by Melanie Rawn
“This isn’t a bad place for a pitched battle,” Chay remarked. “We’d have the advantage of position, and the morning sun glaring right into their eyes.”
“So I always teach,” Walvis said. “And we’ve got a tidy force at our disposal. My group and those you brought from Radzyn, plus Kazander’s wild men. We ought to do very well.”
Rohan kicked at a loose stone.
“Those wooden things of theirs puzzle me, though,” Chay went on. “Like long carts with movable pieces. Seems they brought the basics with them, wheels and so forth. Hollis says they’re putting two horses each between the shafts.”
Radzyn horses, pulling carts. That almost hurt worse than thinking of the enemy in their saddles.
“Do you suppose they simply mean to travel in comfort, and then jump off when they do battle with us?”
Rohan glanced at Walvis. “I’m no military man, either. But I don’t like this. They wouldn’t bother bringing wheels all this way and then spend time assembling those contraptions—whatever they are—unless they’re important.”
“And you don’t want to come up against them?” Chay asked.
“Not if I can help it. Not without twice the number of troops we’ve got now. I can’t call Tallain down from the north, not if the Merida are involved. I’ve got a nasty feeling—and he agrees with me—that they’ll break out of Cunaxa soon.”
“Prince Miyon—” Walvis began, then stopped.
Chay snorted. “Question and answer in a single name.”
Rohan barely heard them. “I can’t pull people from Stronghold or Skybowl. Help from the west is impossible, at least until Kostas retakes the Catha and turns north, then comes back down the Faolain. I can’t blame him for wanting to clean up Syr first, but it does leave me in something of a bind.”
“You could order him to it,” Chay said.
“But you won’t,” Walvis added. “The enemy controls nearly all Syr and Gilad. We’ve only lost our coast.”
“Exactly. So I have what I have and must make do.” He watched a pair of hawks circle in the brassy sky. “I have the Desert,” he murmured. “That’s more than the rest of them have. Another sandstorm’s coming—I can taste it. But by winter there’ll be only the day’s heat and the night’s cold to slow them down. Everything tells me I have to make a stand here. I have to choose battle. Kill as many of them as possible. Save Remagev as I could not save Radzyn—”
“Don’t start,” Chay warned. “I won’t have you blaming yourself for that, my prince.”
Rohan smiled briefly. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Would you prefer Kazander’s style?” He clasped his hands to his breast and intoned piously, “O Most Great and Noble and Wise High Prince, Lord of Dragons, Whom the Sun Bathes in Gold and Glory—”
Rohan knew he was being maneuvered into laughter, and was glad to oblige. “Please! I’ve just managed to get him down to the occasional ‘great’ and ‘wise’—don’t you dare encourage him!”
• • •
“Remember what I told you back home, lamb. You must be very good and very quiet, and do just as you’re told.”
“But I’ve been good, Lady Cluthine. Where’s my surprise?”
Rialt paused in his circuit of the campfires at hearing his son’s voice, a slight smile easing the grimness of his expression. At barely four, Polev knew a bargain when he heard one. His silk merchant grandparents would have been proud of him.
Cluthine, granddaughter of Clutha of Meadowlord and niece of the current ruling prince, was laughing at the child’s demand. But Rialt heard the strain in her voice. She had not been well this year, and the flight from Waes would do her no good.
“So you’re holding me to the contract, are you?” she asked the child in playful tones. “Well, you may have your surprise tomorrow.”
“Why not now?”
“Because it’s late, and time to sleep.”
“But Mama hasn’t tucked me in. And I’m not tired.”
Cluthine sighed. “Don’t you remember about being very quiet? Don’t you want to hear the stars talk to each other on the wind?” Her gentle voice fell to a soothing murmur. “Listen, Polev, and you can hear them. The moonlight all silver and mysterious, the stars whispering . . . .”
Knowing his son’s sleep would be watched over by a loving friend, Rialt walked on to where his wife was readying a bed of blankets. Her thick black braid fell over a shoulder, and as she tossed it back she glanced up.
“It’s not much,” she apologized, gesturing to the bed.
