by John Marco
"If I'm going to help you, you'll have to try and trust me."
"Help me?" asked the girl. "Why should you do that? You have already gotten what you want from me."
The words stung but Richius tried not to show it. "Please," he coaxed. "It's not as hard as you think. Why don't you tell me about your name again? Why did your father give you a Naren name?"
The woman's lips twisted in hesitation, and it seemed to Richius she was considering his inquiry with unnecessary care. Finally she answered, "My father believed Nar and Lucel-Lor would be allies one day. He gave all his children names that would be acceptable in the Empire, so we could live among them and not be different."
"Really? Then he was a supporter of the Daegog." Richius chuckled. "You see? You and I aren't so different. Where's your father now?"
"Dead."
Richius' smile vanished. "I'm sorry."
"Do not be. It was Tharn who killed my father, not Narens."
"Is that why you want to leave?" asked Richius. "Because you're afraid of Tharn?"
"I have been on the run from him since the revolution started. That is when he killed my father. You know about the Drol, yes?"
"Not a lot. I know they're zealots. And I know they hate Nar and the Daegog. That's why they fight, to rid Lucel-Lor of Naren influence."
"You are mostly right. The Drol are zealots. And anyone who disagrees with them is their enemy. My father was loyal to the Daegog. He helped the Daegog open up our country to your Empire."
"And for that Tharn killed him?"
"There is more," said Dyana gravely. "My father was a very powerful man. So too was Tharn's father. We were both very young when our parents pledged us to each other."
"Your father betrothed you to Tharn? How could he do that?"
Dyana shrugged. "As I said, it was long ago. No one knew what Tharn would become. He was not Drol then. My father thought he was making a good marriage for me. He thought Tharn would be a leader someday, someone who could help Nar and Lucel-Lor come together. But later, when the revolution started, my father stayed loyal to the Daegog. He and Tharn became enemies. That is when he broke his pledge to give me to Tharn."
"And that's when Tharn murdered your father."
Dyana nodded. "I have been running from him ever since. He still believes my father's vow binds me to him. If he finds me, he will kill me or force me to marry him. Now do you see why I must get to Nar? I have heard that the Daegog has already fallen. If that is true then Tharn will rule Lucel-Lor. There will be nowhere here for me to hide." She looked down at herself, at her scantily covered legs, and a shadow of disgust passed over her face. "I have not done this to myself because I am hungry or afraid. I am still Triin. But I have no other way to escape him."
"But why are you alone? Don't you have any other family? What about your mother?"
"My mother left my father years ago. She was devout. She believed like the Drol that Nar was evil. One day I woke up and she was gone. I have three sisters that she took with her. I have not seen any of them since." Her expression soured more. "They might be dead, or they might be living among the Drol now, I do not know. But they will not help. And I do not want their help. Only Tendrik can save me."
"No," said Richius. "I have something better for you." He held up his hand, pulled off his ring, and showed it to Dyana. She eyed it curiously.
"What is it?"
"This ring bears the crest of the House of Vantran," he said proudly. "The Vantrans are the rulers of Aramoor. I'm a Vantran."
Dyana was unimpressed. "So?"
Richius reached for her hand. To his surprise she didn't pull away, but let him place the ring in her palm. "My father is the king of Aramoor. If you show him this ring, he'll know I've sent you to him." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "There are men from Aramoor camped just outside the city, friends of mine. They'll be going home soon. I can bring you to them. They'll take you back to Aramoor, protect you on the journey. You'll be safe in my homeland, Dyana. Far safer than you would ever be in Talistan."
Dyana's gray eyes slanted with suspicion. "Why would you do this for me? You don't even know me."
"I know you're alone," said Richius. "I know you need my help."
And I know you're beautiful, he added silently. She was staring at him, looking at him with her astonishing gray eyes, and the same fire that had seized him the night before flared up again. He had felt it when he'd rescued her from Gayle, and again when he saw her in the tavern. Somehow he knew he would never be the same again. And the thought of her leaving the room was unbearable.
