by Melanie Rawn
“Or to keep her from getting out!”
“My lord, I can’t think of any reason why your uncle would—”
“You are just like him! You don’t believe me! You think I’m a stupid little boy who should go play!” Tirel ran headlong from the room before imminent tears of frustration could humiliate him.
Idalian gnawed the inside of his cheek, knowing he ought to go after the boy and soothe him somehow. But Tirel had always liked Lord Yarin before; the man had insulted the child’s self-importance, but that was no reason to suspect him of anything sinister.
Still, the child’s hurt weighed on his mind. In a way he was grateful to Tirel for giving him something else to think about besides his family. It reminded him that it was time he resumed his duties, offer his services to Lord Yarin. He still wanted to go home—even if there was no home to go to. He might have helped at Lowland, but snow made travel impossible. It was fortunate for Yarin that he had come early from Snowcoves; this was no time of year to be on the road.
Idalian resolved to set his grief aside and resume his duties. First he would have to make himself presentable. He felt filthy and a mirror showed him a substantial growth of beard. Servants brought buckets of hot water and a tub up to his room, and when he had washed, shaved, and dressed he went down to the kitchen for something to eat.
“How’s Arpali?” he asked the cook as he broke the crust of a new loaf to sop up the last of his soup.
She shrugged plump shoulders. “I don’t know, I’m sure. The meals come back half-eaten.”
“Our Sunrunner must really be sick, then, to turn down your cooking.”
“Pretty words from a young man who hasn’t eaten a thing!”
“Sorry. No insult intended, Nolly.”
“I know, child.” She patted his hand. “It’s a hard thing. I lost my parents in a gale blown straight from the cold, cruel mouth of the Storm God himself in all his fury. You think of your duty to the High Prince, and to our own lord, and especially the youngling who depends on you while his parents are away. I know you want to go home, but you can’t. Not while Prince Tirel is all alone.”
Idalian pushed away the empty bowl and stood. “I don’t have a home, Nolly. Riverport is gone.”
“As long as two stones stand atop each other, your holding is your holding. Think of that, and what your family would want of you. You can’t bring back their lives, but you can live your own to honor them.”
He studied her face for a moment—dark as taze, round as a moon, plain as an old boot—and leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Do that again, boy, and you won’t get out of this kitchen clothed.”
He laughed, backing away as if terrified. She snorted and ladled more soup into a bowl.
“Take this to Arpali with my compliments, and word that if it doesn’t come back empty, I’ll come pour it down her throat.”
The man outside the Sunrunner’s chamber was definitely there to guard her. No other interpretation could be put on someone who stood duty bearing a sheathed sword and a knife in his belt. Idalian asked to go inside. He was told Arpali was asleep. He tried to insist. He was strongly discouraged by a steady, cold gaze and the hand that shifted slightly but meaningfully toward the knife.
He didn’t argue. Leaving the soup with the guard, he went to find Lord Yarin, intending to offer his assistance wherever and however required. The rebuff he received would have stung him to a fury matching Tirel’s, had he been just a little younger. But at nineteen winters he was old enough to recognize that his help was scorned in deliberately insulting terms—an unnecessary thing, calculated to make him stalk off in a sulk. Part of him wanted to inform his lordship in no uncertain terms that he was the sworn man of the High Prince himself, and therefore not to be trifled with. He hushed the voice and bowed himself from Lord Yarin’s presence. Then he sought the oratory, where he could find some privacy to think.
Over the next days he observed Yarin’s people carefully. There were quite a few guards present, surely more than were needed for escorting their lord and his lady and heir to his sister’s castle. Also in the party were Yarin’s steward, chamberlain, and several other functionaries whose attendance was not strictly necessary. Idalian supposed they could be explained away with the excuse that everyone tried to wrangle a trip to Balarat whenever possible, even in winter; it was a beautiful and comfortable castle, commanding a hill overlooking a deep valley. But somehow Idalian had the feeling that all these people had not come to appreciate the icy splendor of a keep crystaled by snow. Yarin’s stated purpose for coming to Balarat was to protect his sister’s son from rampaging invaders. Idalian suspected he had fled Snowcoves in case of attack from the sea. But as the days passed he reconsidered. The barbarians had shown not the slightest interest in any land north of Princemarch. And who would be fool enough to try sailing through ice-crusted waters, anyway? Winter was a strong defense, and winter had walled up all Firon tighter than a dragon’s hatching cave. So why was Yarin here?