Amused, he replied, “Did you think I expected silk sheets?”
“I promised when we married that I’d be the best wife in the world.”
“You are, Mevita. But I haven’t made it easy the past two days, have I?”
“That’s not your fault.” She sat down cross-legged. “Will we reach Swalekeep tomorrow?”
“Barring any unpleasant surprises.”
“If only Cluthine and I hadn’t sent our best jewels to be cleaned,” she fretted. “I could have bought you and Polev a decent place to sleep tonight. Why did you have to be so silly about not selling my wedding necklet?”
“I’ll part with all my gold before I’ll let you part with that.” He crouched beside her and warmed her hands between his own.
“If it can gain us food and fresh horses, and you a good night’s sleep, I’d consider it well lost. You’ll have to save the gold for Chiana and Halian.”
“Thina doesn’t think so.”
Mevita shrugged. “She’s an innocent. She believes they’ll be overjoyed to shelter us.”
“Halian will, anyway. He’s fond of his niece.” He squinted into the starry sky knowing that by morning clouds would blow inland from Brochwell Bay. Storms this time of year held pretty much to a five-day cycle; tomorrow would see another downpour. He hoped it wouldn’t come until late afternoon, when, with luck, they should be at Swalekeep.
He had no illusions about the welcome he himself would receive. Halian had never appreciated Rohan’s making Waes a free city, subject only to the High Prince. Chiana had never appreciated Rialt’s close ties to Pol—the usurper who ruled in what she considered her son Rinhoel’s rightful place. But at least Halian liked Cluthine, for all that she had chosen to stay on at Waes when her mother, the former regent and Halian’s sister, died. And their party had another asset in Princess Naydra. Chiana could scarcely refuse to receive her eldest surviving half-sister.
He said as much, and Mevita nodded. “She won’t have any choice. It galls me, though. She always treats you like a peasant.”
“Well, for all my courtesy title, I was born only a few steps above peasant on the social scale.” Rialt kissed her fingers. “I don’t care how she treats us, so long as she gives us a roof over our heads until we can start for Dragon’s Rest. How’s Naydra?”
“As well as you could expect. Narat’s ashes are barely cold.” Mevita gave him a sudden, quick embrace. Just as abruptly she drew away and jumped to her feet. “If I don’t kiss Polev good night, he’ll never go to sleep.”
After six years of marriage, Rialt was accustomed to his wife’s ways. The more deeply she was moved, the more hurried and brusque the expression of what she felt. Usually she was as quiet and steady as a hearthfire. But her feelings were sometimes like the powders tossed on flames that caused surges of color.
Rialt spared a smile and a shake of the head for Mevita’s idiosyncrasies, then rose to complete his inspection of the camp. It was cold, and he stuck his chilled fingers in his pockets. His right hand encountered the little silver dragon Pol had given Mevita on the birth of his namesake. The hinged neck had opened to reveal a delicate amethyst bracelet coiled within the dragon’s body. It was the only thing besides clothes and his wedding necklet that he had taken from their private chamber in the residence in Waes.
Fully six hundred people were in his keeping on this journey to Swalekeep. Despite the speed of the city’s evac
uation, all had been done with tolerable efficiency. Determined on order, Rialt’s commands had been backed up by sword-bearing guards. He was no fool; he knew what panic had been inspired by the disasters in the south. The only choice he gave his people was where they would go: east with him to Swalekeep, southeast to Prince Velden’s Summer River, or due south to Kadar Water. Communication arranged through Goddess Keep would warn of the arrival of refugees from Waes. There was no way to inform Chiana—the victim of sorcery nine years ago and now half-frantic in the mere presence of faradh’im, she had thrown her court Sunrunner out. Her privilege, of course—Miyon of Cunaxa felt the same way—but damned inconvenient.
Then again, neither Chiana nor Miyon desired Sunrunners to observe and report to Andry, and thence to Pol. They did not understand that the pair did not speak to each other unless absolutely necessary.