"You could go to Aramoor and start a new life there," he said. "Someplace Tharn would never find you."
Dyana's hand closed tightly around the ring. "Aramoor," she echoed. "I do not know that place."
"You don't know Talistan, either," said Richius. "But believe me, mine's the better choice."
"Are you going there, too?"
"No," said Richius sadly. "I can't. I still have men in the valley who need me." Dyana frowned.
"Don't worry," he assured her. "I'll return home when I can."
"If you can," she corrected. "You are going back to Dring, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then you may not return. I know of the war there. It is not safe for you. You should leave with your friends."
"I wish I could," said Richius. "It's too much to explain, but there are reasons I can't go home yet. But you'll see me again."
"And what will become of me in Aramoor?"
"My father will look after you, if you wish it. I admit there's little else for you there, but at least you'll be safe and no one will make demands on you." He looked at her, suddenly understanding the fear she was voicing. "You won't be a slave, Dyana. Not mine or anyone else's. Trust me, please."
"I want to," she said with a hesitant smile. "And it is like my father told me there? Women are free in Aramoor?"
"In Aramoor, yes. But not everywhere in Nar. Your father was both right and wrong about the Empire. There are beautiful places, but there are places you must stay away from. If you ever leave Aramoor, you could be in danger. Triin are not welcome everywhere."
Dyana seemed stunned by this. "No? But your emperor helps the Daegog. He sent you all here. Father told me he was good."
"Your father meant well, but there was a lot about Nar he didn't know. It's true that we of Aramoor are here to help the Daegog, but I think the emperor wants something more from your people, Dyana. He can be a devil."
"You confuse me," said Dyana. "You speak like a Drol now. Do you say Tharn is right?"
"Never," said Richius adamantly. "Tharn is also a devil, to be sure. It's just that the world outside of Lucel-Lor may not be what you expect. Nar can be difficult. But life in Aramoor is good. You'll be safe there. And happy, I hope."
"Then I want to go to Aramoor," declared Dyana. "You are not like Tendrik. I... I will trust you."
Richius had an overwhelming urge to touch her, but he fought the impulse. Instead he watched Dyana examine the ring. Even in the weak light it twinkled, and he could tell she was enthralled by it. Small wonder, he thought. That ring was her passage to freedom.
"I will take you to Edgard in the morning," said Richius. "He'll probably be leaving for Aramoor soon."
Dyana frowned. "What will I tell Tendrik?"
"Don't tell him anything. He's already been well paid for you, Dyana. I don't think he would dare come after you. Now, you should finish your dinner. And when you're done we can go upstairs."
"Upstairs? Why?"
"Just to talk," he assured her. "And so you can get a good night's sleep. You'll need it. It's a long way through the Run."
"But there is only one bed," she protested. "A small one."
"There's also a chair," said Richius. "I'll sit there all night and watch over you."
Dyana laughed, and the sound of it was musical. "You are a strange man, Richius Vantran."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"I'm not a coward, Edg
ard," said Dinadin thickly. "I never have been."
He looked at the old man's face, scarred now from the things he had seen, and remembered a time when the war duke of Aramoor was vital and invincible. Dinadin and Richius had both been boys then, playing around Edgard's legs and dreaming of the day they could be like him. But he had changed. They had all changed, because war had a way of destroying more than just bodies and buildings. War made men ugly and atrophied courage. War could turn friends into enemies.
Edgard leaned back on his chair and held his glass under his chin. Outside his tent, the camp had quieted to a breezy murmur. It would be dawn soon, but the moon still hung in the sky and shone through the threadbare fabric of the pavilion. The beams mingled with the orange torchlight, making the wine look black and Edgard's visage ancient. Dinadin had drained his glass more times than he could count, and his head swam on his shoulders. But the last decanter was empty, and all that was left of the stuff was the few mouthfuls still left in Edgard's goblet.
"I know you're not a coward," said Edgard. "It takes a brave pair to do what we're doing."