There was no word of Arpali other than that she continued weak and ill. Idalian attempted again to see her, and again was denied entry. By this time it was clear that the servants were taking their orders from Yarin’s people, supervised by his wife, Vallaina. The more Idalian saw, the less he liked it.
A fine day came, bitterly cold but with an irresistible glisten to the snow. Idalian thought that Tirel—who hadn’t spoken to him since their “conference”—would enjoy a romp outside. Vallaina gave permission, but sent along two guards and her son Natham. Thus Idalian’s chance to make it up with Tirel was ruined.
But he had another idea, and acted on it once Natham was thoroughly soaked from a snowball skirmish. He suggested a warming visit to the glassworks. Natham cared nothing for the craft that was the wealth of Firon; he and the guards returned to the castle.
By the fierce glow of hearths where ingots from the Desert were fashioned into everything from wine bottles to windowpanes, Idalian apologized and told Tirel that he, too, was suspicious. It was all the opening the boy needed.
“My schoolroom is right above Arpali’s chamber. I’ve been sneaking in at night and thumping on the floor—and last night she stopped thumping back. Do you think she’s been hurt?”
“Nobody would dare harm a Sunrunner!”
“Uncle Yarin would,” Tirel said, and the name was laced with loathing.
“Don’t be silly. You just don’t like him,” Idalian said, but his heart was racing. “You’re being treated all right, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I have my lessons, and I play with Natham—he’s such a pain, and he can’t throw a snowball for spit!”
Idalian grinned. “I saw. But I thought you used to be friends.”
“He’s different. He says he gets to choose what to play because he’s older than me. But I’m the prince, not him.”
“He’s your guest. You should be gracious, Tirel.”
“That’s not what I meant! He’s acting like he’s a prince. You know how, since Papa and Mama went away last spring, the steward comes to tell me things? It’s boring, but I guess I have to learn to like it. Well, now she doesn’t come talk to me anymore. Natham says it’s because I’m too little. But I wasn’t even seven last spring when she talked to me and now she doesn’t! I think it’s because I’m not supposed to know what’s going on.”
Only a fool would fail to see the signs now. But how could Yarin think he could take Firon, when Laric was kin and friend and ally to Prince Pol?
Simple, he realized suddenly. Everyone had problems more urgent than making sure Firon stayed in the hands of its rightful prince. There were battles being fought in the south that no one here knew about. Not that they could do anything, with snow blocking all routes out of the princedom and the harbors frozen. But at least Arpali could have kept them informed.
And could have told others what was happening at Balarat.
She was not sick. She was being held captive so she couldn’t use the sunli
ght. If no news could get out, then none could come in, either. Doubtless with the war so far away and nothing to do with him, Yarin considered the trade more than even.
And how a sweet, pretty lady like Princess Lisiel could have such a snake for a brother was beyond Idalian’s understanding.
“I think you’re right,” he said abruptly. “But there’s not much we can do about it for now. No, don’t argue,” he warned as Tirel’s face clenched up. “You’re smart and you’re a prince, but you’re still only seven years old. And I may be the brother of an important Desert lord, but I’m still just a squire.”
“We need Arpali,” Tirel asserted. “When Lord Andry finds out about this—”
“I’ll work on it,” he promised, but was thinking, What can even he do from Goddess Keep? The last he’d heard, it had been attacked. Unsuccessfully, to be sure, but it was still in danger. Everyone was occupied with the war. There would be no help from anyone.
Tirel hunkered in on himself, shivering despite the blazing heat of glass kilns. “Idalian—what’re we going to do?” he asked in a small voice.
“I don’t know.” He put an arm around the child. “We’re not alone, my lord. There are plenty of people loyal to your father, and Arpali—”
“But she’s a prisoner. We’re prisoners, too, aren’t we?” he asked forlornly. But just when Idalian thought tears were imminent, Tirel straightened up and scowled. “Firon doesn’t belong to Uncle Yarin. High Prince Rohan gave it to us and nobody’s going to take it away.”