War was surely making it necessary. Rialt paced off the perimeter of his camp, pleased that most people had fallen into exhausted sleep watched over by sentries. The last two days had left them in shock. Prince Tilal, marching north, had not been able to arrive before the swift dragon-headed ships. Rialt had recognized the inevitable at once, but fought against it until his faradhi conveyed Lord Chaynal’s brutal judgment: Waes would not last a day. So carts were piled high and plow-elk requisitioned from the fields to pull them. The Waesians left the homes of their ancestors behind, but not intact. Docks, warehouses of food and wool and silk, shops, inns—anything the enemy could use was systematically destroyed. It was the misfortune of the poor that they lived in houses made of wood, not expensive stone. Their parts of Waes were still burning. But the luxurious residences of the merchants and other wealthy denizens of the city were safe—though utterly empty.
“The Lord of Radzyn says that—that they should be encouraged to land here,” the Sunrunner had reported, sickly pale. “They must invest the armies here that could not take Goddess Keep or Kierst-Isel.”
“But what made them turn from the south?” Rialt exclaimed. “They’d sailed around the cape from Goddess Keep—”
“Who can tell what motivates these savages, my lord? The Lord of Radzyn says that when Prince Arlis sails his fleet and Lord Ostvel marches from Castle Crag, the enemy will be crushed between.”
Ambitious, daring—and sure to infuriate Chiana, for Swalekeep was within easy marching distance from Waes. But Chay had counted on that. The threat would encourage her to commit Meadowlord’s troops to save her own skin. It would be Rialt’s job to convince her to do so.
If she deigned to allow him into her presence.
Chiana was as welcoming to the widowed Naydra and as icily condescending to Rialt and Mevita as he’d anticipated. But her fury at their news was worse than he’d thought. He told her and Halian in private about Chay’s plan—all except the part about kicking Chiana into calling up the troops—and was privileged to witness a rage that made even her husband blanch.
When she finally paused for breath, Rialt bowed and murmured, “Be that as it may, your grace, I respectfully but strongly urge that at the very least, you have your people see to the gaps in your walls.”
With that, he retired to the small chamber he would share with his wife and son—not quite in the servant’s wing of the keep. The windows overlooked a rainy street just beyond the low walls. A copper pot in the middle of the threadbare rug testified to a leaky roof. Naydra and Cluthine had naturally been given suites; Rialt’s Sunrunner had been shown the door and told she must find lodging with the other Waesians somewhere in town.
“Your ears look bruised,” Mevita remarked on seeing him.
“She has a powerful voice, does her grace of Meadowlord.” He sat down in a rickety chair, winced as it squeaked, and took his son onto his knee. “Well, was your surprise worth the trip?”
“I have a new pony! Lady Cluthine and Princess Naydra showed him to me before the rain started. His nose is all white, like he dipped it in a bowl of moonlight, Naydra says. And there’s a big garden here, Papa, much bigger than at home. But I miss the sea.”
“So do I. We’ll go back to Waes as soon as we can. I’m glad you like your pony.” He reminded himself to thank Cluthine.
“Run have your dinner, button,” Mevita said, plucking the boy off Rialt’s lap and setting him on his feet. “Do you remember the way to the hall?”
“Of course I do,” Polev affirmed, and scampered off.
“The hall?” Rialt asked.
“Chiana might want to feed him in the kitchens, but he’s your son, not a servant. He’ll eat in the hall—and at the high table, too.”
He grinned. “I suspect, my dear, that you’re a snob.”
“If you promise not to laugh at me, I’ll tell you a secret. On the way here, both Naydra and Cluthine told me to stand up to Chiana. If the High Prince intends her to listen to you, she has to be reminded who you are.”
“We shall prepare to be arrogant and stubborn about our privileges, then—even though there’s very little left of Waes for me to be Lord Regent of,” he added, suddenly tired and depressed.
“Tell me what Chiana said.” Mevita sat on a wooden footstool beside him. “We heard her all the way from Naydra’s chambers—but not the exact words.”
“She has a remarkable vocabulary,” he admitted. “Even Halian looked impressed. But I won’t repeat what she said in the presence of a lady.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t like to say it, but I can see her point. You know there’ve been rumors that she’s going to wait it all out, let everyone else do the fighting, and then start her own war with her own armies fresh.”
