Shard & Shield

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Shianan stared into the fire, knowing he was ruining his night vision but for the moment beyond caring. “It’s enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Bailaha. For my error in judgment. I never thought but that you must feel as superior as you were portrayed.”

  “Superior?” Shianan repeated in dull disbelief. “And my lord! A prince need not apologize to his subject.”

  “To the contrary,” Soren returned, “the prince must be the first to apologize. He is held to a higher standard.” He gave a weak chuckle. “Though it seems you are no stranger to the higher standard, either.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the right phrase for it.”

  “Regardless.” Soren extended the flask to him. “Here, finish it. I’m sorry I’ve nothing else to offer, but tea is actually more warming than liquor.”

  “Thank you.” Shianan drained the liquid.

  “And now, with our excuse for lingering finished, I suppose we must go out and find the little turd.”

  Shianan blinked. “My lord?”

  “Oh, come now. If you resented me at all, you must certainly know whom I mean by the little turd.”

  “I only—I have never heard him called so, my lord.”

  Soren laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. If the court called him such, Holy One knows what they’d call me.” He rose, making Shianan scramble to reach his own feet first. “He is my brother, and a prince, but he is also something of a turd. However, I would not want the general populace calling him that.”

  “My lord.” Shianan would not repeat the term—of course not.

  Soren faced him. “I—I am glad you happened across this place. I’m glad we spoke. May we be friends?”

  Shianan tensed, distrustful. “I….”

  Soren’s face twisted. “Or perhaps you still hate me?”

  “No—I….”

  Soren regarded him critically. “You distrust my invitation, yes? Perhaps you even think this is some elaborate plot to entrap you. Perhaps I would be happy to see the bastard arrested for some trifling offense into which I’d manipulated him through overtures of friendship. Perhaps he could be locked away and forgotten, or even executed, and I would be free of his wretched competency.”

  “I had no such thoughts, Your Highness. I only….”

  “You only what? Did you think I did not mean what I said?” Soren demanded.

  “Yes,” Shianan answered without thinking. “That is—yes, I distrusted it. I am—”

  “You thought I would offer my hand in the dark of this cave, but before the court I would make sport of you for my friends.” Soren sighed. “Commander, it is the will of your prince that you come to my office tomorrow afternoon, unless this search is continuing. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Shianan bowed. “I am sorry to have distrusted my prince’s word.”

  Soren shook his head and sighed again. “I might have been suspicious if you had come to me with sudden amiability.”

  Shianan was unsure how to respond, but Soren did not seem to mind that he said nothing.

  They wrapped their cloaks tightly before kicking out the fire and leaving the shelter of the little cleft. The slicing rain made it easy to stay hunched within the hoods rather than trying to speak, and they slipped up the road in silence.

  Still, Shianan was uncomfortable walking alongside Soren. Their conversation had shaken him and he wanted to escape, to think alone for a time. How strange it was, he mused, that at his prince’s order he would march into fighting and death, but he did not trust that same prince’s word that they might be friends.

  Soren spoke first. “We’ll cover more ground if we separate. That only makes sense.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Shianan answered too quickly. “I will go to the northeast.”

  “Watch your footing.” He sighed. “May we find him soon, and not at the base of a cliff.”

  Shianan nodded. If Prince Alasdair were found dead at the same time the Shard went missing….

  He left the prince with a bow, backing a few steps until Soren had moved a suitable distance away, and then he pulled his cloak tighter as he ducked against the rain.

  He slipped in the mud, catching himself with an outstretched hand which landed hard against a boulder. To his right was a short fall into a ravine. If he had slid over that, he might have broken a leg and been lost himself.

  Shianan blew out his breath in sharp irritation. This was useless and dangerous. They should have waited until morning, when at least there was light to counter the rain’s danger. The steep foothills were too dangerous in these conditions.

  He was trying to kick heavy mud from his boot when he thought he heard a human voice.

  Chapter 45

  Shianan froze, lifting his head, but there was only the rain. He dropped his hood and rotated, straining to hear. Rain ran coldly down his neck.

  There! Was that a voice? He couldn’t be sure. “Hello?” he called.