For the first time he envisioned Riverport in the present—not as it had been six years ago when he left it, not as it must have been when his family was butchered, but now. What his father had built was in enemy hands and under enemy bootheels. But it was his, just as Nolly had said it was. Just as Firon belonged to Tirel and his family. These unknown savages had taken it away, but they weren’t going to keep it.
He gave the young prince a grim smile. “Your Uncle Yarin may make a try at it, but we’ll stop him. See if we don’t.”
• • •
Ostvel shook rain off his cloak as if to rid himself of amazement as well. He stood in the silent gray streets of Waes, staring at empty windows. Tilal was beside him, their personal guard waited nearby, and all of them were as unbelieving as he.
“I know you said that Rialt managed to clear everybody out—but this is crazy!” Tilal said at last. “It hasn’t been touched!”
“Just the places they themselves burned,” Ostvel agreed. “Can it be that the Vellant’im landed and left?”
“I don’t think so. There are foodstuffs in some of the houses. Even the Vellant’im have to eat. They can’t have brought enough to last all winter. Waes as it stands is an open invitation to walk in and resupply. But there’s no sign they even sent a scouting party.”
“So they didn’t take the bait.” Ostvel resisted the need to rub some warmth back into hands that ached from the cold and damp. “It’s unnatural, Tilal. It makes no sense.”
“Do you think we dare camp where they did not?”
“Are they waiting for us in corners, do you mean?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. But have the whole city turned inside out just the same before we let the rest of our troops in. We might as well spend a night in real beds beside real hearths if we can.” His sore joints felt better just at the thought of it. What was truly crazy was a man of his years traipsing around the countryside leading the armies of Princemarch. He deserved a placid old age in his own keep with his beautiful wife to keep him warm.
Tilal gave the order to inspect every building, then glanced up at the lowering sky. “It’ll rain for the next three days, looks like. No chance to tell Sioned about this.”
“Damned gold-beards knew exactly what our weakness is, to start a war just as the rains came. It’ll fret Sunrunners more than it does us, though. When I was at Goddess Keep, everyone walked on tiptoe around Andrade all winter long.”
Tilal laughed briefly. “Everyone walked on tiptoe around her anyway. I hope the innkeepers didn’t take all their wine with them. I could do with a nice mulled Syrene red about now.”
“That’s the first thing they’ll have loaded into their carts. But maybe Rialt left something interesting at the residence. Come on.”
Waes was confirmed to be exactly what it seemed: empty as a broken dragon egg. Tilal gave strict orders for watchfulness and sobriety, however safe the city seemed and however many casks of wine were found to warm the night chill. He did not intend to be trapped here as they had hoped to trap the Vellant’im.
Ostvel’s army consisted of soldiers from Castle Crag, the levies he’d gathered to him on the way down the Faolain, and forces led by two young lords who had chosen to accompany their troops. Draza of Grand Veresch was twenty-eight, grandson of old Lord Dreslav by one of his many mistresses. That the youth was illegitimate had never mattered; his only competition for the inheritance had been a fair-born uncle who wanted only to spend his life in the high mountains hunting wolves. Draza had a wife and two small children; it was the first time he had ever been separated from them and admitted bashfully how much he missed them. But the need for revenge was stronger; his half-sister Pelida had been married to Gevnaya of Faolain Lowland, and had died with him at Riverport. Usually the quietest and most gentle of men, Draza wanted blood.
Kerluthan of River Ussh, three winters Draza’s senior, was the elder brother of Pol’s former squire, Edrel. Their sister Paveol had died with her husband and son at Gilad Seahold. No matter how much Kerluthan might miss his own wife, he had vowed not to return to her until he had the deaths of half the Vellanti army to his credit.
The emptiness of Waes infuriated him. “Where are the whoresons?” he demanded as he stalked into the residence, violent gestures spraying the carpet with raindrops. The late Lady of Waes, Roelstra’s daughter Kiele, had chosen the Cunaxan rug. Ostvel felt a sudden twinge at being in her house.
