by Melanie Rawn
Andry listened. The enemy was quiet now, more cautious, having lost track of them. Twenty paces away, a brown furry shape skittered up a tree; an arrow’s whoosh and thud, and the animal was pinned to the bark. Then there was silence.
Rusina’s heartbeats hammered against Andry’s chest. “They’ll find us,” she whispered. “We have to move.”
He shook his head. “When they do. Noise.”
She nodded and glanced back to where Oclel lay. “Fire. Please, Andry.”
He could see a fragment of blue tunic through the foliage. He called Sunrunner’s Fire into a burning shroud for his friend’s body. Rusina trembled beside him, as if battling new sobs.
Andry hadn’t thought about the enemy reaction to the sudden flames. But he used the startled uproar to cover the noise he and Rusina made as they ran. He made instinctively for the tree circle, cursing the enemy for invading this most sacred of faradhi places.
I can weave something—Fire, a sorcerer’s spell, anything—just get to the circle, the Goddess will help me, she must—
Rusina tripped and fell, moaning. “Come on!” he cried, crouching to pull her up. “Almost there—”
“Can’t—my ankle—leave me here, Andry—”
“No, damn it! Get up!” He took her arms and she got both feet under her before collapsing facedown into the carpet of dead leaves.
“Faradh’im!”
Andry lifted his head. All around him were footsteps, invisible enemy plunging through the forest. They came from every direction—even that leading to the tree circle.
Rusina moved beside him, turned, propped herself on one elbow. “Andry.”
He looked down at her face. At his own face.
• • •
Birioc came away from Swalekeep with more than his father had ever dreamed of getting. It was all settled—not just in private among himself, Varek, Rinhoel, and Chiana, but in secret between Birioc and his kinsman. Though he would not discuss the latter with anyone but his Merida uncles.
The Vellant’im would hold the south through the winter, taking Faolain Lowland as soon as it was convenient and beating back any attempts by Kostas to retake those portions of Syr now in Vellanti hands. Storms would close Brochwell Bay until spring, so they needn’t worry about Firon, Fessenden, or Kierst-Isel. Gilad lay bleeding. Grib would have to be brought into the fold, but Chiana was confident of her influence with Prince Velden. It had been Rinhoel’s suggestion that if Velden balked, Meadowlord’s armies could go to his “defense” and make sure that he died in the process after a light battle with the Vellant’im for show. This plan was held in abeyance until Velden could be sounded out. But it revealed to Birioc that Rinhoel was growing weary of sitting in his nice, safe home. It was a change from the summer he’d spent at Remagev, when he’d sulked and complained about too much work and not enough leisure. Birioc had despised the young prince then and had not altered his opinion, but Rinhoel’s usefulness outweighed personal feelings. Birioc had cultivated him two years ago, and would not risk the harvest for the paltry pleasure of telling Rinhoel what he thought of him.
Dorval was completely eliminated from the conflict, although reports spoke of a sizable group in the hills that conducted lightning raids. These were more irritant than danger, but valuable time was wasted chasing these people down—and the Vellant’im were frustrated when their foes melted away amid the crags and dales.
The armies of Princemarch and Ossetia were a major concern. The trap at Waes had been avoided, thanks to Chiana’s timely warning. Miserable weather would slow down any advance. Tilal and Ostvel must be kept busy, however, so that Meadowlord could seize Dragon’s Rest at the appropriate time and then march for Castle Crag. But under no circumstances must Tilal and Ostvel be allowed to join Kostas.
As for the Desert—the Merida would take Tuath, then Tiglath, then Feruche while the Vellant’im lunged up from Radzyn to Stronghold. When Lord Varek was asked why they had allowed themselves to be sidetracked to Remagev, he replied that Stronghold was not the objective. Rohan was. He would not explain why.
