And she was lovely, in a common sort of way that caught Kyel off-guard. Her gown was silk, but simple, lacking any fancy embroidery or jewels. She wore her dark brown hair in a loose twist that spilled fine curls down her neck, softening her appearance. As Romana turned toward the sound of their entrance, she paused with the paintbrush in her hand.
Nigel Swain swept into a low bow that Kyel tried his best to emulate.
“You may rise.”
Her voice was a sweet soprano. Again, quite unexpected.
Swain said, “Your Grace, may I present Kyel Archer, acolyte of the new Prime Warden, Darien Lauchlin.”
Romana’s eyebrows shot up. Her gaze took in Kyel, lingering on his cloak, then swept back to Swain with a questioning look. Carefully, she set the paintbrush down on the tray of the easel and walked across the room to a small mahogany desk. Rifling through the papers on it, she produced a letter. She held it up for Kyel’s inspection, waggling the parchment in the air to draw his attention to it.
“I received this note from one of my most loyal subjects, Mayor Blake Pratson of Wolden. It has been often on my mind of late. In it, Mayor Pratson details a rather bizarre encounter he had with a mage, his acolyte, and a priestess of Death. He failed, however, to mention anything about this Darien Lauchlin aspiring to the office of the Prime Warden.”
Kyel found himself taken aback. Thrown off by her appearance, he had almost forgotten that Romana was ruler of one of the largest and most prosperous nations of the Rhen. He couldn’t let himself be fooled by the innocent appearance of her face. This was a woman to be reckoned with.
And she had opened their conversation with a direct attack on Darien’s right to the title he had claimed. But Kyel had learned from his experience with the clerics of Om. It was just a tactic, a way of trying to put him on the defensive right from the start.
Not wanting to let her strategy succeed, he took a step forward and said, “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there was no one else to fill the position.” A month ago, he would have never had the nerve to say such a thing to a queen, and certainly not in such a tone.
But Romana did not seem offended in the least. Rather, she actually looked a bit impressed. She went on, unruffled. “This letter addresses some issues I find quite troubling. I assume by your presence here that you were sent to enlighten me?”
Kyel took a deep breath, trying to remember the rest of the speech he had rehearsed all the long way from Glen Farquist. But as he opened his mouth to speak, his mind drew a complete blank. He would have to improvise.
“I really don’t know what to tell you, other than what you already know from that letter,” he said, with a hastily added, “Your Majesty.” Then he summed up the situation with the two Enemy armies, including as many details as he knew.
“Darien believes they’ll continue south to Rothscard if not stopped. He is aware that you have a standing army, and he asks that you yield over command of it to him.”
There. It was out. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the tidal wave to break. Glancing sideways at Swain, he saw the man staring at him in astonishment. Romana herself looked stunned. Holding up her hand, the young Queen shook her head, closing her eyes.
“Allow me a moment to try to understand this. You are telling me that I should be expecting an imminent siege any day, and in the same breath asking me to give over my only means of defense?”
He’d known he was asking a lot. But the way she had just summarized his request made it sound downright ludicrous.
Swain stepped forward, inserting himself between Kyel and the Queen. “If I may?”
Romana nodded.
“I know Darien, or at least I used to,” Swain said. “He’s impudent, he’s brash, he’s stubborn as a goat, and he marches to no drummer’s beat but his own. He’s also one of the smartest men I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t know what he has in mind, but I would urge you to hear his man out.”
The Queen frowned. But with a graceful dip of her chin, she allowed, “You may continue.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Kyel said, feeling bolstered by Swain’s unexpected support. “Darien didn’t tell me all of his plans, but I think I’ve figured out some of it. He would never leave Rothscard defenseless. He plans to use the Circle of Convergence at Orien’s Finger to turn back the Enemy.”
“By himself?” Romana looked appalled at the very notion.
Kyel gulped. “Well, yes.” He shrugged. “And your army.”
The Queen whirled around, pacing back toward the window. “This is absurd! Who does he think he is, another Orien?”
Swain nodded, looking confident as he said, “I’m sure that’s exactly what he’s thinking.”
Romana rounded on him with a furious look, demanding, “How do you know this man?”
He reached up and tapped the hilt of his sword. “I trained him in the art of the blade. He was an acolyte at the time, but I agreed to go along with it under his mother’s nose. He studied under me for nine years. I probably know him better than he knows himself.”
Romana looked aghast. “And what is your opinion of all this?”
The conviction drained from Swain’s face. “My opinion?” he echoed, looking unsettled. Slowly, he shook his head. “All I can say is, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of Darien Lauchlin if he’s got his back up against a wall. And if he never gave up his sword…”
His voice trailed off. His eyes shot up, fixing on Kyel. “He’s broken Oath, hasn’t he?”
Kyel found himself with no option. He admitted a grudging, “Aye.”
The Queen of Emmery gasped. Her hand rose to her mouth as she turned back to Swain. “Then the man is just as rabid as his brother. And if the portrait you have just painted of him is accurate, then he is probably thrice as dangerous.”
