by Melanie Rawn
“No dragonhide?” Rohan asked. Killing dragons had been forbidden for over thirty years, but when a corpse was found—usually in the Desert or the Catha Hills—the hide was stripped and fashioned into gloves, boots, and riding leathers. The scarcity of the material made for soaring prices.
“None. But perhaps it’s even more costly for them than it is for us, and these were only common soldiers, not even mounted. They also wear a kind of badge on their tunics—a jagged red slash embroidered on black. Tilal said it reminded him of a lightning bolt. He thinks it may have to do with the Storm God.” Pol shrugged. “I think that’s reaching a little.”
“So do I,” Sioned agreed. “If they’re allied with the diarmadh’im, their deity is this mysterious, so-called Nameless One.”
Chay asked, “What about weapons? Good manufacture on the steel?”
“Tilal didn’t mention it, so I assume he found nothing out of the ordinary by our standards.”
“He would’ve noticed. Tilal’s a smart boy.”
With a sly glance at his father, Pol quoted him: “‘Observe everything; it saves you the embarrassment of having someone else point it out to you later.’”
Rohan smiled. “Yes, he learned that lesson well, didn’t he? What was the second thing?”
The spark of amusement in Pol’s eyes turned to cold anger. “The two scouts had been tortured. We have no language in common. Whatever they said wouldn’t have been understood. Yet they were tortured. For pleasure.”
“Barbaric,” Maarken said, his lips curling with revulsion.
“Tilal’s exact word,” Pol agreed.
“We learn more and more about the enemy,” Rohan said after a moment. “I wonder what they’ve learned about us?”
“Not as much as they will learn in the near future,” Kazander remarked with a casually ruthless smile.
Until that instant, Pol had seen this strange young man with his flamboyant speech as a kind of Desert curiosity, like the living walls of athsina cactus, big as a dragon and just as deadly, that one encountered sometimes in the north. But now he recognized in Kazander an eagerness to fight that matched his own. He hadn’t felt this way at Radzyn; he had had no time to contemplate any reasons for the change. If he thought about it at all, he ascribed his feelings to anger and outrage and determination that not one more grain of Desert sand would be trod on by enemy feet.
But Rohan’s lifelong habit was to wait patiently for events to develop. Thus Pol didn’t even bother proposing the organization of a force that would take the battle to the enemy. Were this Princemarch, he could have ordered what he pleased. But the Desert belonged to the High Prince. He could contribute his ideas and skills—indeed, Rohan would be both disappointed and insulted if he did not—but he had no authority. Besides, what did he know of war? The other men here had all been in major wars. It was one of the Goddess’ better ironies that Pol could not argue in favor of a battle he knew was necessary because he had scant experience of war. He had acquitted himself well at Radzyn, but one blooding scarcely qualified him to lead an army.
So he kept his own counsel, with a mental note to have a good long talk with Kazander—after making it clear that the korrus’ comments must be couched in less grandiloquent phrasing.
Feylin had drawn them back to the summary of positions, and was saying, “Graypearl is in ruins, and the port town with it. Did the populace get away?”
“I didn’t go looking for them,” Pol said. “But Chadric would never have left if he wasn’t sure that a goodly number of his people had made it to comparative safety.”
“Dorval is a rotten place to fight a war—mostly steep hills meant for sheep and goats, not soldiers.” Walvis pointed to the map. “The enemy has taken the only places they can take, Graypearl and Sandeia, along the coast where it’s relatively easy terrain.”
Sioned asked, “What about Chadric and Audrite? Where are they? Have they landed yet?”
Pol shook his head. “They couldn’t go south, so I warned the Sunrunner at Tiglath to be looking for them. I didn’t spot them today, but then I didn’t have much time for a search.”
“They’re probably hugging the coast,” Walvis said. “There are plenty of little coves to hide in. With Meath incapacitated, they can’t know that the enemy came from the south.”
