of him. And the shieldmen . . . no general had ever commanded an army such as this.
Little wonder Rais feared what might happen if she left.
“I cannot see what help you can bring from a country that even you Helleans have left to ruin,” Rais continued. “And to go there almost alone . . . Teon has told me about Lyriss. And you have been there before. You know the truth of this.”
Cassia remembered Lyriss only too well. A bleak, unfriendly place; all life leeched from the ground. If it was part of Hellea at all, it was only by default.
Teon himself stood with the other half-captains who had followed Rais from the canvas tent the prince had commissioned as his command post. “Leave us, please,” she told him, and the young man bowed his head quickly and left, taking his companions with him.
Rais looked wary, uncertain of what she intended. Cassia took a moment to clear her mind, rolling her shoulders to loosen the knots of tension.
“Rais, I appreciate your concern for me. I really do. But I will not go back on my decision. And I will not be as defenceless as you think.” She gestured to where the nearest ranks of shieldmen were visible, beyond the makeshift shelters. “You were right. The shieldmen came to f
ind us, but not all of them have arrived yet. Some will still be marching from the west of Hellea. I don’t think they will march by road though. They will travel in a straight line, from there to here, no matter what they find in their way. Look how that last cohort came upon us.”
“That does not answer my point, though.”
Cassia shook her head. “It does, Rais. Think: they came straight to me. To the statues that summoned them. These other shieldmen – they will do the same.”
It took a moment, but at last the prince nodded. “I see, I think. They will come to you, no matter where you are. And you will have those figurines with you.”
“Exactly,” Cassia said. “And when we meet up again, on the road towards Keskor, we will both be leading armies into the North.”
The look Rais turned upon her was weighted with calculation. “There is more to this than you are saying, Cassia. A part you do not want Teon to hear. More sorcery?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “Old magic.”
“How old?”
It was difficult to keep the truth from a man educated in the ways of teasing secrets from the gaps between words. Her only advantage was that he did not know the same stories she did. But perhaps one truth would distract him from another.
“Old enough that it scares me half to death,” she admitted. “And if it does so to me, then imagine how it might affect Teon. Or the men who follow him.”
“They have adapted to the shieldmen,” Rais said. “You might be surprised what we men can endure.”
The comment was made with enough humour that Cassia caught herself smiling. “But the shieldmen do at least look like other men, like they belong in the front ranks.”
Rais’s own smile disappeared again. He reached out to touch her shoulder, brushing strands of her hair away. “You say that as though you mean to enlist the help of something even worse than an army of stone men. Cassia, I do not like the road you travel.”