"Then why do I feel like one?" asked Dinadin. "I know it's the right thing to do. The war in Dring is lost, surely. We would be fools to stay. Richius is a fool to stay."
"We've been through this," Edgard said. "You're abandoning a friend. That's never easy. I left Kronin at Mount Godon. And I regret that. But it had to be that way. Blackwood Gayle couldn't see it, and neither can Richius. But that doesn't make Richius a fool, Dinadin. Be careful."
"I'm sorry," replied Dinadin sadly. "I shouldn't have said that."
He got up from his seat and strode over to the tent flap. Pulling it aside, he peered out into the darkness. The night was cool on his face and the fresh air felt good. A million stars burned in the sky. Off in the distance, the city of beggars was asleep, a graveyard of neglected buildings, while throughout the camp Edgard's exhausted horsemen slumbered on bulging saddlebags and mumbled to themselves as they dreamed dark dreams.
Exhausted and a little drunk, Dinadin's mind began to wander. He thought of his father and of Alain, his little brother, both back at home and wondering what had become of him. His father had warned him about the Triin, that they were inscrutable devils who deserved to be shunned by the Empire, and who would very likely bring even Arkus to ruin. This was a place of magic and evil, his father had claimed, and as Dinadin traced his gaze over the horizon he puzzled over those words and over his place in the emperor's scheme. When he was a boy, he had been fascinated by this land of mystery. He had thought that one day he and Richius would come here together as adventurers or fortune-seekers, and learn its sorcery for themselves. But he was older now, and no longer saw magic here, only blackness and death. In an odd sense, his father had been right about the Triin. This whole bloody business had been ruinous.
"I'm tired," Dinadin said, mostly to himself. "I'm going now."
"Get some rest," said Edgard. He stretched his neck with a popping sound. "I think I should do the same."
"Good night, Edgard," said Dinadin, but before he could leave the duke called after him.
"Dinadin, wait."
"Yes?"
"I've known you a long time," said the old man. "And I've known your family. There's not a coward among you."
Dinadin forced a smile. "Thanks," he said weakly, then turned and left the tent.
He wandered through the camp, tiptoeing past the sleeping men and the sentries posted haphazardly on the grounds. He was hungry, and the lack of food had caused the wine to ricochet straight into his brain so that he tottered a bit as he walked. A cold breeze stirred through the camp, making him shiver, and he suddenly realized he had nowhere to go. All that he had was his horse, so he headed toward the makeshift stable. There, across the camp, he found the tending boy asleep against a crate full of feed. There were blankets and bridles strewn about, making it easy to trip, so he walked as carefully as his wine-soaked brain would allow. His horse was there, droopy-eyed and waiting for him. He passed the boy soundlessly and undid the horse's reins.
"Hello, my friend," he whispered into the gelding's ear. The horse perked up at the sound of his voice, cheering Dinadin a bit. The House of Lotts were the finest horse breeders in Aramoor, perhaps the finest in all of northern Nar. It would be good to be home again, if only to see the rolling hills of his father's estate. There would be a banquet when he came home; his father had promised him that when he'd left. His brothers would be there, and his mother would cook for them and invite all their relatives and friends.
Dinadin's mood abruptly shattered. Not all his friends would be there. Some were dead. Others were still in Dring. And of course Richius couldn't attend. It occurred to him suddenly that he might never see that particular friend again. They would never again ride through Aramoor's exquisite forests or argue about horses. There would be no more hunting, no more roasting the venison they had caught. Aramoor wouldn't be the same without Richius. It wouldn't really be home at all.
"Oh, God," he groaned softly. "What shall I do?"
Dinadin led the horse out of the stable. There was no saddle on the beast but the rest of the tack was in place, and as he passed by the sleeping stableboy he stole a dingy blanket from the ground and draped it over the horse's back. He could ride bareback for a time, just long enough to get some air and think. He wanted to get away from the stink of the camp, to be alone with the dying moonlight before he left the horrid place forever. So he mounted his horse and rode, heading south toward the Sheaze River, and the horse quickly broke into a gallop, letting the camp drop away behind them.