“But from the northeast to Graypearl,” Maarken reminded him. “A nice piece of confusion, that. And another excellent stratagem by this group’s leader.” His blue eyes narrowed and his voice softened dangerously. “I appreciate Lord Kazander’s idea that we are honored by the quality of our enemies, but I intend to impress some manners on this man—right into his brain on my swordpoint. He entered my house uninvited.”
“Be glad he didn’t burn it to the ground,” Sioned told him. “Now that we’ve accounted for where these people are at the moment, I have a question almost as important—perhaps more so.”
“Where they came from,” Rohan supplied. “Any thoughts?”
“Their clothing is made of material unknown to us,” Walvis began. “And they make a leather out of hide we can’t identify.”
“The beards seem to indicate full warrior status—particularly when the decoration is a Sunrunner’s ring instead of gold beads.” Feylin wrote as she talked, then glanced up. “Did you get accurate descriptions of those sixteen different banners, Pol?” When he shook his head, she told him, “Get them for me tomorrow, please. I’ll leave a space in my notes.”
“What else about them physically?” Rohan prompted. “They’re dark—hair, eyes, skin—but not the taze-brown of a full-blooded Fironese like Morwenna, for instance. There’s a reddish cast to their skin.”
“They’re big,” Maarken said succinctly.
“You should know,” Walvis commented. “You studied them at sword-length from dawn until well after noon.”
“Closer study than was comfortable,” Maarken answered, flexing his still bandaged wrist. “They shout ‘diarmadh’im’ as a battle cry, the way we use the name of our holding or our prince. Their forging skills are equal to ours.”
“They torture for amusement,” Pol added.
Maarken nodded, continuing, “They’re ruthless, merciless, barbaric—”
“And will probably receive help soon from their Merida brethren.”
Chay’s words stopped everyone’s breath for a moment. Rohan recovered first. “Say that again,” he ordered quietly.
“It was part of Andry’s vision.” He met Rohan’s gaze and no one else’s. “He didn’t elaborate on what exactly he saw. But he was positive these people are Merida, or their close kin. I judge them to be the latter, since they don’t fit the standard Merida physical type—they’re bigger, and there’s that reddish tint to their skins that you mentioned. Besides, who else is known to have been allied to sorcerers? The Merida were their assassins.”
“That’s why they use that battle cry,” Pol murmured.
“Ruthless, merciless, barbaric . . . .” Rohan stroked the edge of the parchment map. It happened to be the section labeled Cunaxa. “Yes, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Kazander rose abruptly to his feet. “My prince, I beg you will allow me to slaughter them for you! Their heads, their hands, or their eyes, whichever your grace desires me to bring back as proof—”
“Sit down, Kazander,” Feylin snapped.
“The Merida are enemies of the Isulk’im even more than they are the enemies of the High Prince,” the korrus said through his teeth.
“I’m from the north,” she shot back. “I know what they are.”
“Then you of all people—”
“Lord Kazander.”
Pol watched his father capture and hold Kazander’s fiery gaze. The struggle of wills was brief—and ended in Rohan’s favor, as always. Pol had lost count of how many times he’d seen this done; it never failed to amaze him that this man could master anyone using only his eyes.
Kazander bowed low and resumed his chair. “It shall be as his
grace commands,” he breathed. “I crave pardon.”
Sioned tactfully resumed the main discussion. “Even if these people are kin to the Merida, we still have no idea where they come from. We don’t even know what they call themselves.”
“Ah, but we do,” Pol said, leaning forward. “Mirsath heard Patwin give them a name. ‘Vellant’im.”
“It sounds like our old language,” Rohan said, frowning. “But is it? What are the possible meanings?”
Pol had seen this countless times, too—his father presenting a problem, then sitting back to listen while others tried to solve it for him. “Never do yourself what you can get other people who know more about it to do for you.” The speculations and suggestions came from other people—but the decisions were always Rohan’s.