  He wasn’t sure if he heard a response. The steady drumming of the rain muted most other sounds. “Hello?” Shianan rubbed water from his eyes and edged toward the ravine’s lip, bracing himself against a scrubby tree. He didn’t need to fall while chasing a phantom. “Hello! Can you hear me?” He leaned over the edge, eyes aching with the effort to see.

  Perhaps a dozen feet below there was sudden movement. “Hey!” Two figures scrambled up from the ground beside a swelling stream. “Hello! I’m here! Can you reach us?”

  “Your Highness?”

  “Yes! Who are you? Can you reach us?”

  For a single heartbeat Shianan wanted to answer that he was a Ryuven captain, but of course he did not. “It’s Bailaha.” He unfastened his dripping cloak, peeling it back so cold rain pounded into him. “I think I can bring you out.”

  Alasdair’s face was pale in the darkness and for a short moment he did not speak. Plainly he did not relish being rescued by the bastard. “Where have you been?” he sallied angrily. “I’ve been trapped here for hours, and no one came to our calls.”

  “I think the walls shaped the sound away, my lord,” Shianan answered, rolling his cloak at an angle to form a twisted rope. “I could only barely hear when I was just above you.” He wrapped the cloak about the lowest branch of the tree and shook it down. “Can you reach that?”

  “The walls crumble away when we try to climb, and the water’s rising.”

  “Use the cloak to take your weight and walk up the wall. I’ll pull as well. Ready?” Shianan gripped the sodden cloth, planting his feet as firmly as he could manage. Alasdair placed a foot in his slave’s cupped hands and leapt for the cloak, and it stretched in Shianan’s hands as it took weight.

  Shianan slipped dangerously as he dragged the cloak backwards, and for one terrible instant he thought he would tumble in on top of the prince and the slave, but he found a ridge of stone to brace himself and Alasdair scrambled over the edge, undignified as he scrabbled for a handhold. He got to his feet, slathered in mud and barely recognizable, and looked at Shianan uncertainly.

  He was trying to decide whether or not to thank him, Shianan realized. Alasdair owed gratitude to his rescuer, but the prince owed nothing at all to the bastard. Shianan turned back to the ravine, shaking out the cloak a second time. It would not harm you to say the words, he thought bitterly. He glanced over his shoulder at the prince, slimed in mud, and suppressed a vicious grin. The little turd, indeed.

  He tossed the cloak’s end toward the slave. “Catch it!” But the cloak passed over the slave’s reach and slapped against the wall. “You’re going to have to jump higher,” Shianan told him unnecessarily.

  The slave nodded, shivering. “Yes, lord.”

  Shianan swung the cloak again, and the slave leapt, but his reach fell short again. Shianan would have demanded better effort from men he trained to survive battle, but there was no battle here, and the slave was cold and exhausted. “One moment, I’ll come down.” He turned to Alasdair. “Your Highness, you’ll have to pull us up.” />
  Alasdair blinked. “You want me to what?”

  Shianan indicated the cloak. “I can climb this, but I don’t want it slipping, and any help you can give would be appreciated. Your Highness?” He waited. Somehow the dark and the hills made him feel more a commander and less the scorned bastard. This was no royal audience—there was a man who needed retrieving, even if only a slave, and the task made him stronger.

  Alasdair looked as if he would protest and then reconsidered. “I will do it.” He took the cloak, setting his feet in the trenches Shianan had dug.

  Shianan smiled to himself. It might have been unthinkable for the young prince to admit he doubted his ability. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  The steady rain made the sides of the ravine treacherously slick, but the cloak’s rough weave provided a firm grip. Shianan slid to the end and braced his boots against the muddy wall. “Here,” he said to the slave, “do you think you can jump to me?”

  “I’ll try, my lord.”

  Shianan twisted the cloak about his wrists. “Go ahead, then.”

  The slave caught an arm about his waist and swung, tearing at Shianan’s hold. Shianan grunted and squeezed hard at the cloak, feeling his grip slide as the fabric tightened about his wrists. “Hold tight,” he muttered, and he worked one hand carefully free. Then he began to climb hand over hand, walking up the muddy side of the ravine.

