The soldier looked at him. “Becknam the bastard?”
This man wasn’t one of Shianan’s men, wasn’t from Alham’s garrison at all. “Yes, my lord, that commander. My master.”
“Well, did you want him dead or alive? You can’t be glad for either just yet. He’s missing from the field.”
Luca’s heart stilled.
“Not found dead, but he’s not answering, either. Like the prince, and maybe the Ryuven stole others, too. Men are swearing blue he wouldn’t have run off the field like a whipped Furmelle, that he had to have been taken. So you’ve got a bit of time before you go on the block. Enjoy it.” He walked on.
Shianan was missing. They couldn’t even find his body—but there would be no reason to take Shianan. He wouldn’t be a valuable hostage like Prince Soren. He was missing—wounded, perhaps, beneath brush or behind a boulder or unrecognizably maimed. He was dead or in trouble, and no one knew to help him.
Dear Holy One. Luca turned back to the commander’s quarters, numbness spreading through him. He passed through the front office into the sleeping room. He hesitated a moment, and then he went to the coffer Shianan had indicated. Within it lay several folded papers, a few sealed packets, and a small bag of coins. Luca lifted out the bag and slipped it into his clothing.
EWAN HAZELRIG’S HEAD throbbed with each heartbeat, and it seemed as though everyone were speaking from a distance, though they were gathered close about the camp table. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of cloth beneath his sweating palms. He could feel Elysia’s gaze on him.
“Without the prince, we haven’t the royal authority,” insisted Kannan, his tone barely civil. “And without the prince, we aren’t inclined to make any promises that might preclude our having him back.”
The Ryuven opposite flexed his fingers into the table. He sat sideways on his chair to accommodate his trailing wings, twitching in his frustration. “As I have said, I do not know where your prince may be. I did not order his capture and I have had no word of him.”
“But you did not know of this truce, either.”
The Ryuven scowled. “No. And the Pairvyn has—leave that aside. But we cannot wait upon your masters’ approval. My warriors are impatient and hungry.”
“And what of your own master?” demanded Kannan.
“He will not attend himself,” came the level answer. “He is occupied.”
“We can ease the wait,” Septime offered, “for all our troops. We will share our meal tonight as evidence of our good faith. None of us want to break truce tonight, while we wait for word. Let’s feed our soldiers and hope that eases some of the tension outside.”
“My lords,” Hazelrig said, “I think that is the best suggestion we could hear. Let’s send word out quickly that meals are to be prepared and shared—from the same pots, so there is no question of faith.”
“And we will continue to wait upon word from your king and council?”
“Yes, we will. We can do nothing but that.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
SOREN HAD FALLEN SILENT long ago. Shianan was grateful the prince was no longer awake for his pain, but he worried the prince might die on his back and he would not realize it.
Darkness fell quickly in the ravine, and the moonlight did little to alleviate it. He would have to stop. He dared not risk stumbling with the prince. A fall could be fatal.
He reached a broad, flat sheet of rock and squatted painfully until the prince’s legs dragged the ground, and then he eased the arms over his shoulders. His clenched fingers seemed locked. Once Soren was safely lowered, Shianan let himself fall to the stone, limbs shaking.
The walls were much lower now, perhaps only twelve or fifteen feet to the lip. Hours before, he might have been able to climb out and devise a way to bring Soren out safely. But Shianan was too exhausted now to make the climb himself, much less with the injured prince.
He was damp with sweat, even in the cold air. He needed to start a fire soon. There was nothing for shelter, but the walls blocked much of the wind, at least. He looked at the scattered wood wedged among the rocks, left from spring floods and damp with recent rain, and forced himself to move.
He gathered a collection of driftwood to the side of their slab, where the heat would reflect off the stone wall to augment the warmth, and was attempting unsuccessfully to light it when he heard a sound from the lower part of the ravine. He froze, listening, and then slid his sword from its sheath as he moved between the faint noise and the unconscious prince.