But Birioc could make a fair guess. In his years as High Prince, Rohan had managed to forge divisive princedoms into a workable whole. Not a seamless one, but what he melded together through law and his own personality had held secure for the length of his rule. With him gone, the beleaguered princedoms would splinter. Pol hadn’t his father’s strength. Even had he possessed Rohan’s combination of will and cunning and leadership, he was a Sunrunner, a breed no one with half a brain trusted. Miyon had always paced a pretty path between pursuit of his own aims and the appearance of loyalty to his daughter’s husband. Birioc knew that Pol trusted Miyon not at all—but he had to behave in public as if he did, and that would work to Merida advantage. It remained only to convince Miyon to play his part in the proceedings. Birioc didn’t think it would be difficult. Miyon had loathed Rohan all his life. The trouble was that no contempt went with it; his hate was prompted by fear.
This much of the plan was known to Chiana and Rinhoel. There was another part, the secret part, agreed to by Varek and Birioc alone. Once the princeling and his poisonous mother had completed their tasks, they would be dealt with as befitted traitors. Varek was willing to flatter them, work with them, and above all use them. But he despised them as deeply as Birioc did. They were betraying their own kind. They would die for it.
“But you and I, we are of the same blood,” Varek had said. “The High Warlord will rejoice in this reunion with our brothers of the Sacred Glass.”
As much as Birioc wanted to know the specifics of the relationship—which would tell him where his people had come from and why—he did not press the point. It was enough that there was an ally at last, a vast and ruthless army to crush Rohan and all his get. The Merida had been promised the Desert in ages past. Finally, finally, they’d have it.
He rode back to Castle Pine as quickly as terrain and weather would permit, too filled with triumph even to curse the passage of days. The Merida had waited hundreds of years for this. They would not mind waiting a little while longer, especially when victory was certain.
• • •
Born to a prosperous family of silk merchants on Dorval, Rialt had been trained from boyhood to equate efficiency with profit. What worked for a business worked just as well during his four years as chief steward at Dragon’s Rest, and even better when he ruled Waes as its regent. Though his efforts at Swalekeep were of much smaller scope, the same principle held true. Only this time the yield of his organizational skills was not coin but information.
If he was the commander of this endeavor, then his chief captains were his wife and Lady Cluthine. Mevita befriended a variety of servants within the castle, all of whom had some grievance or other against Chiana. She heard their grudges with sympathy, culled useful information, and reported back to Rialt. Cluthine, with access to the nobility, especially her uncle Prince Halian, did the same on a higher scale. By comparing the two versions of what went on at Swalekeep, Rialt got a fairly accurate view of things.
And was horrified.
He was compelled to admire Chiana’s stealth in getting the Vellanti lord in and out with no highborns the wiser. Her attitude toward servants—that they were nothing more than hands and feet for her to command—was her mistake. The man was seen. Less care had been taken with Miyon’s son; his identity was confirmed by Cluthine. But sure knowledge of what they were all up to came to Rialt from a unsuspected and astonishing source.
It happened while he was out riding in the parklands beyond the walls. Polev had begged to be allowed to exercise his new pony. The overcast sky yielded a fine intermittent mist but no real rain; properly bundled up against the chill, there was no danger to anyone’s health. The greater danger, indeed, was to stay cooped up indoors. Cluthine and Naydra, feeling the same restlessness, came along with the young Princess Palila.
Rialt did not share the automatic reaction of most older people to the girl’s very name. Roelstr
a’s treacherous mistress was a figure of legend to him, not a real memory as she was for Naydra. Still, being a fair-minded woman, she went out of her way to treat this second Palila with kindness. Rialt had seen several examples of this since coming to Swalekeep, and quickly realized that the attention paid her by her aunt and her cousin Cluthine was the first she had ever known. It was plain enough that her mother ignored her, her brother scorned her, and her father barely knew she was alive. Palila had been raised by Halian’s three bastard daughters, all much older than herself, whom it had pleased Chiana to make little more than servants. Resentful, they took it out on the child. Palila was almost pathetically grateful to escape Swalekeep for a morning ride.
“She’s a sweet little thing,” Naydra commented to Rialt as they watched the children race their ponies. “Astonishing, with so poisonous a mother.” She smiled. “But then, my father wasn’t exactly beloved of all who knew him.”
“You, however, are,” he replied. “That’s not flattery, my lady, it’s the truth. I know how fond Pol is of you.”
