by Melanie Rawn
Rohan looked blank for a moment, then chuckled.
Beth went on, “There’s another one about rallying dragons to the defense of a castle by a bard who stood on the battlements howling some song or other.”
“I’m organizing a choir the instant we get home,” Sioned stated. “It probably won’t work on dragons, but it might scare the Vellant’im.”
“I prefer to trust Stronghold’s walls, thanks all the same,” Rohan said.
A pack of about thirty Vellanti warriors was met and discouraged from further pursuit by the remains of the Radzyn guard. Rohan was beside himself when he found out Chay had actually led the assault.
“You senile, old—are you in your dotage? Do you think you’re twenty-two again? What in all Hells possessed you to risk your damnfool neck like that?”
Chay was unimpressed. He flexed his sword arm and commented, “It’s not what it once was, but it still works.”
With an incoherent growl, Rohan rode away to the front of the column. He didn’t know if he was angrier at Chay’s imbecile action or the fact that he could not go and do likewise.
Sioned ventured out on starlight once more, and returned smiling. “Sethric is outdistancing the enemy, Maarken has a good lead—and as for Pol, Azhdeen is flying escort with predictable results!”
Had this been spring or summer, Desert skies would have been thick with dragons. Rohan cursed enemy timing and urged his people to hurry. The carts moved along, filled with wounded and supplies, but who could tell when the Vellant’im would recover from abject terror of dragons and follow at speed?
At dawn Hollis wove sunlight. “Perfect,” she sighed at last, her tired eyes regaining focus. “They seem much more interested in Remagev than in us. But it’s cost them.” She smiled. “Smoke rises from the glassworks and the kitchen. Also from the west entry—but I counted close to a hundred limping back to camp on bloodied feet.”
“So my ingots weren’t destroyed in vain.” Walvis stroked his beard and slanted a sly look at Rohan. “Let’s see—at the price arranged at the Rialla this summer, multiplied by two crates, you owe me—”
Sioned gave a derisive snort. “This from the former squire I had to teach how to count above ten without using his toes?”
“Your glass can wait,” Chay declared. “He’ll pay for my horses first.”
“Not at your prices,” Sioned retorted.
“But what about my ingots?” Walvis asked plaintively.
“And my horses?” Chay demanded.
Dannar and Tobren stared slack-jawed, never having heard such exalted highborns squabble so. It took a few moments for them to notice that the people around them were following the exchange with expectant grins.
“Enough!” Rohan exclaimed. “Or I’ll rewrite your charters, take my castles back, and you can go beg a tent from the Isulk’im!”
“If they’ll have you, which I doubt,” Sioned finished.
It was the signal for everyone to laugh and move on, spreading the tale along the column. Rohan blessed his people for making it so easy for him. Remagev and Radzyn lay abandoned behind them; ahead lay a hard forced march to Stronghold with the enemy in pursuit. Anyone in his right mind would have been terrified. But his people could still laugh. He watched them walk past him with tenderness and pride nearly overflowing his eyes. Sentimental—even foolish, perhaps—but how he loved their refusal to despair.
Their belief in him was harder to observe. Clever, crafty, cunning High Prince. Live up to your reputation, azhrei. It means lives.
• • •
At midmorning Birioc was at last admitted into Princess Chiana’s presence. He came in frowning and prepared to be insulted. Bastard get though she was, still she looked down on others of her kind from her secure position as true ruler of Meadowlord. But she called him “prince” and clasped his hand in both of hers, and sat him beside her on a spindly-legged velvet couch, and poured wine for him with her own hands. He was young enough to be flattered, but old enough to be suspicious. Her hazel eyes were entirely too eager.
Rinhoel, equally welcoming, left them after a few moments to escort in another visitor. While he was gone, Birioc took the opportunity to make his position clear.
“We are totally uninterested in defending other princedoms, your grace. We want back what is ours, and this is our chance.”
“Your aims coincide perfectly with ours, Prince Birioc.” She dimpled charmingly. “We want certain things as well—and the key to obtaining them is the defeat of High Prince Rohan.”