She seemed to be taking a moment to collect herself. Finally, she turned back to Kyel. “Take this answer back to your ‘Prime Warden.’ Tell him I have declined his request to yield command of my army. I may yet decide to send my forces northward, but if I do, it will not be to aid his cause—it shall be to hunt him down and destroy him.”
Kyel just stared at her. He had expected argument. He had expected refusal. But it never occurred to him that the woman would actually threaten Darien’s life.
“But, what of the Enemy?”
Romana merely shrugged. “Thank you for your concern, but these walls have survived sieges in the past. We will survive again; we always do. It is your own kind, young Kyel, that is endangered. Perhaps you should think about that and return to me again in the morning.”
It was a dismissal. Kyel just stared at the young, seemingly innocent Queen for a long moment before turning to leave. He even started walking toward the door. But then he stopped, turning back to her.
“I’ll come back in the morning, Your Grace. And when I do, I sincerely hope you’ve changed your mind. You see, my Prime Warden gave me another message for you: either hand over your army or hand over your crown. Because Darien’s back is up against a wall. And believe me, he’ll do anything it takes to protect your kingdom’s future, even if that future doesn’t include you in it.”
30
The Jenn
The dream ended, and there was only darkness. Terrible darkness. And cold. So bitterly cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. Traver ached all over, but the worst of the agony was in his hands. He knew he was hot enough to be sweating, but for some reason all he could do was lie there wracked with violent chills that chattered his teeth and rattled his body to the bones. If only he could stop the shaking. It had awakened him from his dream.
He remembered the dream. He wanted desperately to go back there, become a part of that dream again. The dream was important, more important than any reality he could ever know. He had to see them again, to tell them, to warn them…
When he awoke again, the chills were gone, but the pain in his hand was terrible. Traver tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was darkness.
He wanted to get a look at his hand, to find out what was wrong with it. His fingers throbbed, sending shooting pains lancing up his arms all the way to his shoulders.
Gradually, it was coming back to him. The dream, the pass. Corban Henley. He remembered falling asleep. At least, he thought he did. And he’d been right; it hadn’t really been so bad. It was waking up that was terrible.
He made an effort to sit up. It wasn’t much of one. He’d tried to use his hands to push himself up. He realized immediately what an awful mistake that was.
“Don’t move,” a female voice admonished him from the darkness.
Traver had no problem complying. He lay back, clenching his teeth as he waited for the stabbing pain to fade back to a dull, throbbing ache.
“Drink,” the voice said, and he felt a cup pressed against his lips.
The water was cold, and it tasted wonderful. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been. Traver gulped it quickly, not caring that he wasn’t getting all of it in his mouth. He felt the water running down his chin, dribbling down his neck. When the woman took the cup away, he felt disappointed.
“That’s enough, for now,” said her calm, easy voice.
“Who are you?” Traver asked, wishing there was light enough to see her face.
“My name is Kayna.”
“Where am I?”
The voice hesitated. “You are in the tent of my husband.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. Especially since he was naked beneath the blankets. That’s all he needed: some woman’s husband coming home enraged at finding a naked man in his bed. Wouldn’t that be just his luck? He could hardly defend himself the way he was. It occurred to him to wonder if maybe the woman’s husband was responsible for saving his life.
“Where’s Henley?” he asked, remembering the Valeman.
“I don’t know who that is. You are the only one we found alive on the killing ground.”
Her words brought a pang of remorse. It wasn’t fair. Henley was one of the best men they had. He should have been the one to survive. Traver found himself wondering what kind of dreams the Valeman was having. He hoped they were good dreams.
“You’re lucky we found you.” The woman’s voice drifted through the darkness.
He asked, “What were you doing in the pass?”
“One of our herds strayed away a few nights back. We followed their tracks up into the Mountains of Shadow. When we found them, the beasts were already slain and slaughtered. But my husband found you instead.”
“I suppose I owe him.”
“You owe him your life. When he found you, you were almost frozen to death. The vultures had already been at your meat.”
The thought was repulsive. Traver remembered the bird, the one that had mistaken him for a piece of carrion. “Am I whole?” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
There was a long pause. “Nearly. The frost and the birds got to your hands. We had to cut off two of your fingers.”
“No.” It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have a chance of gripping a hilt with two fingers missing. In the space between horror and grief, he felt his anger rising.
“You had no right!” he raged at her. “I need my fingers, damn you!”
“Well, they’re gone, so get used to it. Just be grateful for the eight you still have.”
He’d gone back to sleep after that. It was not a peaceful sleep; the pain kept waking him. When he opened his eyes, he could see dim light coming in through a smoke hole in the roof. Kayna was gone. Looking around, Traver tried to figure out his bizarre circumstances.
When the woman had mentioned they were in a tent, he had taken it to mean some type of portable shelter. But this had the look of something more permanent. It was large, framed with wooden stakes and covered with tanned leather. Designs had been painted on the walls and over the flap that served as the door. There was a fire pit in the center, and the floor was covered in skins mounded into pallets. The tent even had its own peculiar smell, like a strange blend of spices mixed with smoke.