Naydra was sixty-four and looked it, but a sudden blush took thirty years from her face. “And I of him. Rohan and Sioned gave me a life I loved. I will miss it, and my dear lord. But I must say I’m glad he won’t have the grief of seeing his merchant fleet fitted out for war.”
“I had the honor of working with Lord Narat often. He will be missed. And I agree, I’m glad my parents didn’t live to see Graypearl destroyed.”
“Do you have relatives still on the island?”
“My sister and her family. I only hope they escaped with Prince Chadric.” He shrugged, uncomfortable with a worry he could do nothing about, and changed the subject. “Not to be subtle about it, but speaking of Chiana—”
“You need proof of her betrayal,” Naydra said calmly. “I have none. I wish I did. We all know it’s true and we’d all like to see her die for it. But we have neither arms nor authority to act if proof is found. We need Lord Ostvel as the High Prince’s representative. More importantly, we need his army.”
“Succinctly put, my lady. All I can do is watch and wait. It’s maddening to be so helpless.”
“It’s something I grew used to when I was young.” She smiled again in bitter memory. “I believe Chiana shares with our father a joy in seeing others flail about like beached fish. She’s certainly entertained by you, if you’ll forgive my saying so. Only last night she worried very sweetly about giving you something to do to occupy your time here.”
“Let me guess—Rinhoel suggested putting me in charge of the servants.”
“Shipping, actually.”
Rialt perked up. “Did he, now? That could be the best place for me.”
“If your lady wife will allow it.” Naydra chuckled softly. “I do like her. She can turn Chiana scarlet or white at will. It’s marvelous.”
Polev came thundering up on his pony, Palila right behind him, Cluthine following more sedately. “Did you see, Papa? I won! And I bet I could beat those horses down there, too, if Lady Thina would let me,” he added with a sidelong glance at her.
Rialt peered down the hillside to the main road. A knot of riders was escorting heavy baggage wains south. He could guess where they were going. Chiana would say, of course, that supplies meant for Kostas had fallen to a convenient enemy “capture” or two, fulfilling her bargain with the Vellant’im while leaving her blameless.
Yes, a job overseeing the shipping down the Faolain would be excellent—and what fun it would be to salt the grain. He grinned to himself and started planning how to convince Chiana to give him the job. He was a lowly merchant at heart, bred to hard work and not the elegant ways of a highborn lord; he would willingly soil his hands to spare her own exalted person; he would be proud to contribute to Prince Kostas’ efforts as his station in life allowed, for actual physical battle was the duty of great lords and princes—no, best forget that one, as it might be construed as a veiled insult to Rinhoel.
His attention snagged on a word in the conversation that continued around him. That word was “Cunaxa,” and it was spoken by Princess Palila.
“—me to call him a prince, even though his mother wasn’t married to Prince Miyon and bastards are always called ‘lord’ or ‘lady.’ Are Merida royal, Aunt Naydra?”
“They would have it so,” was the calm reply. “How did you meet him?”
Palila looked like a child caught in a misdeed. “I—I went to ask Rinhoel to take me riding with him. He was very angry when I came to his room.”
“It wasn’t your fault, dear,” Cluthine told her. “Rinhoel’s servants were to blame, not you. If he ordered privacy, they should not have let you in.”
“But I’m the one he yelled at,” she sighed. “Prince Birioc was very kind, though. He said I was pretty. But I think he was just being polite.”
Rialt wanted desperately to ask her what she might have overheard, but Naydra and Cluthine had more of the girl’s confidence than he. They would gently extract the information. So he smiled at Palila and said, “I don’t think so at all. You have your father’s blue eyes and your mother’s auburn hair, and that’s a very striking combination.”
True enough, but the timid little face was a closed one, cautious and quiet. His compliment made her recoil with embarrassment that verged on fear. He wondered if fourteen years of Chiana could ever be overcome, or if it was too late. His own daughter Tessalar was just Palila’s age, that lovely time in a girl’s life when she begins to discover who she is. But though Palila was physically mature, her spirit had been stunted. He saw little hope for her until he remembered another painfully shy, insecure girl. Freed from her father, Meiglan had bloomed. Perhaps Palila would too, given the chance.