The sound came again. Sick fear twisted Shianan’s gut. A search party would be calling for the prince, not moving in near silence.
He leveled the sword into the darkness. “Who’s there? Declare yourself.”
There was a soft, leathery rustle—shifting Ryuven wings.
Shianan resolutely forced away his weariness. “That man is Soren, the prince-heir of this kingdom. He is injured and no danger to you. If you can save him, he will make a valuable hostage. But save him. Do what you like with me—but help him.”
“You regard your life less than any man I’ve ever met,” drawled a familiar voice, “and at the same time, you have such incredible arrogance. What makes you think your life is worth his?”
Shianan stared into the darkness. “Pairvyn!”
“But I will take neither of your lives tonight. We are under truce.” Tamaryl’s eyes glittered as he moved forward, faintly illumined by the thin moonlight. “Though if ever I wished to kill you... She has already seen you die. She already grieves you, and she already sees me as your murderer. I could lose nothing by killing you a second time.”
“You could gain nothing, either. I am the bastard, and I may not wed a Mage of the Circle. In killing me you would spare me a lifetime of seeing her without knowing her.”
“And you are so quick to throw that away.” Tamaryl’s lip curled in disgust. “Have some small respect for your opponents, at least. Do you believe I would kill an injured man purely for spite? Do you think, if I would, my mercy could be bought with your life?” He shook his head. “I cannot stay long; I am not at liberty—”
“Wait.” Shianan lowered his sword. “Wait, please.” He sucked air through his lips and called upon long practice of humiliation. “The mages were able to heal me without amulets, after—after the Shard was taken. I know I have nothing of value to offer you, but... Please, can you help him? With your magic?”
“I cannot.”
Rage flared in Shianan. “Monster! I will give you anything you ask, and you refuse to help him!”
Tamaryl’s face twisted and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. It is not that I will not, but that I cannot. Your injury was magical; that is wood and steel.” His tone was nearly an apology. “I can explain it—”
“I don’t want you to explain it, I want you to save his life!” He choked, his flash of fury fading to despair. “Please. Save him.”
“I am sorry. I cannot.” Tamaryl gestured. “But I will leave you this.”
The reluctant wood flared into sudden, vigorous flame. Shianan sidestepped and jerked the sword into defense, never taking his eye from the enemy.
Tamaryl crossed his arms, disdainful of Shianan’s threat. “We are indeed under truce, my lord commander. Keep that in mind if you should come across any of my warriors.” And with a soft disturbance of air, he disappeared.
Shianan let the sword drop. At least he had not needed to defend the prince, had not needed to fight. He wasn’t sure he could have.
“What was that?” Soren’s words were indistinct.
“Nothing now, my lord,” Shianan answered. “It’s gone.”
The firelight showed Soren closing his eyes again.
Shianan started toward him. “I need to move you between the fire and the wall, my lord. For warmth. Just once, and then you can lie still.”
Soren’s face did not change. “Do it and be done.”
The sardonic jests had ended. His acquiescence wo
rried Shianan, but there was nothing more he could do. He lifted the prince as carefully as he could and set him, moaning, against the sloping wall, the fire at his feet. Soren let his head fall backward, pale even in the firelight.
Shianan left the sword out; any damage from dew was insignificant compared to the utility of having it ready. He wished briefly for water or meat. He was too tired to feel hunger, but he knew he’d need the energy. But as there was no likely prospect of either, he moved to Soren’s intact side and sat as close as he could without jarring the prince, to share warmth.
LUCA HESITATED IN THE doorway. He had not heard that slaves were disallowed within temples, but prescripts were often more strict in Alham. No one challenged him, though, and he slipped inside, edging along the rear wall.
He passed several alcoves for private petition, but his target on the far side was smaller and less grand, more suitable for a slave. Beside it was a wide coffer with a slit in the locked lid.
Luca waited until a well-dressed woman deposited several shining coins before moving close. He brought out the small purse of coins Shianan had left. The bag would not fit through the slit, and he began to untie the drawstring.