“There’ve been other rumors, too. Meadowlord has hardly been touched.”
“That’s strategy. Graypearl, Radzyn, Gilad, Syr—those are the places to take first and hold fast. In twenty or thirty days, Meadowlord will be mostly mud, impossible to fight in.”
“But not impossible to ship supplies from Swalekeep down the Faolain.”
He stared down at her angry dark eyes. “Are you suggesting she’s made an agreement with the enemy? Like Patwin?”
“She yelled for a very long time,” Mevita said shrewdly. “Maybe longer than strictly necessary. And she is Roelstra’s daughter.”
“So is Naydra, and there’s not a vicious bone in her body.”
She gave him a patient sigh. “Rialt, what did they promise Patwin? What could they offer Chiana that she’s wanted forever?”
“A princedom,” he said slowly.
“A specific princedom,” she corrected.
He scrubbed one hand over his face. “My wits are too thick to make any judgments tonight. Let’s go down to dinner. And while I don’t really care if I’m served in the kitchens or outside in the rain, I’ll make the effort and stand on my rights.”
“Oh, you needn’t be obnoxious about it,” she assured him quite seriously. “I’ll do all that for you.”
• • •
At sixteen, Prince Rinhoel of Meadowlord was the spit of his grandfather. The height, the black hair, the proud aristocratic features, the eyes pale green like new leaves—he looked so much like Roelstra, in fact, that people who remembered the late High Prince assigned his character to Rinhoel as well. This was a mistake and an injustice that irritated the youth profoundly. Roelstra, in his view, had been a fool. Rinhoel was anything but.
From his father, Prince Halian, he inherited only the angle of his chin and a taste for luxury—but not its idle enjoyment that made Halian so easy to manage. Outward shows of wealth were to impress and intimidate, though he also appreciated fine things for their beauty and comfort. But for Rinhoel, pleasure consisted of pursuit, conquest, and possession—of coveted toys when he was little, of girls as he grew older, of the knighthood he had not earned, and, increasingly, of power. He prided himself on single-mindedness. Roelstra had directed that quality toward getting a son. Rinhoel shared with his mother a larger goal, one that did not depend on the whims of the
Goddess but rather on their own cunning. They wanted Princemarch.
Chiana had come close nine years ago. She had come even closer to being executed. The assault on Dragon’s Rest might have succeeded, but for sorcery. Still, sorcery had been her salvation as well—she had been its victim, and that was what had saved her from the consequences of her actions. She was reminded of it every time she looked at her hands, scarred by glass shards of a mirror she had been forced to destroy. Terror had made her meek for some years afterward. But with Rinhoel’s approaching manhood, her old ambitions had surged up once more.
Mother and son knew and accepted that they could not gain Princemarch by military conquest, the way Rohan had seized it in the first place. They could not recover it by legal posturings about Rinhoel’s blood claim, even though Chiana had been but six years old when forced to sign a parchment disinheriting herself and all her issue. There was only one way to gain triumphant entry into Castle Crag. Pol had to die.
Thus far he had not obliged.
Roelstra’s daughters had produced other grandsons. Ianthe’s three were dead. Danladi’s son Daniv had been tamed by service as Rohan’s squire, his future as Prince of Syr, and affectionate ties of kinship through Sioned, his father’s aunt. Rohan had made sure that no dangerous dreams festered in Daniv.
And Syr did not border Princemarch. Meadowlord did. With Pol gone, the conveniences of geography would naturally lead the other princes to confirm Rinhoel’s claim instead of Daniv’s—so much tidier. Still, Rinhoel could not take possession until Pol died. Or if he married one of Pol’s daughters.
Jihan and Rislyn were half his age. Years would pass before their marriages would even be considered. Chiana had looked the pair over at the Rialla this summer, deciding that gentle Rislyn was the better prospect. Jihan was too willful. Having settled the question in her own mind, she had informed Rinhoel of his future bride’s identity and instructed him to make himself into everything Pol could wish for his precious little girl. Once they were married, Pol could be discreetly removed and Rinhoel would at last be at Castle Crag in his grandfather’s place.