He purposely took Polev and Naydra ahead with him on the ride back, to give Cluthine time to speak privately with Palila. By the time they reached the stables, she nodded success and asked him to escort her to the shops for ribbon to match her new gown. Polev was taken indoors by Naydra on the bribe of two stories and a game of blocks.
Cluthine waited until they had left the stables before saying, “Palila overheard Rinhoel say ‘your mother’s Merida blood’ in conversation with Birioc. Thus he’s Miyon’s son by a Merida woman.”
Rialt kicked at a loose cobblestone. “The least important aspect of it is military supplies—swords and shields. But in order to get them they’ll need Tiglath to ship from. And since Tuath is on the way, they’ll probably take that, too. Damn!” He glared up at the gray afternoon sky. “I’ve got to get word to Pol!”
“Your Sunrunner is helpless until this gloom lifts. Would it be better to send a rider?”
“I don’t know,” Rialt said slowly. “Apart from the time involved, Chiana’s people may be watching for a messenger. You know this area better than I. Do you think we’ll get some sun in the next few days?”
“If the Goddess is good to us. I’ll say a special prayer in the oratory tonight. And let’s hope that Lord Andry uses his influence.”
Rialt nodded, unwilling to discuss Cluthine’s acceptance of the new aspect credited to Andry in his role as Lord of Goddess Keep. Intercessor with the Goddess? Absurd. But people believed it.
He left her to decide among various ribbons and made a brief detour to a nearby wineshop. The serving girl was married to one of Chiana’s footmen, a young man on Mevita’s list of friendlies. The girl agreed to get a message to his Sunrunner after dark. Rejoining Cluthine, he chose ribbons for his wife—and, on impulse, Palila—and they returned to the palace.
But that night he waited in vain at a little park near a broken section of Swalekeep’s outer wall. It was long past midnight and hard rain was falling by the time he gave up. The next day he went to the man’s lodgings. The faradhi lay in bed, eyes closed. The innkeeper herself had cleansed the blood from the head wound that had killed him.
“Cutpurses, my lord,” she said. “He was found in the gutter yesterday sunset. But, bless the Lord Andry’s grace, they didn’t da
re take his rings.”
“Cutpurses, nothing!” Rialt fumed in private to Mevita. “Chiana had him murdered—our one link with Pol! Andry’s not going to have her punishment, by the Goddess. I’ll set her afire myself—while she’s still breathing!”
• • •
Rohan was also contemplating physical mayhem, though nothing quite so drastic, as he paced furiously up and down the priceless carpets in Stronghold’s Summer Room.
“I’ll take him over my knee, prince or no prince. What does that fool think he’s doing?”
“Rohan,” his wife said reasonably, “there are times when I, too, would grab him by the ears and shake him—if I could reach up that far.”
“He had his orders. Three days at the most—and it’s been four! How dare he go out looking for a fight with the Vellant’im?” He whirled and stabbed an accusing finger at her. “You never made him swear, not you or Urival or Morwenna while you were training him! I should’ve let him go to Andry after all! He would have kicked some sense into him!”
The unfair indictment and the idiotic statement that followed lit Sioned’s own temper. She damped it and answered in an only slightly raised voice, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. He’s going out of his way to find a fight, but it’s to use a sword, not sorcery.”
“He’s being willfully disobedient. He’s ignoring direct orders. He—” Breaking off, he scowled at his sister, who was shaking with silent laughter. “What’s so damned funny?”
“You.” Tobin glanced at the windows, but the sparse sunlight was at an inconvenient angle. So, laboriously, she spoke aloud. “Chay said years ago . . . nothing wrong with Pol . . . polite, obedient . . . knew he’d g-grow out of it!”
Rohan snorted. “Well, he has. And I do not find it amusing.”
All three of them jumped as the dragon horn sounded from the gatehouse. Sioned exchanged a glance with Tobin, both of them hoping Pol would understand his father’s anger as only a natural expression of worry.
Wrong.