“Vellant’im,” Sioned echoed thoughtfully, drawing the word out into its probable components. “Vel is sword. The ’im signals a plural.”
“They’ve got a lot of swords, all right,” Walvis sighed. “Kazander, you speak the old tongue rather well. What do you think?”
“I use it in songs to delight ladies—and in phrases designed to insult Merida. Vellant’im,” he repeated thoughtfully. “If the t is a corruption, then I make the name ‘sword-born.’”
“But lante means mountain,” Pol put in. “‘Sword mountains’?”
“Perhaps a clue to their lands,” Rohan said. “Lord Kazander’s idea makes their name a self-description—and, as Walvis pointed out, it’s certainly apt. Pol’s translation could identify their home. Mountains that resemble a rack of swords—or mountains with deposits of iron from which to make swords?”
Chay cleared his throat. “I know of nothing in any tales or legends that corresponds to either. Any of you?” Heads were shaken. Chay went on, “My verdict is to accept both translations—and I have no doubt that one of them is correct. After all, they use the name of sorcerers readily enough.”
“Yes,” Rohan murmured. “They use the name of sorcerers.”
No one said anything for several moments. Pol shifted uneasily, as unwilling as the others to break the silence. Feylin did it for him.
“As a battle cry, you said. Then why have there been no spells? Why no word of sorcerers here rising in their support? And why haven’t the Merida vermin come down from Cunaxa to join them?”
“You ask the most awkward questions,” Walvis complained. “Someone’s got to, I suppose. I don’t know anything about magic, but it’s possible the diarmadh’im are massing in secret. The Sunrunners can’t keep an eye on every mountain and hollow in the Veresch. Besides, when they came to support Chiana years ago, they hid well enough. It was only by accident that Donato discovered them.”
“Perhaps they just don’t know yet,” Pol said, then felt foolish when his mother stared at him. “It’s possible,” he defended. “If they live isolated, then it could take some time to get word to them—even on starshine. And we’ve seen nothing to indicate that there are any sorcerers with the Vellant’im. Maybe there aren’t. Maybe they’re like the Merida in that, too—doing diarmadhi bidding but powerless themselves.”
Rohan nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. It fits . . . but there’s an itch in the back of my mind that says we’re missing something.”
“Sleep,” Chay stated firmly. “We’ll start this again tomorrow.”
Nothing had been solved, as Rohan pointed out to Sioned in their chambers, but at least matters had been clarified.
“But—that Kazander!” He stirred up the fire in the hearth and added another log. Not of fragrant pine or oak; there was none to be had here. Remagev burned the woody husks of the gigantic pemida cactus for warmth on cold nights. “His spirit pleases me, but I’d feel better if he didn’t remind me so much of a stallion who’s never known a bridle.”
Sioned climbed into bed and pulled up the quilt. “You’ve got the feel of it right, but the image wrong. He’s like a hatchling dragon all grown up, but nobody ever told him he shouldn’t still be able to breathe fire.”
“Hmm. I wonder what the dragons will make of all this. Pol’s Azhdeen was right about the ships, it seems. Did he see them coming, or do dragons have dreams of the future, too?”
“Andry knew, and told us nothing,” she said slowly. “How could he betray—”
“He told his father. Who didn’t believe him. That’s not betrayal, Sioned.”
“And does he now sit at Goddess Keep with a nasty smile on his face because he was right?”
“If you hold onto that attitude, you’ll never be able to speak with him tomorrow.”
She propped herself on her elbows, long hair streaming around her. “No! I won’t do it! Tell Maarken or Hollis—”
“Maarken and Hollis aren’t the High Princess. I’d do it myself if I knew how. You’re the one who’ll have to do the Sunrunning.”
“On bent knee, with head bowed, begging to kiss his rings?” she snarled.
“Think it over,” he advised. “I’m just going to look in on Tobin.”
“Rohan, I won’t!”
He gave her a small, knowing smile, despite the certainty that it would infuriate her, and left the room. Down the hall, Chay was about to get into bed beside Tobin, who was asleep.