“I’m glad we agree. What do you propose our part to be? Before you answer, I must warn you that even if we were inclined to fight for land not our own, we haven’t enough troops to do so.”
“I appreciate your candor. I will answer with equal honesty. All you must do is to keep Rohan’s northern army occupied. The southern levies have assembled at Stronghold and the Vellant’im will keep them there. You see, what you desire and what we desire is the same thing.”
“Not entirely. We want Tuath and Tiglath back. We want Skybowl and Stronghold.”
“And Feruche?” Her smile grew a trifle fixed.
“And Feruche,” he returned firmly.
“It is part of Princemarch.”
He smiled thinly; his father had told him she would be intractable on the subject of any handspan of Princemarch soil. “It is not negotiable.”
Chiana’s brows quirked down and her lips tightened. Then she smoothed her expression and asked silkily, “I expect you want Radzyn as well? Do you truly expect to hold it?”
“Until it falls into the sea,” he assured her.
“What of Riverport and Lowland?”
Birioc smiled. “You get to the point, don’t you, your grace?”
“There’s very little to be gained by dancing around it, my lord.”
“Riverport and Lowland are negotiable.” He didn’t add that his father had told him to concede everything south of the Long Sand if necessary. Miyon wanted Stronghold as devoutly as Chiana wanted Castle Crag. When one engaged in reshaping princedoms, one could say what one liked. Possession when the dust cleared was what counted.
“We will discuss it further,” Chiana said.
“Oh, yes, we certainly will,” he agreed.
Another tiny frown, another hasty clearing of her expression into amiable lines. “There will be plenty of time once Rohan is gone, after all. We can settle all the little details once he’s dead and Pol with him.”
Birioc nodded.
“Ah,” she said suddenly, rising. “Our other guest has arrived.”
The bronze doors of the presence chamber opened to admit Rinhoel and a man who could have been one of Birioc’s Merida uncles. He felt his jaw drop a little and hastily closed his mouth. The man was tall, with a warrior’s heavy shoulders and lean belly. A lush black beard threaded with dozens of little golden beads covered most of his face, but the sharp nose, wide mouth, and long, dark eyes were Merida. Birioc knew he was staring and couldn’t help it.
“Brother!” the man exclaimed, his accent harsh, the word thick on his tongue. He embraced the startled Birioc so forcefully that the young man was sure his bones would crack.
Chiana and Rinhoel were just as astounded. The big man laughed deep in his chest, his dark eyes gleaming.
“Lost to us generation on generation ago—and now found. Those of the Sacred Glass remember nothing of us. But we remember them.”
“I’m fascinated,” Rinhoel murmured. “Please go on, my lord.”
“Later. Another time.” He made a belated bow to Chiana, raking her appreciatively with his eyes. She blushed. “You barbarians breed fine women. My wives would kill to possess such eyes.”
Flustered, Chiana turned helplessly to her son. “Rinhoel . . . ?”
“Your pardon, Mother. I present to your grace Lord Varek, second battle lord to the High Warlord of the Vellant’im. My lord, you have the honor of being in the presence of the Princess Chiana of Meadowlord.”
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Lord Varek bowed again, than glanced at Birioc, who was having trouble swallowing. “You have heard my name, my brother,” he said shrewdly.
“I—” He gulped. It had been his grandfather’s name. He stammered out as much and Lord Varek nodded.
“And did he die bravely, with his sword in his hand?”
“Y-yes. Against Prince Zehava.”
“Father of this Rohan High Prince. I see. He will die for it,” Varek said with casual certainty. “We are indeed brothers. If my name was your grandfather’s, then one of his sons must have been Beliaev, like my own eldest son.” He frowned in concentration as Birioc gaped. “And his sons—”
“My uncle had no children. He died in battle at Tiglath.”
“Who killed him?”
“Lord Walvis of Remagev.”
Dark brown eyes turned black. “Remagev of the dragon! This Walvis will die, too.”