Tilal’s shrewd green eyes noted the emotion flitting across Ostvel’s face, but he addressed himself to Kerluthan. “We’ll find them. Now that your troops and horses are decently quartered and fed, my lord, why don’t you do yourself the same service?”
“I’d feed better and sleep happier after some worthwhile exercise,” Kerluthan grumbled, but went away with Draza to see what the squires had found in the kitchens.
Tilal regarded Ostvel pensively. “What were you thinking just now?”
“You’ve got Sioned’s eyes, all right.” Ostvel shrugged. “I was thinking of Kiele, if you can believe it. She lived here, after all.” Settling into a soft chair, he added, “I was remembering . . . how she died.”
“Ah. Not a pleasant Rialla, that. Except that I won my Gemma there.”
“And I, my Alasen.” He would never understand how or why. Neither would he ever know what had made him throw a knife to Lyell so he could kill Kiele and himself before Sunrunner’s Fire got them. Well, that was a lie. It hadn’t been the first time he’d taken responsibility for a death so that it wouldn’t burden someone else. As he had killed Ianthe to spare Sioned her blood, so he had provided Lyell with the knife to spare Andry. Not that the Lord of Goddess Keep had been any more grateful for it than Sioned. But at least she had come to understand why he had done it. Andry had never forgiven him—and not just for stealing Lyell and Kiele’s deaths from him. Ostvel had won Alasen. That was what Andry would never forgive.
Andry’s eldest son came in, carrying a tray loaded with cheese, soup, and wine. “The cheese is a bit smelly,” he apologized. “We had to carve a lot of it off that bad gone bad. And there’s no bread to go with it, though Chaltyn has put some people to work baking for tomorrow morning. But the soup’s good and hot, and the wine is from Catha Freehold.”
Tilal exchanged an amused glance with Ostvel. In the scant days since he had become a squire, he had thrown himself into his duties with a dedication bordering on fanaticism. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Andrev was precisely where he wanted to
be, doing precisely what he wanted to do. On first recognizing Tilal’s new squire, Ostvel had been appalled. After a little thought and a brief conversation with Tilal, he had agreed with the prince’s reasoning: Andry couldn’t hold himself aloof from the war if he had so personal a stake in it. Though he had done just that so far, Ostvel knew it wouldn’t last. Faults Andry had, but paternal indifference was not one of them.
As Andrev served them their meal, Ostvel glanced again around the room. The eccentricities of the residence did not extend to its individual chambers Three houses had been made into one by knocking down a few walls, building others, adding staircases to connect different levels, and otherwise attempting to make coherent a structure that balked at every turn. But the separate rooms were graceful and well-appointed. The residence had not been so long empty that the polish had gone off silver and brass fixtures, although a thin layer of dust had accumulated on the table-tops. There was even wood enough for a night’s fire left in a decorated bin beside the hearth. Andrev piled some onto the blaze he’d made earlier, called Fire to the new wood, and bowed his way out.
“He’s very casual about his gifts,” Ostvel remarked as he spooned up the thick soup.
“You would be, too, if you were Andry’s son.” Tilal bit into a slice of cheese. “Not bad—this type’s always better for aging. I just hope Sioneva’s introduction to her talents hasn’t left her frightened or bewildered. Andry was careful, and for that I’ll thank him—”
“If you ever decide to speak to him again,” Ostvel interrupted with a knowing smile.
Tilal grunted inelegantly around a mouthful of soup, swallowed, and said, “I suppose I’ll have to, one of these years. Next summer maybe, at Dragon’s Rest, when Rohan calls everyone together to sort things out.”
“The last time he did, I got Skybowl,” the older man drawled. “Something of a surprise. I hope he doesn’t decide to give me Meadowlord this time.”
The prince choked on his wine. “What?”
“It’d be just like him, you know,” Ostvel went on, enjoying the effect of his statement. There was little else to enjoy about this situation. “In trust for my son Dannar, of course, since he’s the one with royal blood in him, not I. But I have a very uneasy feeling I’m going to be changing residences again. Ah, well. At least it’ll be to a castle that doesn’t turn to ice every year.”