“Shh—don’t wake her,” he whispered. “We can talk in the hall.”
Rohan retraced his steps and they stood in the chill corridor. Guards walked the watch nearby, constantly pacing to keep their blood warm.
“What is it?” Chay asked impatiently. “Did Sioned kick you out? I know a bath every day isn’t possible here, but surely you don’t stink that bad.”
“It’s my plans she doesn’t like, not my person.” He explained his recent conversation with her, and Chay gave a low whistle.
“She may come around by morning—and then again, she may not. You should’ve been more subtle, Rohan.”
“I’m afraid it’s past time for that with Andry. But it’s really your other son I wanted to talk about.”
“I know.”
“Know what?”
A stamping of cold bare feet, an irritated sigh. “That Maarken’s got to have the title as well as the duties. I knew it while we were watching from the tower at Radzyn. Give me another title or none at all, it doesn’t matter to me. But you have to name Maarken Battle Commander in his own right.”
Rohan repressed his own sigh, one of relief. “For three reasons. First, the one you mentioned. Everyone must look to him first, not you or me or even Pol. Second, because he merits it. Third, because a public ceremony is the best sort of gathering right now—and honoring Maarken will be a popular move as well as a smart one. We need something to draw us all together.”
“Two more reasons,” Chay said, a faint grin curving his mouth. “I’m too damned old to play these games anymore, and we all know it. And last but vitally important—Maarken needs the advantage with Andry that the rank will give him.”
“I should have known I couldn’t sneak that past you.”
“You’ve taught me some disgusting habits over the years, too, you know. I never used to think so much.”
“You always saw things for what they were. It was you who taught me to see reality instead of just my dreams.”
“Your dreams changed things. My reality never could have.” The grin widened. “Are we going to stand here complimenting each other all night while we freeze to death?”
Rohan laughed. “Situation desperate, feet turning to ice—why are these two idiots smiling?” he teased, and gave Chay a shove back toward his door. In his own chamber again, he saw that Sioned was pretending to be asleep. Just as well. He slid into bed beside her and lay on his back, watching the fire-thrown shadows on the ceiling.
Chapter Fourteen
A forced march had brought Tilal and his family to Kadar Water in excellent time. Lord Kolya, knowing his immediate need must be for a Sunrunner, sent his out to meet Tilal with the news that the entire holding was at his disposal. There was other news, too, after the farad
hi spoke with Pol at Remagev and reported all that Tilal had heard and observed and done.
“Radzyn taken—I can’t believe it,” he murmured to Gemma as they rode into Kadar Water.
“Not for long, if I know Lord Chaynal,” she replied, and he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. There would be no quickness about any of this, no speedy resolution or retaking or routing of the enemy—and he wondered if he’d see his beloved Athmyr before spring.
He stayed one night at the holding and didn’t sleep much. The gentle lap of the lake three floors below his bedchamber windows had a maddeningly irregular rhythm. When a drizzling rain began before dawn, he vowed that in no home he ever owned would he endure a tin roof. It would have been rude to rise before his host and thereby hint that the accommodations were not to his pleasure. So he left Gemma to sleep on and spread out a map before the hearth, huddling into a heavy, loose-woven wool blanket and making notes.
“What are you doing?”
He turned and smiled at the sight of his usually immaculate wife, rumpled and blinking in the rainy dawn. She was all sleepy velvet-brown eyes and vivid dark-auburn hair. The streak of white that had grown in before she turned thirty nearly vanished in this light.
“And don’t tell me to go back to sleep, either,” she added before he could say anything. Rising, she dragged the quilt off the bed and came toward him. “Maps again? Where do you plan to do battle?”
“That’s just what I was trying to figure out. Torhald, south of Athmyr, would be all right, but I don’t want to lure them that far from the Pyrme. They don’t seem interested in Ossetia for now—thank the Goddess.”