“My lord,” Rinhoel said, trying to gain control of this bizarre conversation, “this is Prince Birioc, son of Miyon of Cunaxa by a Merida princess.”
“Birioc is the name I would have guessed.” Varek embraced him again. “Tir’deem, our people will have revenge.”
He recognized the word—old language for “my brother.” But how were they brothers? What connected the Merida with these savages?
They all sat down at Chiana’s invitation and she poured wine. The princess grew rapidly more annoyed as Varek ignored her and spoke directly with the men. Birioc found it amusing that Roelstra’s arrogant bastard daughter could not get a word in edgewise.
“The High Warlord says to you, many thanks for food and wine,” Varek began. “The High Warlord says to you, swords and horses would be better.”
“We need them for our own aims,” Rinhoel pointed out.
“Your aims are ours.”
“Not necessarily,” Chiana began, but Varek went on as if she had not spoken.
“Death to Prince Rohan. Death to faradh’im. We want the same.”
Chiana tried again. “Of course, my lord, but—”
“The High Warlord says to you, we will kill Rohan and faradh’im for you if you kill Rohan’s armies in the north.”
“That’s exactly why Prince Birioc is here,” Rinhoel put in. “His father, Prince Miyon, rules Cunaxa. He—”
“I speak for myself, my lord,” Birioc said sharply. “We will take care of the north for certain considerations.”
“And arms? Fine Cunaxan steel?”
Birioc was betrayed into blurting out, “How do you know about—”
Lord Varek gave him a serene smile. “It is a great fool who sails a strange sea without a map.”
“You’ve been here before,” Rinhoel breathed.
“Not I. Others.”
Birioc exchanged an appalled glance with Rinhoel. Chiana cleared her throat and leaned forward.
“Then you know how difficult it will be for you to take Stronghold.”
This time he deigned to hear her. “The High Warlord says to you, give us horses and steel and we will take Stronghold and kill Rohan and his faradhi son.”
“If you want faradh’im, why not take Goddess Keep?” Rinhoel asked.
“They are unimportant.” Varek dismissed them with a wave of a battle-scarred hand.
“I think I understand,” Birioc said slowly. “All the other attacks—they’re designed to keep everyone busy, just as we’re supposed to do in the north. Your real goal is Rohan.”
“Tir’deem, you are wise.” Varek inclined his head and placed both hands to his brow.
“But why?” Chiana demanded. “There’s nothing I’d like to see more, but why the High Prince? What’s so important about him?”
Varek fixed her with a forbidding ice-and-fire gaze. “It is enough that the High Warlord wishes it. Do your servants question you?”
She sucked in a breath. “I am not one of his servants, and I insist upon knowing why you think Rohan is so valuable!”
He flat out ignored her again. Birioc had difficulty restraining laughter as Chiana made the mistake of losing her temper and swept from the room with what he supposed she considered an impressive show of infuriated insult.
Rinhoel seemed torn between outrage that his mother had been slighted and a natural desire to keep vital negotiations going. Birioc was interested to note that the latter won. So, he thought, the whelp is practical, at least.
To Lord Varek he said, “If we come from the north and you from the south, the Desert is ours.”
“There are many other things to consider,” Rinhoel said quellingly. “The Lord of Castle Crag and the Princes of Ossetia and Syr are on the march. My grandsire, Prince Clutha, was right in that Meadowlord is forever the battleground. This time it won’t be. I don’t intend to inherit a ruined princedom.”
“Is Meadowlord what you intend to inherit?” Varek asked, all innocence.
Birioc smiled. This unexpected kinsman was someone he understood, someone he could work with. They would use Chiana and Rinhoel the way Chiana and Rinhoel obviously planned to use them. Neither he nor Varek cared for anything but the deaths of Rohan and Pol. And when it was over, the Vellant’im could have the southern Desert, and welcome. It would be all one, anyway—with the Merida ruling at last. All that remained was for Birioc to force Miyon into naming him heir to Cunaxa. A few battles around Tuath and Tiglath would provide ample opportunity to eliminate his half-brothers. Easy as sliding down a sand dune. He met Varek’s dark eyes, saw them glint above the luxuriant gold-studded beard. Perhaps, Birioc thought, he ought to grow one, too.