  He had nearly forgotten the prince, concentrating on simply dragging their weight up the wall, and he was almost startled to see Alasdair’s white eyes leaning over him. The boy was indeed pulling on the makeshift rope—he hadn’t a chance of actually taking their weight, despite Shianan’s hopes, but he was trying.

  Shianan grabbed for a branch and his arm trembled. “Take him,” he grunted.

  Alasdair stared at him and then at the slave, who stared back in equal astonishment.

  “Take him!” Shianan repeated, his words clipped by lack of breath. “Hurry!”

  Alasdair reached for the slave’s arm and pulled him awkwardly onto the ledge. Shianan welcomed the relief to his shoulders. “Now me.” He didn’t trust the footing at the edge of the ravine, where water ran steadily into the gorge, or his quivering muscles.

  The slave and Alasdair together pulled him to firmer ground, and the three of them stood tiredly facing one another. Alasdair straightened to his relatively short height. “We will go back now.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Shianan untied his cloak with fumbling fingers. It shook out of its tight twist reluctantly. He swung it over his shoulders and it slapped against him with frigid impact. “We should let the others know you’ve been found.”

  Alasdair nodded. “Clemb twisted an ankle in the afternoon and couldn’t keep up.”

  There had been two slaves. “And where is he now, Your Highness?”

  “We went ahead, but we didn’t know the way, after all. Then the storm came up, and….”

  Shianan felt a hot stab of anger. “You left him to crawl home?”

  Alasdair’s eyes widened. Perhaps no one spoke to him in such a tone. Certainly Shianan never had. “He—he wasn’t crawling. He was just slow. And Jaid here already had the weapons and the deer….”

  Shianan shivered. “And here you are without the weapons, the deer, or your servant who actually knew the way home.”

  He’d pushed too far. Alasdair was angry. “It was just a little deer, anyway. And the weapons fell in the ravine. And who are you to criticize me, anyway? You—you’re just a dog!”

  “This dog, Your Highness, would like to get out of the rain. This way.”

  Alasdair swelled with outrage as Shianan turned. “How dare you?” A royal never saw a courtier’s back.

  Shianan pretended not to hear. He was tired, and frustrated, and angry, and cold, and he hated the rain that chilled him both without and deep within, and he almost wished for arrest already so that he no longer had the agonizing suspense of wondering when it would come.

  The rain continued, cold and incessant. Shianan clutched at his cloak, shivering harder. He hated the rain, hated it. He could hear Alasdair and the slave slipping behind him, struggling in the heavy mud. Shianan’s fingers and toes were numb.

  “Hello?” someone called from the road ahead. “Who’s there?” It was the soldier Harl.

  “It’s your commander.” Shianan’s voice was rusty. “I’ve found him.”

  There was a split second of hesitation, and then Harl raised the cry. “The prince has been found!” The sound was echoed along the lines of searchers, and within minutes they were surrounded by soldiers.

  “Let me through,” ordered an authoritative voice, and Soren pushed his way to the center. “Alasdair! Are you hurt?” He seized him by the shoulders.

  Alasdair shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “We found Clemb,” Soren said. “We were afraid you’d had an accident. Come this way. We have a fire and warm drinks.” He looked over the young prince and saw Shianan. “You found him, Bailaha?”

  “I did, my lord.” Shianan clenched his teeth to minimize their chattering. “My lord, may I—”

  “First, come to the fire,” Soren said firmly. “And you’ll have something warm to drink.”

  That had been more or less the request Shianan wanted to make. He followed the princes to an oiled tarp stretched between two dripping trees and a smoky fire beneath it. Shianan rubbed at his eyes. Beside him, Soren was speaking to Alasdair. “What were you thinking? You have a guide for a reason,” he said, his voice quiet but forceful. “And where is the Shard?”

  Shianan’s heart seized mid-beat. Alasdair shrugged at Soren. “What do you mean?”

  “The Shard of Elan. It’s missing. We thought you were both taken.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I went hunting. Why would I take the Shard?”