“You come with a notable offering,” said a voice behind him. Luca jumped and spun, clenching the bag to him. The priest held up his hands in a soothing gesture. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Luca struggled for words. “I may pray here, yes?”
“Certainly. The Holy One welcomes and hears all.” He glanced at the bag in Luca’s fist. Did he wonder if Luca had stolen it?
“It’s mine to spend,” Luca defended quickly. He pushed the bag at the priest. “It wouldn’t fit, but I want to give it all.”
The priest raised his eyebrows at Luca’s earnestness. “Of course. Thank you.” He accepted the bag and loosened the string as he stepped nearer the coffer. “Would you like someone to hear your mind? Counsel with you?”
Luca looked down. “I’m here to ask assistance.”
“You need the strength of the Holy One? His protection?”
“Both.” Luca bit the inside of his lip. And so you may hope. “My master is at the battle. Word came he is missing, and I want to pray that he is well. That he is safe and will come home.”
The priest studied Luca, who stared self-consciously at the priest’s robed knees. “You are most sincere in your petition.”
Luca nodded stiffly, embarrassingly close to tears. If he were to lose Shianan as well... “He has his sins, but—but I will pray most solemnly for his safety.”
The priest nodded. He pulled the drawstring tight about the little bag’s neck. “Take this back,” he said gently.
“But...”
“Go and pray, and may the Holy One bless you as he sees best. When you see his hand, you may bring an offering if you wish. But one cannot bribe the One who created all things.”
Luca nodded uncertainly. The priest gestured toward the nearby alcove. “Stay as long as you like.”
Luca entered the narrow alcove and looked at the trio of candles burning at the head of it. No other decoration broke the expanse of smooth plastered walls. He sank to his knees and bent forward, a familiar position of abasement.
No, that did not feel right. He had knelt countless times before Ande to beg mercy, but he would never have petitioned the priest in earnest hope. If the Holy One was truly all-knowing and all-powerful, Luca owed him respect and fear, but if he were also merciful, Luca need not approach him as he had the Gehrn priest.
He shifted to a seated position, crossing his folded legs before him and bowing his head. This felt nearer a solemn conversation and less a futile grovel.
Holy One, I mean no dishonor. Please hear me. He clenched his fists. Please, Master Shianan is—he’s all I have now. Please... have a plan for him. Let him yet breathe, and let him return safely. Please bring him home.
CHAPTER NINETY
THE SOLDIERS SHIFTED uneasily as they stood. The Ryuven officers had left the generals’ meeting tent some time ago, but the air of suspicion remained. All were painfully aware they were under a truce neither side had anticipated, or even welcomed, and which might at any moment collapse into renewed warfare.
The grey mage with them stiffened suddenly. “Ryuven!”
The soldiers leapt to rigid alert, jerking their crossbows into readiness. A second later there was a faint pop of disturbed air, and a new shape stood in the darkness outside the torchlight.
“Who’s there? Stand and declare yourself!”
The Ryuven did not stand but walked forward into the light. “I haven’t much time. I must speak with your—”
“Pairvyn!” breathed several soldiers, staring at the crimson sash. The grey mage blanched and took a step backward, and someone released a crossbow.
A shield arose about the Ryuven. The bolt ricocheted off the invisible surface and shot toward another soldier, whose eyes barely had time to widen—
Flame erupted about the arrow, scorching it out of existence, and only a wave of heat washed over the soldier’s stunned face. “Tamaryl’sho,” rebuked Hazelrig, leaving the tent, “a spherical shield? In the midst of a group?”
Tamaryl inclined his head. “I apologize, my lord mage. I reacted without thinking.”
The two generals and the Silver Mage exited the tent. Hazelrig stepped through the startled soldiers, leaving them watching, and approached the Ryuven. He hesitated, looking as if he wanted to speak but could not find the right words.