He thought about trying to sit up, but the idea was still daunting. His hands still hurt, but the texture of the pain was different, more of a stinging sensation. Hesitantly, he pulled his left hand out of the blankets and held it up. His whole hand was wrapped in strips of animal skin that had been soaked in water and then dried on stiff. The way the bandages were arranged, he had no idea what kind of damage was concealed beneath.
The flap of the tent parted, and a man stepped in. He moved across the space toward him, kneeling by Traver’s side. The fellow was dressed in fur and tanned leather. He had long, greasy hair, and a beard that looked to have soaked up every drip of fat from his breakfast. And he smelled. The stranger fairly reeked of horse.
Without speaking a word, the man snatched up Traver’s left hand and started peeling off strips of bandage. Traver closed his eyes, afraid to see what was under those hardened leather strips. With a crack, the entire casing fell away, and Traver found himself staring up at his naked, ruined hand.
The last two fingers of his left hand were gone. Only swollen, bloody tissue remained in their place. Traver just gaped at the ghastly wound. He still had his thumb and his first two fingers, which were the three best fingers to have. Traver couldn’t stand it. He had to turn and look away. He felt ill, his stomach twisting.
“The wounds are healing nicely,” the man said.
It sounded like a sick jest. Wanting to scream in frustration, Traver growled, “You had no right to cut off my fingers.”
“Your fingers were already dead,” the man said. “If I had left them on, the rest of you would be following.”
It was small comfort. What was he going to do without the use of his hand? Certainly not soldiering.
“My name is Ranoch.”
Traver looked up at him. The man had a kind face beneath the filth. In a way, Ranoch reminded him a little of Corban Henley. Just a darker, wilder version.
“Traver Larsen.”
Looking around the tent, Traver couldn’t help wondering what kind of people he had fallen in with. They were obviously nomads of some type, and from the looks of the skins, they were probably herdsmen. Staring at the fur of Ranoch’s heavy winter robe, he couldn’t resist asking, “You people are horse herders?”
Ranoch nodded, looking proud. “We are the Jenn.”
The man reached down by his side and produced a plain earthenware cup, which he proffered in both hands. Traver stared at the cup suspiciously, wondering at the steam that was rising from it.
“What is it?”
“Hot mare’s milk,” Ranoch informed him solemnly.
“That’s revolting.” Traver grimaced, trying to turn his face away as the herdsman lifted the cup to his lips.
“Drink it. You need the strength.”
Holding his breath, Traver opened his mouth. The milk was heavily spiced, and much sweeter than cow’s milk. The fatty texture made him want to gag. Swallowing, he muttered bravely, “Not bad. It would do better with a chaser though.”
Ranoch chuckled, tilting the cup again as Traver tried hard not to spit the foul liquid right back in his face. The second gulp went down worse than the first one. But the herdsman was insistent and made Traver drink the whole cup before putting it down.
“A crier came through our camp over a week ago,” Ranoch said, leaning forward on his knees. “All men were asked to bring their bows and offer Horseright to the Callas Greathe. It is said that the Dakura are invading the plains. I was wondering if you knew anything about it, since you’ve fought them.”
Traver stared at him blankly, hardly understanding a word. Slowly, he asked, “You mean the Enemy?”
Ranoch nodded. Traver struggled to sit up, using his elbows to shimmy himself forward. Ranoch caught him by the shoulders, easing him up the rest of the way. Traver felt suddenly faint, his body trembling with the effort. But it was a small victory, one he was proud of. He would have to get used to sma
ll victories.
“We’ve been trying our best to slow them down,” he said. “The keep’s fallen. There’s just too many.”
“Greystone Keep is lost?”
When Traver nodded, the man shook his head sadly.
“How did you know they were coming?” Traver asked. It didn’t make sense. Proctor and the rest might be down from the pass by now, but that didn’t leave enough time for word of their arrival to circulate around the plains.
Ranoch rubbed his eyes wearily. “I told you. A crier came through our camp.”
“How did he know?”
The man shrugged. “There are two ways the cry can be taken up. It can come from the Tiborah, the spiritual leader of our people. Or a Sentinel might raise the cry, but that would indeed be rare.”
Traver’s eyes widened in understanding. “Lauchlin.”
“What?” The herdsman stared at him in confusion.
“He’s a Sentinel I know.”
“You know a Sentinel?” Ranoch exclaimed.
“Aye, I do.”
The herdsman shook his head, a look of newfound respect in his eyes. “I offer you my food, my fire, and my protection for as long as you wish,” he said solemnly. “After you heal, if the Dakura have not yet blighted the plains, I would be honored to offer you Horseright.”
Traver blinked at the man, thoroughly confused. “Sounds great,” he muttered.
31
Chains
His guest room at Emmery Palace was the most luxurious Kyel had ever seen. It was more than just a room; it was an entire suite. The sitting area had a warm fire already glowing in the hearth, with three plush chairs gathered around in an intimate setting. There was also a tiled washroom with a large marble tub. The bedchamber itself was draped in silk, the bed almost scandalously large.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 35