  Soren exhaled. “Someone has stolen it. And we’ve lost time searching for you.”

  “It’s not my fault!” Alasdair protested petulantly. He gestured. “It’s not like you could have found anyone tonight, anyway.”

  “We found you.” Soren turned to face Shianan. “Bailaha, we owe you thanks.”

  Shianan saw Alasdair shift uncomfortably. “It was my duty, my lord.”

  “It was the duty of every man here, but you were the one to find him.” Soren looked at Alasdair. “Did you thank his lordship?”

  Alasdair’s jaw set. “I….”

  Soren could match the stubborn set of Alasdair’s jaw. “It will be his task to find the Shard, and he has lost this night in hunting you instead. More, you owe him your safety.”

  Alasdair turned to his elder brother in dismay. “But—but he is….”

  Soren’s eyes narrowed. “He is a count and a commander in the king’s army.” His voice was steely. “Now, thank him for his efforts.”

  Alasdair hesitated, but he could not argue with Soren’s logic. “Thank you for your help, Bailaha.”

  Shianan bowed. “I hope to be of further service in the future.”

  Alasdair retreated, sipping at his soup as he looked deliberately toward the fire. Shianan accepted a mug of soup from another slave and wrapped his icy fingers about it despite the burning discomfort. Someone began unfastening the tarp’s ties.

  Shianan gulped the hot soup. If they were starting home, he wanted to be at the front of the line. The sooner he could escape this rain, the better.

  Cursed idiot fool of a princeling.

  Chapter 46

  Luca spread his cloak over the damp ground and settled comfortably. As he bit into an apple purchased at a crossroads stand, he withdrew the rolled accounts with his free hand. He could check for obvious discrepancies or improbabilities. Shianan didn’t seem as if he should be familiar with the accounts of a typical estate and might be easy prey for a greedy majordomo.

  He knew, of course, the accounts were not the primary reason Shianan had sent him. Luca’s
first priority was to find a safe place to hide the heavy wrapped bundle, whatever that might be. But he did not assume the accounting excuse was wholly fabricated. After unraveling the military accounts, it would be logical for Shianan to want to review his own.

  The tramp of feet drew his attention from the neat rows of numbers. He glanced up and saw a contingent of soldiers jogging toward him, weapons and packs slung across their backs. Luca’s pulse quickened and a bit of apple stuck in his throat.

  No, he was on his master’s errand. They were only using the same road out from Alham. They would have no interest in a slave, they would pass him by.

  But a sergeant at their head called an order, and the company came to a halt. Luca’s stomach clenched.

  “You,” called the sergeant, as the men panted. “What’s your business?”

  “I’m carrying my master’s accounts, my lord.”

  “Who’s your master?”

  “Commander Shianan Becknam, Count of Bailaha. I carry accounts of his estate Fhure.”

  The sergeant grunted. “On your feet when I’m talking to you. You coming or going?”

  Luca stood, the apple in one hand and the sheaf of papers in the other. “Coming, my lord.” Was that the right answer? He did not quite understand the question, but nerves kept him from saying more.

  “Good thing, that. It’ll be slower going if you’re leaving the city. Have you met anyone suspicious going out from Alham? I don’t know if he would have gotten this far yet.”

  “What do you mean by suspicious, my lord? I’ve seen only vendors and merchants.”

  The sergeant grunted again. “I don’t know, myself. But someone’s stolen the Shard of Elan, and we’re looking for him—or them. Only an idiot would be carrying it, but it’s my orders to ask.” He grinned, showing brown and broken teeth. “Seen anything?”

  Luca’s head shook almost without his volition. “No, my lord.”

  “Eh.” The sergeant looked around at his men, some of whom had sprawled at the side of the road. “Guess we’ll keep on our way, then. Good thing you’re on toward the city, as we’re setting up road checks ahead. You won’t have the delays going into Alham, though, and maybe you’ll be quick enough to save your back, even if you stop to laze along the way.” He turned toward the soldiers. “Breather’s over. Form up! Ready, move! Hurry!” He plucked Luca’s apple from his hand and jogged off to join the company.