Tamaryl faced him steadily. “I can’t stay long. But if you wish to find your prince, send men up the ravine, to the northwest. Hurry, he’s not well.”
There was a moment of shock as the others absorbed this information, and then Septime began issuing orders. “Gleston! I want two search parties, each with a healer and supplies. You’ll need litters from the physic tent and rope, if he’s to be brought up from the ravine. Have them assembled in ten minutes. And which man released that arrow?”
Eyes shifted to one soldier, who looked as if he’d have preferred to sink through the destroyed grass. “Sir...”
“Give your weapon to the man beside you, and get yourself to the rear of this tent.”
Tamaryl’s wings twitched. “I cannot wait. But Mage Hazelrig, have you spoken with the Black Mage?”
“She left the field, and no one has seen her.”
“But she will be well?” His throat worked visibly.
Hazelrig opened his mouth. “You’re—”
But Tamaryl made a quick, shallow nod. “Thank you, my lord mage. I wish you speed in recovering your prince.” And he vanished into the between-worlds, air rushing to fill his place.
Kannan moved forward to stand beside Hazelrig, who stared where the Ryuven had been. “He was quite well-spoken, for what he is. Showed a proper respect to you and all.”
Hazelrig did not answer.
“And ’soats, I don’t know if I could have reprimanded Pairvyn ni’Ai.” Kannan chuckled. “You spoke with him as if he were just one of your grey mages. You must have ’nads of brass.”
Hazelrig spoke at last. “Reles’sho said Oniwe’aru would not be attending to ratify the peace.”
“Right. That’s fair enough, as we wouldn’t bring our king out here, either—but he said he was busy, which is odd. What keeps a ruler busy when he needs to be treating for peace?”
Hazelrig licked his lips. “We should find the prince quickly, and have him validate this peace. And we need someone to go to the nearest city and inform the merchants that dall sweetbud will be available for purchase, in limited quantities. The herbalists and healers will fight in the streets for it, but we want a good price, because there must be no question whether the Ryuven can afford our grain. And we need this trade to open tomorrow morning.”
SHIANAN HAD NOT MEANT to sleep, but he woke to voices calling across the ravine. Searchers!
He rose, sword in hand, and checked the prince. Soren was still and pale, but breathing.
Shianan moved down the ravine the way they’d come, where he could hear voices echoing. “Hello!” he shouted.
“Here’s someone!” a voice reported excitedly. Shianan waited as they wound their way to him, lighting the walls distantly and then coming around the last bend with bright torches and shining armor. “Commander Becknam!”
He nodded wearily. “Thank all that’s holy,” he breathed.
“Are you injured? We’re seeking His Highness—”
“He’s there.” Shianan gestured behind him. “Wounded.”
Several men nodded and ran on, and Shianan noted two had poles strapped to their backs. They were prepared for a litter, then. Another remained, looking at him closely. “Here, sir,” he offered, extending a leather bottle. “Something to drink?”
Shianan seized it and gulped eagerly.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’ll be fine. See to the prince.”
“We’ve brought a healer, sir, and there’s another party on the rim. We’ll have him back for care. If you’re not injured...?”
“I think,” Shianan said, sinking gratefully against a near boulder, “I will sit here while you see to the prince.”
SOREN DID NOT WAKE under the care of the camp healers or the three healing amulets they strapped to him. He was promptly rushed to Alham, drawn by rotating teams of the fastest slaves while others suspended his litter in the wagon, absorbing the worst of the rattling shocks.
It was not Soren, then, but Grand Chancellor Uilleam who approved and signed the hasty peace, agreeing to a treaty of trial. The Ryuven would bring the precious herb for market, and they would purchase foodstuffs at the same time. Soldiers would see that there was no disturbance in the market area and that the Ryuven had a fair chance to purchase goods just as any merchant. The truce would last four weeks, and then the leaders would consult as to its success.
Shianan learned this when he finally hiked back to camp, all his body aching. He accepted the news, stumbled into his tent, and wished fervently for a warm bath.
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