Soon the ebbing night enveloped them, and all the majesty of heaven broke out above them. Dinadin slowed the horse to a trot. He gazed up at the roof of the world, feeling dwarfed by its vastness. The stars were brilliant here, floating magically like distant fireflies. Crimson splashes speckled the east, heralding the coming dawn. Dinadin felt weightless, bodiless. Free at last. He thought of heading west without Edgard, of going through the Run without the old duke and his wretched brigade. He didn't want to wait, he wanted to see his family now.
"I'm alive!" he shouted to the endless sky, and laughed. He loved Richius but he loved life more, and now that it was his again he would never give it up. Let Arkus come for him, he would be ready. The emperor would have to find him first.
For long moments he sat there atop his silent steed, all alone in the universe. He wasn't a coward. He knew he'd done his best. It just wasn't his war anymore.
"We're going home," he said to the horse. "When we get there we're going to ride and be free and--"
A burst of lightning froze his words. He scanned the horizon; the sun was coming up. There was another blast, silent but shocking, a blue flash that lit up the sky. He squinted into the burning crimson at the world's edge, and saw what looked like a purple mist crawling out of the east.
"Lord Almighty," he whispered, and a memory came slamming back into his mind. Dinadin spun his horse around and kicked his heels into the beast's side. He didn't head for the camp of the Dragon Flag, but instead flew westward, toward the city of beggars and Richius.
At dawn, Richius' eyes popped open. His back ached from sleeping in the chair, but when he saw Dyana still asleep in the bed, resting like a beautiful child, the pain in his body melted away. The room's ratty curtains were drawn, but she was no less lovely in the darkness. And she had not left him, but had stayed safe under his watchful gaze.
True to his word, he had not touched her. He hadn't even given into the impulse to brush by her. Her trust in him was tenuous, and he knew the slightest violation would destroy it forever. So they had retired to his room and simply talked, and it was the most romantic evening of Richius' life. She told him more about her father, and how he had taught her to speak Naren. In return he told her how his own father had abandoned him in Lucel-Lor.
Not long past midnight she had drifted off to sleep, just as Richius was telling her about Dinadin. Since it was not a part
icularly comfortable subject, it hadn't bothered him to lose his audience. Dyana slept peacefully, except for a brief, episodic nightmare that made her cry out. But the nightmare had been blessedly brief, and Dyana had quickly fallen back into a deep slumber. Richius, exhausted himself, found the little chair suitable enough for a doze. It had taken him hours to stop looking at her, but when he finally did, he slept, and had only awakened when the first rays of ragged sunlight wandered into their little hideaway.
My father will love her, he thought. He'll look after her, and she'll be happy there.
Happy and safe. It was all he wanted for her. She was the one thing here he could do right, the one person he could save. Jimsin and Lonal and all the others had died on his watch. But not her. In time, she might even love him, but that was hoping too much. He still had a war to fight, and if he came back at all he might be maimed like Edgard, or mad like Blackwood Gayle. If he wasn't careful, the war would smother what was left of his humanity.
He yawned, louder than he wanted to, and the sound of it awakened her. Her gray eyes opened.
"Morning," he said cheerfully. It was her turn to yawn. "Is it?" she asked. "The night went fast. Did you sleep?"
"A bit."
Dyana sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her dress had hiked up during the night. Richius politely looked away.
"I'll take you to Edgard today," he said. "This morning, after we eat something. Do you think Tendrik has anything for breakfast?"
Before she could answer, there was a wild thundering at the door. They both jumped at the sound. Richius spied his sword and belt under the bed. He was halfway to it when he heard Dinadin's familiar voice.
"Richius! Are you in there?"
"Who is that?" asked Dyana. Richius laughed.
"Don't worry. That's Dinadin!""
"Richius, open up!" Dinadin clamored. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He started pounding on the door. Richius hurried to the door and undid the latch. When he opened it Dinadin stumbled into the chamber. He was sweating profusely and reeked of liquor. Richius put a hand to his nose.