• • •
It began to snow in Firon long before the official beginning of winter, drifts piling high and white around Balarat. On the Cunaxan side of the Veresch there was bitter cold and dry frost but only occasional snow, but on the Fironese, horse-high and sometimes even dragon-high drifts numbed and paralyzed the land from late autumn to late spring. People sometimes observed that it was no wonder the Fironese created such marvels in glass. What else had they to do half the year, and what other warmth than their kiln fires?
Idalian of Faolain Riverport regarded this year’s snow as his sworn enemy. The preceding six winters at Balarat as Prince Laric’s squire had seen him at first astounded, then delighted, by the white mantling that offered chilly reminiscence of Desert sand dunes. But this year all of young Prince Tirel’s pleas to come outside and play fell on ears deafened by grief and anger. If not for the snow, he could be traveling south now, to help in the defense of Faolain Lowland and what remained of his family.
Idalian had no idea how long he stayed in his rooms, trying not to remember, trying not to weep, failing miserably at both. Parents, aunt, uncle, cousin, all of them but his brother Mirsath and their cousin Karanaya gone—it was more than he could comprehend. He’d last seen them all six years ago, at his farewell banquet. The hall had glowed with candles and resounded with laughter; minstrels had played, and if Idalian at thirteen had been too young to appreciate the opportunity to dance until midnight, there had been jugglers and mimes enough to occupy a boy’s attention. His father had been near to bursting with pride that his younger son would be squire to a prince—and at the honor of having the High Princess herself present at their table. She had come to add her congratulations on her way home from a visit to Syr.
Sioned had not forgotten him. She had found time in between her heavy responsibilities to send him a message of sympathy and comfort through Balarat’s court Sunrunner. Idalian was grateful, but he could not relate such words to himself. Surely, surely it was impossible that almost his whole family had been wiped out.
Prince Tirel was miserable at his friend’s grief, but he was still just a seven-year-old boy. When his uncle Yarin arrived from Snowcoves, Tirel mostly forgot Idalian’s sorrow in the excitement of showing his cousin Natham all his toys. But one day he came up to the squire’s rooms, just down the hall from his own, and begged to be let in for a talk.
Idalian, who had been sitting
by the windows hating the falling snow, was puzzled by a word the boy used. “Conference? What do you mean, my lord?”
“Isn’t that what they call it when Papa and Mama talk to their ministers?”
“Yes, but I’m only a squire.”
Tirel set his jaw. “When my father is away, I am Prince of Firon. And I can make you my minister if I like.”
Idalian settled the boy into a chair near the fireplace. “This sounds serious. What need do you have of a minister?”
After a quick glance around the empty room, Tirel whispered, “I don’t like my uncle Yarin.”
“Because he makes you keep at your schooling, and won’t let you play with Natham all the time?” He smiled.
The child leaped up, crimson-cheeked, gray eyes flashing. “I’m not joking, Idalian! When I told him that I’m prince when my father isn’t here, he said to go play with the toys he brought me from Snowcoves!”
“You’re very young, Tirel,” Idalian began.
“I thought you were my friend! You sound just like Uncle!”
The boy’s betrayed expression—and the unwelcome comparison to Lord Yarin, whom Idalian didn’t much like either—startled him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Tirel stated. “And anyway, I’m not too young to know that Arpali isn’t really sick, like my uncle says!”
“What?”
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” Tirel said in peevish tones. “You don’t know what’s going on here. I wanted Arpali to send a message to Dragon’s Rest to let Mama know I’m all right. First Uncle said there were too many clouds for a Sunrunner to work. Well, there were, that day,” he admitted. “But the next day the sky was blue, and I asked again—but Uncle said she was sick.”
“How do you know she’s not?”
“I went to her room. One of Uncle’s men was outside, like a guard!”
Idalian tried to appear properly shocked. “Perhaps he was just there to keep people from bothering Arpali’s rest.”
